[[Author’s note: Busy producing the forthcoming true crime pod Fake Shaman, I’m re-publishing some of my pre-Internet journalism archive. This 2001 piece is very sad, mostly, and features the remarkable and iconic Maine musician I call Brahmsie. This piece for the now-defunct Casco Bay Weekly was illustrated by the gifted artist, musician and impressario Patrick Corrigan.]]

Content warning: DO NOT CONSUME FOOD WHILE READING.

A firsthand look at the disgusting life of a professional cleaner

Originally published in Casco Bay Weekly on May 17, 2001.

Human feces was smeared on the walls of the bathroom in Apartment 666. Cat shit was piled high under the claw-foot tub. Mold had invaded every crevice and gasket of the unplugged refrigerator, and small, black bugs with wings had taken over the open icebox. Grease covered the kitchenette. The ceiling tiles were stained yellow from years of nicotine. The windows hadn’t been opened in weeks or washed in decades. And you don’t want to know about the floors.

We had eight hours to get this pigsty clean. The boss man was selling the building, and Apartment 666 needed to be sanitized before he could close the deal. The office warned us the studio in downtown Portland was in tough shape. Apparently the tenant — a middle-aged man — was ill. He had been moved out via ambulance, we were told, and taken somewhere else, probably to die. The office usually doesn’t know all the details.

Daunting as the filth was, we had a strategy. First, we pre-cleaned the apartment; that is, we got the fridge, tub, toilet, sinks and countertops clean enough so we could institute the second part of our plan: a heavy-duty, detailed cleansing to finish the job. It’s a simple methodology, and it works. Trust me. My work partner, Darien, and I are professional apartment cleaners. We know what we’re doing.

Darien decided to clean the bathroom. That surprised me. The general rule was she tackled the kitchen and I sterilized the bathrooms. It’s fairer that way, because sometimes the bathroom is nastier, sometimes the kitchen. It all comes out in the wash, though. Even now, I don’t understand why she chose to challenge the filthiest toilet I have ever seen.

The job took the entire day. We wore respirators and rubber gloves and used gallons of bleach. After hours of gagging and scrubbing, 666 became habitable. The boss still says he owes us beers for accomplishing that monumental task.

Darien and I clean up after people’s lives. I’m not being dramatic. As cleaners, our role is to purify and disinfect, to ensure new tenants don’t find so much as a hair left by previous occupants. The toughest apartments are the ones where the former renter leaves all his or her possessions behind. That usually means something bad has happened: death, drugs, arrest, or worse. We can only guess.

We work for a growing Portland property management company owned by someone I’ll call Mr. Boss. He believes in renting clean, safe and comfortable apartments to nice people. Mr. Boss and his investors buy beautiful old buildings on the peninsula. When the current tenants vacate, his employees do everything necessary to make the apartment attractive and rentable. That could mean a complete overhaul or just painting and minor repairs. But every apartment needs cleaning.

Countless times, we’ve emptied refrigerators of rotting food and removed dirty dishes and pans from the kitchen sink. We wander these apartments with large trash bags, picking up debris. We fill the bags with underwear, clothes, letters, pills, bills, pay stubs, journals, photographs, books, music, diplomas, stuffed animals, sex toys, family Bibles and other remnants of life. We throw away lumpy pillows and mattresses wrapped with stained sheets. And then we start to clean.

Maybe we should donate some of this loot to charity. We’ve thought about it. But the personal belongings of such tragic figures might be contaminated.

Besides, it’s easier for us not to have to decide whether it’s garbage or Goodwill.

Sometimes, when the job gets really bad, I remind myself it could be worse. I don’t have to clean up after bloody corpses.

Investigative cleaners

You may know Darien Brahms from her career as a local rock star or from her work as the guitar-playing chanteuse of the popular Latin lounge quartet, the Munjoy Hill Society. But to me, she’s Brahmsie, my cleaning partner.

We’ve been friends for years. Twelve months ago, in the midst of a severe financial crisis brought on by my inability to land a professional position in the dot-com, media, advertising or any other world, she hooked me up with a long-term, freelance cleaning job with her employer. And in the interest of full journalistic disclosure, I’ve earned a little over $9,000 (after taxes) for approximately 1,000 hours of labor.

The job has several positive features. I don’t have to wear a tie. The hours are flexible. There is little heavy lifting. I get to work with Brahmsie. Other than that, cleaning sucks.

This is hard-core cleaning. Sure, sometimes all we have to do is vacuum and mop, wipe down the appliances and wash a couple of windows. But more frequently, we’re faced with toilets that require hourlong scrubbings and bathtubs so defiled I could spend half a day and use a full can of Comet and still not make a dent in the scum.

We’ve encountered ovens that have taken over eight hours of labor - and several applications of strong cleaning chemicals, plus an inordinate amount of scraping and elbow grease — just so we could feel comfortable with the idea of the new tenants baking themselves a chicken dinner.

Sometimes humor is the only way to make it through the revolting messes we find ourselves in. For example, Brahmsie once discovered a swatch of what looked to be human hair inside an oven.

“Why?” she asked.

“Perhaps he was cooking ahead,” I quipped.

But often the findings are so intense and sad, no joking is allowed.

Consider, for instance, our recent work on a spacious two-bedroom. All we knew was the tenants broke their lease and moved out unexpectedly. It was a nice pad: hardwood floors and high ceilings, close to a beautiful park. The place wasn’t trashed, and other than a dirty cat litter box, they didn’t leave much behind. Or so we thought.

I started in the bathroom. I’m a Coast Guard-trained toilet scrubber and it’s a rare person who can clean a bowl to my professional specifications. The majority don’t even try. This fixture was dirtier than most. The film on the front of the bowl was thick and nasty. The sides — where the toilet bolts to the floor - were covered in hair and other substances.

I was spraying the mildewed tub with bleach when Brahmsie called me into the kitchen.

“I found these in a drawer,” she said. She was leafing through a stack of papers. This was a common routine for us. We always want to know who these people were. The job went by faster if you learned their stories.

We read the papers.

Apparently, the woman miscarried. The first clue was a sympathy card. Then there were insurance forms and doctors receipts. There was a holiday card from her lover and a snapshot of them standing with a friend. It was understandable why the toilet and tub were a mess. Who can clean during times of utter grief?

No Corpses Please

We never handle dead bodies.

But we’re still surrounded by death and dying, exposed to the grief of strangers, grief that would otherwise remain unknown and unimportant to us.

Like undertakers, we dispose of strangers’ remains.

There was the girl who overdosed on a party drug and died in a nice one-bedroom with views of oak trees. The boyfriend allegedly was the dealer and he got locked up. Two weeks later, we were sent to clean the apartment. Apparently, someone had come by and taken some of her personal effects. But no one opened any windows or took care of the detritus left behind by the tragedy.

The place smelled musty, but not like death.

Imagine the condition of your kitchen after two weeks if you had suddenly disappeared while partying at home on a Friday night.

There were two previously frozen pizzas in the oven. Moldy dishes were stacked in the sink. Half-empty beers lined the countertops. The ashtrays were full of old cigarette butts. We cleaned and cleaned and listened to the radio, trying not to concentrate on the sadness of the scene.

Together, we removed the deathbed. We dragged it to the Dumpster and unceremoniously heaved it onto a pile of anonymous garbage.

While sweeping the bedroom floor, I found over a dollar in change. I also found and took a metal ashtray that looked like it was made in a prison shop class.

It’s solid steel, about 3 ½ inches in diameter and personalized.

“Kingpin” is stamped on the front side. “THC & TLC” is stamped on the back. The slots for the smokes are cut in three different sizes: blunt, cigarette and joint. I imagine this belonged to the man in jail, the boyfriend of the dead woman.

Call me a grave robber, but now I will never forget her.

Angelica’s Ashes

Some places are full of stuff, but nothing of value. Some apartments are so disgusting, you wonder how anyone could call them home. And some scenarios are so disturbing, you obsess about people you will never know.

Word from the office was that the lady living in the small two-bedroom above the pizza shop had left town. Apparently, she abandoned her two children. The state got involved, and the kids ended up with relatives in Portland. The mother, if you can call her that, now lives down south.

The apartment was paid for by a government program. The rules said the rental was for the woman and her two kids only.

But we found evidence of another adult living there. And we found countless signs of unhappiness. The woman had been a tenant for just a couple of months. In fact, we had cleaned the pad before she moved in. But she’d trashed the joint and then left everything behind.

We filled over 20 industrial-size trash bags with the remains of this family. Pots and pans, foodstuffs of all sorts, toiletries, toys, baseball cards, coloring books, video tapes, clothes and unopened registered letters from the Department of Human Services went right into the trash. No one was coming back.

Of course, we examined every item, searching for answers as to how or why this had happened. The son — probably an early teen — filled pages of notebooks with doodles and graffiti tags. He’d scrawled the name of a certain girl countless times.

On the wall of his little sister’s room hung a combination backpack and doll. It was the character Angelica from “Rug Rats.” The doll’s arms acted as straps, and it had a zippered pouch on the back. I heard the jangle of coins. I opened the pouch and found a couple of dollars in dimes, nickels and pennies.

Then I flipped the doll over.

The right eyeball was a piece of burned and melted plastic, as if someone had used a cigarette on Angelica’s eye to prove a point.

I called for Brahmsie.

We still had hours of cleaning before the apartment was empty of catastrophe and trauma. We cried. We went outside to have a smoke. Then we started again, filling trash bags with the relics of a family. Initially, I’d thought it was disgraceful the way the mom left. Now, I’m not sure of anything.

Welcome to the Cosmopolitan

The Cosmo is Mr. Boss’ largest real estate endeavor. It’s a downtown apartment building with about 75 units. Solid and brick and built about a century ago, the Cosmo has the feel of an old-time, big-city building. The spacious front lobby, tiled and with a huge glass doorway, would be considered wasteful in more modern construction.

Before Mr. B bought it, the Cosmo was a mess.

The previous owners let the place go to seed. Twenty apartments on the fourth floor were decaying and vacant. The former maintenance staff was either lazy or ill-equipped to deal with such a massive structure.

Several units had issues with what we call “tiny tenants,” a euphemism for cockroaches.

Then Mr. B’s renovation posse went to work. The transformation was amazing. The apartments, both studios and one-bedrooms, are now cool and retro, with high ceilings and glossy hardwood floors. Some have great views of the cityscape, while others have glimpses of the harbor. The fourth floor is completely rented.

The rest of the building, however, is still in transition. I should point out that Mr. Boss is not a heartless landlord. He didn’t raise the rents to force the Cosmo’s old tenants out. But as the residents leave on their own, Mr. B’s gang renovates so a hipster can move in.

Most times the apartments needed serious rehab. The plumbing was always a mess, and all the tubs needed showers installed. In several units, we scrubbed what appeared to be yellow walls until the nicotine disappeared and they turned white. Then the walls were repainted. We cleaned up porn, colostomy bags, old pies, dead roaches, diarrhea-splattered bathrooms and other horrors too terrible to mention.

Perhaps the saddest job was cleaning out the small studio of a sweet old lady. Brahmsie had talked to the woman several times in the past and liked her. But now the lady, who was probably in her late 80s, was gone, shipped off to a nursing home.

We weren’t really cleaning. Our instructions were to empty the apartment so the renovators could do their work. Someone said the old lady had lived in the Cosmo for over 30 years. It took less than 30 minutes to remove her leftover belongings.

We lugged her box spring and mattress, covered in a rubber sheet, to the attic. We did the same with her easy chair, a small bureau, a lamp and a night-stand. We threw out an ancient clock radio.

The apartment, a small studio, was spotless. This lady wasn’t a pig. She was just old and alone. Maybe she really needed to be in a nursing home.

On our way out, we noticed the wallpaper high in the corner of the room had peeled back a couple of feet. You could tell it had been that way for years. The dangling, yellowed wallpaper made the room seem more rundown than it actually was.

I can’t remember which one of us started crying first.

Then there was the Cosmo apartment formerly inhabited by a young woman — probably in her early 20s. We never met her, but she left everything behind. And I mean everything. So we got to know her pretty well.

I remember sitting on the floor in the corner of her room, reading her mail. Actually, I was reading letters - from her to a boy. - that had been returned by the post office. She wanted to know why the phone numbers he had given her didn’t work.

She wanted to know where he was and what he was doing.

Then she shared the news of her life. She had a job at a Portland restaurant. It was summer and the weather had been spectacular. She was really hoping that someday she would become a professional tennis player. She talked about her birth dad dying, how she didn’t feel much because she thought of her adoptive dad as her real father.

She didn’t mention the empty prescription bottles of OxyContin we found scattered around the apartment. I guess when you’re using the powerful painkiller, you don’t write about it in letters to boys who’ve slept with you and never called back.

We threw out a tired mattress and sheets. We disposed of dishes, shampoo, underwear, shirts, shorts, skirts and a dried bouquet of flowers that reminded me of a high school prom. Brahmsie took home a pair of jeans.

I think about this girl often. Why did she leave in such a hurry? Where did she go? Is she OK?

I’ll never know.

Cleanliness is next to…

Please don’t think Brahmsie and I spend all our days tearfully mourning the lives of the people we clean up after. Only the most distressing apartments make us cry. The rest of the time, we laugh in order to distract each other from the disgusting.

Our favorite joke is a long-running routine called “Christian Cleaners.” It’s a religious radio talk show starring Brother Crash and Sister Darien. We discuss the dirty devil and how his evil minions have taken over certain apartments in Portland.

We say things like, “Clean unto others as you would want them to clean unto you,” and make points about cleaning techniques by quoting Scripture. We ask listeners to send money so we can buy bleach, scrub brushes, sponges and “sanitized for your protection” toilet-bowl bands for unfortunate, poor and grubby children across America.

We have to crack jokes.

Otherwise, we’d both go nuts.

Our problems, though, are more than psychological. There are health risks associated with the job. I cough a lot more these days. I’m a smoker, but I’m sure the heavy amounts of bleach I use in confined spaces have affected my lungs.

Brahmsie has suffered more.

It happened in the cat lady’s apartment, a small studio in a struggling neighborhood.

We knew she was mentally ill and had a case-worker. She also had over 20 cats, and the place reeked of urine and shit. When she finally moved out, the cats were taken away from her. Too late, however, to make a difference in the condition of her apartment. The appliances, cupboards and floor all stunk of piss.

Our job was to try and remove the stench. I started by emptying the bathtub of cat feces. The company was hoping the kitchen could be saved by a heavy-duty scrubbing of the linoleum floors. Brahmsie did her best, but the foul smell had permeated every-thing. We told the office it was hopeless.

We went back a couple of days later. The place smelled even worse. The scrubbing had released more stench. I peeked into the bathroom and was shocked to discover more piles of cat shit in the tub.

A cat was still living in the apartment.

We searched and searched, but couldn’t find the animal. Then we started to demolish the place. We tore out cabinets. We pulled up countertops. And we found the little, emaciated, black cat hiding on top of the dishwasher, beneath the counter. An hour later, after the frightened feline attempted countless escapes, we captured the kitty in a cardboard box and brought it to the Animal Refuge League.

A few days later, a red splotch broke out on Brahmsie’s chin. It got bigger and bigger and raw and crusty. It began oozing yellow pus. Finally she went to the doctor.

The diagnosis: impetigo. A possible cause?

Exposure to cat urine.

It couldn’t have happened at a worse time.

Brahmsie had a big rock show the following week.

And a TV news crew was going to be there to shoot footage for a future story on her.

Let me say this: She is a beautiful woman and I love her. But that oozing sore was absolutely disgusting.

There are many more sad and strange stories, including the one about the poisoned cockroaches that took a week to die. Or the man who would get drunk on bottles of pre-mixed Manhattans and beat his wife. Or the annoying old tenant who always bothers me while I’m working and once asked me to check out a boil on his neck.

Why do we clean?

It’s simple. We need the cash. We’re starving artists. And Mr. Boss is flexible with our schedules, which allows us the time to pursue our creative projects.

Sometimes, we even admit to preferring this sub-blue-collar work. While the job is often unbelievably disgusting, the voyeur in us have the opportunity to examine the lives of people we otherwise would never meet. Plus, after transforming a hovel into a clean home, we enjoy the satisfaction of a job well done.

But mostly, this past year has been tough. The trials and tribulations of the job, coupled with personal struggles, have often been exhausting. When it gets to be too much, we remind ourselves that I might get a book deal, or Brahmsie a recording contract.

When that day comes, we tell each other, everything will be OK.

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Epilogue: Soon after this piece ran in the now-defunct Casco Bay Weekly on May 17, 2001, I was fired from my freelance cleaning gig. Apparently, Mr. Boss was not happy with the amount of billable hours Brahmsie and I spent examining the detritus that ne’er do wells left behind in his apartment buildings.

Upon re-reading this story before re-publishing this week, I remembered how lousy that job was… but at least I got to spend a ton of time with an amazing human, artist and chanteuse.

Also, I checked in with Brahmsie to get an update on her current hooliganism. Despite not having seen her in literal ages, I knew she was now Dr. Darien Brahms, thanks to her earning a PhD in U.S. History from University of Maryland.

Also, I knew she was still rocking and playing gigs, despite her day job as a friggin’ HISTORIAN!!! Because she’s da bomb.

This is how she replied to my DM asking for an update. “I’m living in western Massachusetts, using my PhD to work on a book about Puerto Rico during the Depression and I am writing grants for food pantries and other nonprofits as well as making music. I’m about to finish up my tenth record which is that synth-inspired album I’ve always wanted to make.”

I highly encourage YOU to visit her website to listen to her latest single “Another Revolution” and purchase her latest album LOVE BOMB and for links to all her rebellious goings-on.

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For seven dollars a month, (or $75 annually) you can support independent journalism that goes places other media won’t AND get early and ad-free access to episodes of Fake Shaman.

[[Author’s note: I’m up to my ears in tape for my forthcoming true crime pod Fake Shaman, so I’ve decided to re-publish some of my journalism from the pre-Internet era. This 2001 piece — illustrated by the gifted artist, musician and impressario Patrick Corrigan — visits a very sad but wonder-filled place, an emergency shelter for drunk homeless men.]]

It was 1 in the morning in the basement of a Portland detox center, and I couldn’t sleep. The room stunk of booze, dirty feet and unwashed ass. A dozen men were snoring, passed out drunk on vinyl mats. It was muggy, and I was sweating my balls off. My dirty dungarees and boxers were stuck to the vinyl.

I desperately needed some shut-eye, but the cacophony of wheezes, nightmare moans and sleep-talkers, combined with the reek of flatulence, prevented me from dozing. Plus, the guy sleeping 8 inches away on the next mat kept invading my space, trying to cuddle and spoon. Perhaps he thought I was his ex-old lady, the one who threw him out of the house. I repeatedly slipped his arm off me. Finally, slumber came.

When I awoke a half-hour later, my sleeping neighbor was holding me tight. I slugged him. He awoke and immediately understood the problem.

“I’m sorry, man,” he said. He released me from his embrace, then flipped over to the loneliness of his own mat.

Welcome to “the Club.”

The Club. That’s what the guys on the street call this place, but its official name is the Milestone Foundation (formerly the Arnie Hanson Center), a nonprofit, emergency, homeless shelter for intoxicated men funded by the city, the state, some Medicaid reimbursement money and private donations. The facility is located on India Street. Every night, up to 29 drunks come to the Club to pass out.

Believe it or not, it’s a wonderful place.

I spent five nights at the Club pretending to be a drunk, homeless fisherman. A friend called the shelter to inquire if they had room and to set up my story. (I stayed there on the condition my presence would not take up the last available bed.) The guy on the phone said, “We don’t turn anyone away.”

The Club caters to one of the most difficult client populations in the world of social services: chronic alcoholics. In addition, some of these men were mentally ill. Others were depressed or had brain injuries. I wanted to see how the staff treated these clients.

Admittedly, I have a vested interest. My friend Philly (all names have been changed) has been living at the Club for most of the past 21 years. I first started hanging out with Philly six years ago, while I was posing as a panhandler for a past story, and we’ve since become good buddies.

Philly is tough to get to know. He has a head injury, the result of a drunk driver running him down one night in 1979 and leaving him for dead on the side of a road in rural Maine. His brain swelled, bulging against his skull. Twelve hours later, someone found him and brought him to a hospital. After surgery and months of treatment, he ended up on the streets of Portland.

Philly had issues with booze as a teen-ager, before the accident.

Now in his early 40s, he drinks heavily and has developed so many problems it’s hard to imagine him ever attaining normality. Even with intensive treatment and rehab, he’s too far gone. Besides, he doesn’t want to change.

He gets the first of his beers at Joe’s Smoke Shop on Congress Street around 6 a.m. For the rest of the day, he panhandles, smokes, sits on park benches, leans against buildings and drinks in alleys.Philly’s painful gait, a limp and shuffle caused by the brain injury and enhanced by years of alcoholism, translates into a slow, torturous walk. Even sober, he staggers. After six beers, he often falls.

In the late afternoon, he starts his sidewalk hike home to the Club.

The first night: There but for the grace of God

When portraying a homeless man, I strive for authenticity. My clothes are filthy, smelly and torn. I don’t shower for a week. My hair gets dirty and unkempt and I shave my beard, leaving behind a cheesy mustache. Then I grow stubble for a couple days. I also change the intonation and volume of my normal speaking voice.

Of course, I needed to be drunk for this assignment. So, before heading to the Club each night, I downed several shots of cheap bourbon and drank a couple of beers. (Don’t be jealous — alcohol is not my drug of choice.) For added effect, I poured bourbon over my head and rolled in the dirt outside my apartment. I was a mess.

I arrived at the Club on a Thursday night in May a little after 8.

Immediately, I felt welcome.

The staff was incredibly friendly, especially a man I’ll call Bullet.

He’s a short, athletic guy in his late 30s or early 40s, with a full mustache and curly hair beneath a baseball cap. Energetic and concerned, he talked to everyone. He gave me a 5-second back rub and told me I could stay as long as I needed. “Are you hungry?” he asked.

I was, but before dinner, I had to check in and register. A guy I’ll call Foley needed my information. Tall and in great physical shape, Foley is about 30 years old. He’s a kind man with a spider web tattoo on one of his elbows. While asking me the check-in questions, he kept apologizing for the delay and assuring me there would be food and a place to sleep.

I’ve had longer waits in hotel lobbies. “Been drinking tonight?” he asked.

“Bourbon,” I answered.

Foley took down my personal information. I used an alias and a fake Social Security number. He wanted to know if I was homeless (yes) and if I qualified for Social Security (no) or Medicaid (no).

Then he had a second series of questions for a confidential survey from a government agency.

How old was I when I started abusing alcohol and tobacco? Have I been arrested in the last year? Do I abuse other drugs? Have I ever used needle drugs? (16, no, reefer, no.)

The interview was briefly interrupted when Foley jumped up and quickly moved to the other room to quell a disturbance. One guy was giving another some grief. He separated the two and told them to get to bed. The guy who’d been giving the grief gave Foley a little lip. Foley warned him not to mouth off, and again told him to get to bed.

Then Foley sat back down, finished the interview and spelled out the rules. “No violence,” he said. “You fight, you’re out.” (They must be serious about that - my slugging of the snuggler was the only act of violence I witnessed.) The best time to get a bed is between 5 and 6 in the evening. The lights go on at 5 in the morning and the clients have to be out by 6 a.m. (7 a.m. during the winter). I could take a shower, shave, brush my teeth and they’d even wash my clothes while I slept.

Foley then explained how the shelter is run. A residential detox center was located upstairs. During the day, the basement is used for AA meetings, therapy and meals for the detox patients.

But at night, it’s the Club.

“If you want to talk about alcoholism, just speak up,” Foley told me. “It’s a disease, not a weakness. If you’re ever ready, let me know.” He was very gentle and not the least bit preachy.

Dinner was next. The eating area was an L-shaped counter built along the hallway leading to the front room of the basement. Bullet served me a plate of fried ham, bologna and canned green beans and yams, with a glass of milk and a couple pieces of bread. Despite my hunger, I have an aversion to bologna and yams, so those went in my pocket.

While chewing the ham - which tasted more like corned beef - my eyes adjusted to the semi-darkness. The front room has 15 hospital beds. There, in the first bed, the one closest to the wall and shadowed from the dim hallway bulb, was Philly, asleep.

I had never seen him so peaceful. He’s always leaning, staggering, stumbling or falling. But in the Club, he rests.

I went outside for a smoke after dinner, then headed to my mat in the back room. (The first 15 Club members to arrive get dibs on the beds.) It was a little past 9. I laid awake for several hours listening to the rival snores of drunk men. Nose snores, I learned, are more high pitched than mouth snores, but mouth snores are much louder.

I simply wasn’t drunk enough to sleep through the racket.

I also eavesdropped on the staff’s conversations.

They talked about baseball, mostly the Red Sox, and discussed the importance of 12-step programs and the need for a good sponsor in order to stay off the sauce.

I watched men wake up, struggle to rise from their mat, stagger to the bathroom, then return. I dozed off and my neighbor snuggled me.

Around 3 in the morning, a loud drunk began banging on the Club’s front door. He insulted and berated the staff when they told him he wasn’t allowed in the shelter. Apparently, he’d caused problems in the past and was banned. When the disturbance was over, the staff discussed the situation in hushed tones and how it could have been handled better.

As promised, the lights went on at 5 a.m. “Come on guys, rise and shine,” the staff said while picking up empty mats and throwing pillowcases and blankets into a pile by the laundry room.

I’m no stranger to early morning reveille. From my days in the Coast Guard, I recall the rude wake-ups of boot camp and drunken mornings in exotic ports of call, reeking of booze and sweat.

But early mornings at the Club are far more tragic and painful. I saw my roommates in the light for the first time. Some were old, some young. Some were bloodied. They all seemed battered and tired.

Some of them took showers, put on clean clothes and headed out to a job, but the chronic Clubbers, like Philly, blearily rubbed their eyes and slowly got to their feet, shuffling toward the coffee and doughnuts on the dining counter. There’s often a sandwich there one can grab for later, too.

A seemingly mentally ill guy I recognized from the streets stopped me on my way out. He reminded me of a thin, short version of Maine humorist Tim Sample, but with a real Down East accent and a ruddy complexion from hard work outdoors.

“Can I buy your boots?” he asked.

I was carrying my fishing boots as a prop and wearing sneakers. I told him I needed the boots for work.

“Can I buy your sneakers?”

I told him I needed them, too. Besides, my feet are much bigger than his.

Second night: Thank God it’s Friday

Foley, a homeless man and I were smoking and talking on the sidewalk in front of the shelter a little after 8 p.m. I asked Foley why he worked at the Club. “The money’s good,” he said. “And I get to help people.” His dad was an alcoholic, so he experienced the evils of liquor firsthand.

Foley’s a veteran: seven years in the Army Special Forces. He’s jokey, real and a newlywed. He doesn’t imbibe. “I’ve had booze twice,” he said. “Once in the army and once at my wedding. I didn’t finish either either drink.”

“You’re lucky,” said the homeless man. I mumbled agreement.

“You can get help,” he said. “I know it’s not easy, but you can stop drinking.” Again, he was kind and non-judgmental. My drunk colleague and I nodded, as if considering going on the wagon.

I had arrived at the shelter an hour earlier reeking of beer, sweat and bourbon. Bullet greeted me cheerfully and asked how my day was and if I wanted dinner.

I wasn’t hungry, having just filled up on free hors d’oeuvres at an art opening at the Salt Gallery on Exchange Street, but my clothes were filthy and I was hot, grubby and stinky. Bullet suggested I take a shower.

He gave me a razor, a toothbrush, a towel, a hotel bar of soap and bottle of shampoo. He handed me a hospital johnny to wear for the night while they washed my clothes. He also gave me a new shirt and convinced me to throw away my defiled (and favorite) Guiness beer T-shirt.

The bathroom and showers were well-lit and clean. After a long, hot shower I shaved - axing my mustache too - brushed my teeth and put on the johnny.

As I walked by Bullet and Foley to drop my clothes and towel off by the washing machine, one of them said, “Hey, you clean up good.”

I went to smoke. A homeless guy gave me grief about being outside bare-assed in my johnny, but I didn’t care - I was no longer dirty.

It was my lucky night. I’d arrived early enough to score a bed. Better yet, the bed was right next to Philly, who was sleeping and snoring softly.

The front room has its pluses and minuses. The beds, though also vinyl, are comfy, covered as they are by a sheet, and there’s a little more space between you and your neighbor. A major drawback, however, is the noise. The front room is the smokers’ only route to the outside. The shelter’s metal door opened and shut all night long as guys went out to have a cigarette, stumbling to and fro in the semi-darkness. Plus, perhaps due to the room’s acoustics, the snores and nightmare moans seemed to resonate more loudly than in the back room.

Again, I had trouble sleeping, but my bunkmates kept me entertained.

A little past midnight, a skinny, shirt-less, tattooed man, maybe in his late 30s, stumbled out of bed and staggered to the dining area. He picked up the gallon of milk left on the counter and, ignoring the stack of plastic cups, chugged from it heartily, wiped his lips and headed back to bed.

Thirty minutes later, an old, white-haired man got up and shuffled his way to the dining counter. He made himself a peanut butter and butter sandwich on white bread - a popular snack at the Club, probably because all three foodstuffs are left out during the night - then poured himself a glass of milk from the tainted gallon, sat down, ate his sandwich and dozed off in the chair for a quick nap before heading back to bed.

The third-shift shelter attendants make frequent rounds to count sleeping bodies and make sure everyone was still breathing.

These staffers have a tougher gig than Foley, Bullet and the other second-shifters.

Some clients left during the night. I later learned some headed upstairs to the detox center as beds opened up, but others just departed. Maybe they had an early morning job or felt the call to return to a bottle stashed somewhere on the waterfront.

In any case, the turnover sometimes made it difficult for the staff to complete the head count. Besides the disappearing clients, others would be on the toilet or outside smoking during the census. And, on several occasions, I watched clients get up to take a leak, then return to a different mat, adding to the confusion.

Yet the third-shift staffers are observant and attentive and are not easily fooled. After a head count at 3 in the morning came out wrong, an employee I’ll call Cool Man discovered an unregistered, but familiar, client in a previously vacated bed.

“Come on, Burlson,” he said. “Wake up. You know the rules. You didn’t check in.”

Burlson had evidently sneaked in while the door was left ajar for a smoker. Grudgingly, he arose and headed outside. For some reason, he didn’t want to check in. (If you miss one night, you have undergo the entire re-registration process.)

Cool Man, the only shelter staffer of color I saw, should be nominated for sainthood or a Nobel. Burlson sneaked back in again within the hour, but despite his exasperation, Cool Man remained polite and again convinced Burison to leave.

Burlson tried to sneak back in a third time, but the Snitch saw him. I’d been watching the Snitch. He was in his 30s, scrawny but tough, with bad tattoos and missing teeth. I knew his type: the brown-noser. He helped the shelter attendants stow bedding in the morning and pretended he was in a position of authority. When he saw Burlson sneak in again, he fetched Cool Man.

At that point, it was only about a half-hour before reveille, but rules are rules. In places like the Club, rules are the only way to preserve order. Cool Man woke Burlson up yet again and told him to leave. He would be welcome back the next night, but he had to leave now. Cool Man even offered him a cup of coffee and a doughnut, but Burison was quietly obstinate. Finally, Cool Man took a more edgy approach. “Burlson, if you don’t leave, I’m going to have to call 9-1-1.”

Eventually, Burlson climbed out of bed.

Cool Man got him some java and walked him to the door. Burlson didn’t return.

I had talked to Cool Man earlier. He’s savvy like a big-city mover and shaker, but he lives in New Hampshire. His most charming attribute is that he has real conversations with the fellas. For a homeless street guy, drunk and generally ignored by passersby, Cool Man’s words and attention must feel marvelous.

Third night: My god that’s a nasty rash

When I showed up around 8, there were only three vacant mats. I didn’t want to put anyone out, so I offered not to check in, but Bullet assured me I was fine. Any extras would be sent to the overflow room at the city-run Oxford Street Shelter. Besides, he said, there were a couple guys at the Club that night who weren’t inebriated, so they would be sent to Oxford Street first.

Again, I was a mess: tired, drunk, weary of drinking and exhausted because I’d slept less than four hours in the last two nights. I ended up on the same mat I’d had my first night, but this time I had a plan to make sleeping a little more bearable.

After that first sweaty ordeal, I developed a rash. Starting on my right buttock and spreading down and under toward my inner thigh and calf was a patch of painfully chaffed, inflamed, red flesh. My theory: The vinyl mat coupled with my sweaty boxers and dirty trousers resulted in an adult version of diaper rash.

To avoid a rehash of the rash, I scored a hospital johnny and stripped down naked. I covered the vinyl mat with my nearly new T-shirt, my windbreaker (with boxers in the pocket) and my jeans, which the staff had washed the night before. I then covered my bare legs with a Club-issued polyester-and-cotton-blend blanket.

It didn’t work. The faux sheets moved whenever I moved and my bare flesh still ended up in contact with the vinyl.

Clients came and went in semi-darkness. The middle-aged guy next to me left and was replaced by a longhaired, thug-type character. I dozed off occasionally and dreamed about people less fortunate than me. But even when awake, the scene was dreamlike due to my exhaustion and the dim lighting.

Philly was on the mats tonight. I’d overheard staffers discussing him. He’d come in earlier, then left, then returned several hours later. In the middle of the night, I watched Philly struggle and rise from the mat. He slowly staggered to the bathroom, nearly tipping over several times. After a long drink of water, he stumbled back to his mat, fell to the floor and was soon fast asleep.

Reveille once again came too early. The lights went on and a few of my comrades began to grumble. A man in the corner who looked like a deranged Quaker complained, “Where the fuck is a man to go at 5 in the morning?”

“Labor Ready,” said his neighbor. (Bad idea, as I discovered in researching an earlier story, “Take this job and shovel it,” CBW, 3.15.01.). The guys griped about how they get ripped off while working day labor. One of them said he knew a place on the waterfront that would pay cash for hard work.

“Is it me, or is it really hot in here?” asked a long-haired man.

We all agreed it was warm. One of the guys pointed out that the mats made the situation worse.

“I like sleeping on the bed so much better.” he said. “It must be the vinyl. I’m always drooling and sweating like a pig when I’m back here.”

I was about to complain about my ass rash, but an old man spoke up. He’d been around, you could tell. His face was leather, creased by wind and sun. He was hurting. It took awhile for him to get upright. “I don’t care about the sweat,” he said solemnly. “I prefer hot to cold any day.”

Philly struggled to his feet, then steadied himself against a wall. A shelter attendant I’ll call Big Guy said good morning to him. I could picture Big Guy, in his early 40s and wearing an earring, as a disco scene-maker in the 1970s. I suspect he’s a recovered alcoholic. I watched and listened as he encouraged and cared for the clients. The graceful respect Big Guy showed these homeless men was touching.

Big Guy poured Philly a cup of coffee and offered him a smoke. Philly thanked him and together they walked toward the doorway into a Sunday’s dawn.

Fourth night: Dinner with Jesus and Grandpa

Jesus and I arrived at the Club at the same time, a little past 7. He was tired, having just spent several days on the road returning to Portland after wintering down south. Jesus hoped to score a bed upstairs in the detox center, but until then, he was happy to hang out at the Club.

I’m calling this client Jesus because if the Biblical Jesus was a white man, this is how I would envision him: 5½-feet tall: long, dirty hair: a scraggly beard; a weathered face; and several key teeth missing. And this Jesus had the eyes of a savior: deep, blue, happy and omniscient. (Jesus was the only person who questioned whether I was actually an alcoholic, homeless man.) The warm, gentle smile he showed me when we learned that roast beef and mashed potatoes were on the menu could have melted even Satan’s heart.

Jesus and I were joined at dinner by a man in his 60s I’ll call Grandpa. He was also missing a couple teeth, but that didn’t stop him from devouring the meal. Grandpa had apparently helped manage the Club nearly three decades ago - he must have fallen off the wagon - and staffers had to remind him on several occasions he was no longer in charge.

Jesus and Grandpa, with their extensive experiences of such places, told me the Club is possibly the best drunk shelter in all of America. The worst ones, they said, are in Florida. You sleep on cement floors in the Sunshine State, they serve you a bowl of slop that’s supposed to be soup and talking is not allowed.

But though the roast beef was almost inedible (it reminded me of deli-sliced meat re-baked and then wiped with gravy), we laughed a lot at the Club that night. We were having so much fun, in fact, a guy trying to sleep yelled at us to keep it down.

After dinner, we all had a smoke and I retired to the same mat I’d spent two sweaty, sleepless nights on before — it was beginning to feel like home. The Club was packed, and even though there was supposed to be enough room for all those who checked in, for some reason there wasn’t any room for Jesus.

It turned out it was the Snitch’s fault. He was hammered and passed out across one-and-a-half mats. This forced his neighbor onto another mat, which threw off the arrangements.

Foley tried to wake the Snitch, but to no avail. Then Bullet got involved, but there was no moving the Snitch. After a couple minutes, they gave up.

Jesus said it was OK. He was a small guy and could squeeze in. “I’m cool,” he said. “I just need some sleep.”

An hour later, the staffers were talking to the Tim Sample doppelganger, the presumably mentally ill guy who’d wanted to buy my boots. He was complaining about his feet, how they hurt real bad. The staffers had had him take off his shoes.

I’m not sure who gasped. One of the guys got on the phone and 15 minutes later a nurse was on the scene.

“What happened?” she asked. (Hers was the only female voice I heard the entire time I was there.)

Tim Sample babbled at first, but finally it became clear his shoes were a couple sizes too small, and he’d been wearing them, wandering the streets, for a week. They’d cut gashes into his feet.

I was immediately awash in guilt. Why hadn’t I asked why he’d wanted my boots?

The rest of the night passed too slowly. The guy on the mat to my left snored and moaned the whole night. And I feared sleep, lest I dream about Tim Sample.

When the lights finally came on, I saw my moaning neighbor: He was probably in his 60s and his face was a bloody mess. A wound above his right eye was held shut by a butterfly bandage. His nose was swollen and his other eye was blackened.

I could hear Tim Sample gibbering in the other room. I wanted to see his feet. I found him sitting on a bed, slowly putting on a sock. His left foot was still bare. The top of this foot had a 3-inch gash inflamed and shiny from the nurse’s ointment.

Fifth night: The devil is in the details

On my way to the Club for my fifth and final night, I thought about how lucky I’ve been in my life. I’ve escaped death and injury so often in my 33 years that if I were religious, I’d thank a guardian angel.

What will happen when my luck runs out?

A debilitating head injury, a sudden onslaught of mental illness or a major depressive episode might turn my world upside down.

Could I end up at the Club? I’m sure none of these people planned on calling this place home.

I’d actually been considering extending my stay. I half-joked to friends about giving up my apartment and moving to the Club full time. Perhaps it was the booze or the sleep deprivation, but I was falling in love with the folks who lived and worked there.

I overheard Bullet telling one of the longtime clients that he’d gotten a new job. He was leaving the Club in a couple weeks to work as a counselor in Old Orchard Beach. My heart broke. The guys at the Club depend on him. But wherever Bullet goes, I’m sure he’ll touch and influence those in need.

I claimed the same bed I had on my second night, the one by the dining counter. I watched three guys eat that night’s dinner: pork chops, rice and string beans. One of the men was Grandpa. I didn’t know the other two, but the trio knew each other.

They talked about fellow homeless men who’d gotten “popped” - arrested, usually for public drinking or urination hauled - and hauled down to the county jail. According to these guys, being locked up and making court appearances are inconvenient, but pleasant compared to being manhandled by the cops along the way.

As fate would have it, one of the clients at dinner - a guy in his early 30s who looked like one bad-ass motherfucker - was Grandpa’s nephew. They hadn’t seen each other in months. The tough guy had apparently just gotten back to town. They reminisced about family members who refuse to communicate with them.

“I haven’t spoken to your dad in 10 years.”

“I haven’t talked to him in five,” replied the nephew.

I fell asleep listening to the family gossip. For some bizarre reason, it was soothing, and sleep came easily.

In the middle of the night, everyone awoke to the bellowing of what sounded like the devil incarnate. It was around 3 a.m., and this drunk’s voice was incredibly loud and menacing. He was another troublemaker banned from the Club. The staffers told him he wasn’t welcome and closed the locked front door.

The demon roared with anger outside. He promised to murder the attendants with his bare hands when they got off work. “I’ll be waiting for you,” he screamed. “You fucking prick bastards!”

One staffer told another to make sure the back door was locked. The Snitch got up from his bed and looked out the window.

“He’s gone,” he said.

I couldn’t get back to sleep. In those last hours before reveille, I watched the silhouettes of slumbering men and listened to their heavy, tired breathing, the coughs, the snores and the moans.

Wake-up time finally arrived and the guys got ready for another drunken day on the streets. A crowd by the dining counter grabbed coffee and doughnuts as Tim Sample babbled about a house he was going to build. At least, I thought that’s what he was saying.

Pointing at Sample, a homeless guy said, “When I understand what he’s talking about, I’ll know I’ve gone nuts.”

The crowd laughed and then slowly dispersed. I gave Tim Sample a couple smokes. He asked me if I’d ever lobstered out of Castine. I told him I hadn’t:

“Well,” he drawled in his Down East accent, “maybe you should.”

It was time to leave. Standing next to the dough-nuts, I finally found myself alone with Philly. I said his name. He looked up, looked right at me, but still didn’t recognize me. I slipped him a buck and he thanked me.

Then, for the first time during my stay at the shelter, I spoke in my normal voice. “Do you know who I am?” Philly looked confused, then, with a toothless grin, guessed “Crash?”

“Shhhh,” I said, putting a finger over my lips.

Philly began to laugh.

I walked over to Big Guy, who was putting clean sheets on the beds. Another attendant had just given him grief for not working fast enough, and Big Guy looked depressed. That was discouraging to me, as I’d watched this man perform more acts of compassion in five days than most people attempt in a lifetime.

“My boat should be here today.” I said in my real voice, “so I probably won’t be back. I just wanted to say was impressed by how kind you were to the guys. I hope you get the chance to help many other people.”

“That’s such a great compliment,” he said.

I walked away.

“A great compliment,” he repeated aloud, smiling as he made another bed. I left the Club and staggered up India Street in the early light. I got a block away from the Club before I started to cry.

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At the time of publication, Casco Bay Weekly donated $250 to the Milestone Foundation to pay for my stay. For those missing the olden days of CBW’s alt-journalism, the Portland Public Library has scanned copies available: digitalcommons.portlandlibrary.com/cbw/

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For seven dollars a month, (or $75 annually) you can support independent journalism that goes places other media won’t AND get early and ad-free access to episodes of Fake Shaman.

Pictured above and below: Augusta School Board Candidate Nick Blanchard is a racist piece of shit. A lot more on him and his homophobia in a second.

Before we get to the chuds redux… I’m currently researching “covert hypnosis” as part of my upcoming Fake Shaman true crime podcast. And all I can say is “Yikes!”

Mind control is a very real possibility for the 10 to 15 percent of the population who are easily hypnotizable. Which, by the way, doesn’t mean those susceptible folks lack willpower. Rather, there are certain traits (that I’ll discuss during the pod) possessed by easily hypnotizable people that makes them more vulnerable to brain games. And in the case of the Fake Shaman (below) she used a mix of covert hypnosis, psychedelics, scopolamine, glamour-magick and, in some cases, orgasm.

Paid subscribers to the Crash Report, btw, get early and ad-free access to Fake Shaman when it finally airs this summer.

Also, Happy Pride Month to those that celebrate. (To those that don’t, go to hell.)

In honor of this month of love, I’m offering a 20 percent discount on all elopement and micro-wedding ceremonies at Brigid Spring purchased prior to midnight on June 30, 2026. (You don’t have to hold the ceremony in June.) Matrimonial packages include my state-sanctioned officiating of declarations of love, plus acoustic musical accompaniment by my sweet wife Sweetgrass. Also, your choice of farmstead locale for the ceremony include but are not limited to the goat pasture, the pollinator garden, surrounded by cannabis plants, the sacred spring, the pig pen, the veggie garden or in the shadow of a giant pine. Plus, the newly-hitched receive a Crash Pack of signed books as a wedding gift.

Email crash@crashbarry.com for all the deets.

Happy Demon Month, Redux

In June 2025, I published the following explainer of why chuds, Christian-Nationalists, members of Calvary Chapel and other End Times cults are so pissed off about LGBTQ Pride. In short, they believe the gays stole the rainbow from God after the whole Noah and the ark debacle.

Of course, at the time of penning the Crash Report you’re about to read, I had no way of knowing that Bobby Charles, the current leader the GOP gubernatorial primary race, would embrace Christo-fundamentalist foolishness and reference the Bible, Noah and his ark to defend being an asshole about gender identity. His platform, btw, is already chockfull of hate, amplified by a small-penned candidate who spews vileness and stupidity simultaneously. If Maine Republicans select this asshole as their candidate, it’s just more proof the party of Margaret Chase Smith has been 100 percent been taken over by racist hate-mongers and bigots.

Also, at the time of the OG publication of this Crash Report, I didn’t expect that Nick “Corn Pop” Blanchard would toss his giant foam Trump hat into the proverbial ring, launching a bid for an at-large seat on the Augusta School Board.

After all, last year at this time, he was fresh off his court appearances at Capital Judicial Center and pleading guilty to drunk driving while facing a CPS investigation for leaving his then-six-year-old kid home alone during the chud’s nighttime shenanigans with the now-candidate, inebriated, ending up stuck in a snowbank, requiring police assistance, which resulted in a breathalyzer test. And, ultimately, according to the candidate, a year-long driver’s license suspension.

The Blanchard campaign is just more proof of the clown world that politics has become. After all, this J-6er has no business serving on the School Board. While the chud does live in Capital City, his lone kid doesn’t. Nor does the kid attend an Augusta school. Also, the fella is a renter, not a property taxpayer. And while Blanchard spends a lot of time hanging out in school board meetings, he does it only for the clicks and likes from his online sycophants.

Also, oddly, Blanchard now considers himself a “sovereign citizen.” Which is fine, I guess, except for the part where he's running for office. That voids his main argument of sovereignty: that the gov’t doesn’t have control over the masses or the individual. Also, hardcore sovereigns in the sovereignty movement ABHOR the word “citizen,” in connection to their stances. But Blanchard, a literal moron, doesn’t understand the nuance. In addition, the fella claims the Earth is Flat. The reason: the dude is a sheep and in his world, there’s been an increase in attention being paid to “Biblical Cosmology.” Short version: Various Old Testament verses prove Globe Earth is a lie.

I haven’t been following the knucklehead’s recent exploits (multi-law suits claiming victimhood in the courts and otherwise) because I’m super busy. And, frankly, the dude is a bore. He’s basically AI slop incarnate, spewed from the depths of the MAGAVERSE hell, with the intellectual capability of a screwworm, aka Cochliomyia hominivorax, the parasitic blowfly whose numbers are rising, thanks to MAGA Daddy and Elon Musk’s DOGE fiasco.

Originally published June 19, 2025

CW: This explainer on “why Pride flags trigger Christo-chuds” includes references to Biblical antediluvian fallen-angels impregnating female Earthlings who then birthed sterile baby giants.

The legend of Noah and the Flood isn’t just an ancient narrative about a petty vengeful Sky-God murdering almost every living creature on the planet. The Great Deluge is also a story about supernatural sex resulting in the creation of extremely tall human-hybrids who turned out to be very hungry assholes. And Noah’s tale is the source of a weird spiritual copyright grievance for End Times Christians — growing in popularity and amplified during Pride Month — that the gays stole and misappropriated the symbol of the rainbow from the Bible.

In Maine, the local chud screaming the loudest about the alleged theft of the rainbow color scheme, this year, is none other than Nick Blanchard, aka Corn Pop, the J-6 MAGA moron who has appeared in several Crash Reports (here here here here and here).

Blanchard is pissed about Pride Month and devoting his weekends in June to harassing Mainers while trying to sell “Demon Month” tee shirts and posters as a way to monetize his hate.

He’s hard to miss at the public events like Hallowell Pride or the “No Kings” rally in Augusta. Look for a neck-bearded troll wearing a MAGA hat and a flag code-violating clown-suit while screeching hate-babble into a megaphone.

He’s also been spotted riding his e-scooter to various happenings, since his driver’s license was suspended in February after his arrest on drunk driving charges.

(On June 17, his OUI case was continued until September, which means he’ll be restricted to two-wheels for the rest of the summer. No word yet on the outcome of the CPS investigation into Blanchard leaving his six-year-old kid home alone at the time of his arrest.)

Even without a driver’s license, the dude’s had a very busy June. First with some IRL trolling at Hallowell Pride (where his colleague-in-hate got sucker-punched, more on that later) and the Augusta rally where he yelled at passersby, often making sexual and racist comments to women. Then, limited by his lack of transportation, Blanchard launched some very public on-line attacks on Cushnoc Brewing, the Midcoast Humane animal shelter and Brunswick’s Pride celebration for their support of the LGBTQ community.

Blanchard has also been chatting up — and making gifts to — a seventh grade boy in Farmington who claims he was suspended from school for barking at furries. Plus Blanchard’s online efforts to protest a trans-athlete’s appearance at a Freeport track meet contributed to the stress that led to that teenager’s decision not to compete. And continuing with his obsession with teenagers’ love lives, Blanchard has been harassing — IRL and on-line — the folks at Equality Maine for their sponsoring of a Pride dance in Portland on June 20 for queer youth.

Again, to be clear, this is a 35-year-old man — who rides a scooter —aggressively harassing Maine teenagers and hoping to disrupt a dance for queer high schoolers. In other words, a real creep.

Blanchard reminds me of a Temu version of Shawn McBreairty, the now-dead bigot from central Maine who killed himself last year after failing to monetize his grift-of-hate. And while McBreairty was no rocket scientist, he wasn’t as dumb as Blanchard. Even with attention from western Maine podcaster Tucker Carlson, Trump hench-boy Steve Bannon, Diamond and Silk and the Maine Wire (the faux-news subsidiary of the non-profit Maine Policy Institute) McBreairty couldn’t capitalize in cash his harassment of Maine teenagers and educators.

McBreairty did makes tens of thousands annually, for the last couple of years of his life, including a $40,000 payment from the RSU # 22 school district in Hampden when a judge found school officials violated McBreairty’s constitutional rights by trying to ban him from school events. A friend of McBreairty told me that financial issues connected to his activism caused the now-dead chud to commit suicide.

[[UPDATE: In March 2026, McBreairty’s widow received $350,000 in a settlement from Brewer School Department. The deal was struck “without costs” which means each side pays their own legal fees. Wondering if any of the leftover cash (post- McBreairty’s lawyer’s huge bill) will pay for therapy to help McBreairty’s traumatized daughter who discovered her dad’s body hours after his bloody suicide. Interestingly, McBreairty’s lawyer, a weirdo named Marc J. Randazza, is now repping Blanchard in his grievance against the Augusta school board that might result in a similar payout for Blanchard. Such a settlement would propel the MAGA warehouseman out his gig at Northeast Electrical and into the relative lap of luxury, decorated with his massive MAGA baseball hat collection.]]

Lately, I’ve noticed an escalation in Blanchard’s use of confrontational tactics, especially when dealing with middle-aged women who work in the schools. Which is reminiscent of McBreairty’s public actions in the months before he swallowed the barrel of a gun, at home, in a room where his 20-something daughter was guaranteed to discover his corpse.

[[UPDATE: At the time of the OG publication of this piece, Blanchard still hadn’t been arrested by Augusta police — then released — after he tried to stir the shit at an October 2025 No Kings rally. You can read all about that HERE and I’m pretty sure his subsequent lawsuit against the Augusta PD is slowly crawling the courts, but I neither have the time nor interest in doing legal reporting on chuddish lawfare.]]

And like McBrearity, Blanchard is always asking for cash from his followers. Unlike, McB, though, Blanchard’s supporters haven’t come through with the big bucks. His fundraiser on GiveSendGo (the alt-GoFundMe that’s popular with nazis, Christian-Nationalists and dumb chuds) has only taken in $625 after being up for six months. Conversly McBrearity, over a couple year period, raised almost $20k via that platform.

All that to say, Blanchard’s behavior leads me to think the dude has mommy issues. And money problems. Plus, he’s an easily-triggered homophobic asshole with a shitty life, looking to spoil other peoples’ joy. Regardless of his motivation, subconscious or otherwise, I predict Blanchard’s “activism” won’t end well. With the rise of political violence in America, coupled with Blanchard’s big mouth, it’s inevitable someone will get hurt. One possible scenario would be Blanchard getting slugged by an angry loved one of someone that’s been targeted by the chud. Fella has scores of enemies, so if something happened, the list of suspects would be longer than his neckbeard.

[[Update: Since I first published this piece, I’ve lost count of the number of times Blanchard has moaned “victim” including his cry-babying about alleged assaults he suffered at the hands of libs at school board meetings in both North Berwick and Newport, two municipalities out of e-scooter range from his Augusta apartment. To be clear, he had zero prior connection to either town. Also, most recently, Blanchard is fighting Augusta officials over license and vax requirements for his sovereign dog.]]

Another, far more distressing sequence of events would be an act of violence inspired by Blanchard’s incendiary rhetoric. It’s call Stochastic terrorism and last weekend’s double murder in Minnesota is an example of politically motivated psychopathic rampages by lunatics with right wing agendas.

Blanchard frequently uses social media and podcasts to call local elected officials “groomers, pedos, molesters and perverts.” He’s doxxed multiple school board members (online and printed on various tee-shirts and posters) in both Skowhegan and Augusta. Last year, Blanchard shared Secretary of State Shenna Bellows’ home address a whole bunch of times on Facebook, Twitter and Truth Social after the now-gubernatorial candidate ruled that Donald Trump wasn’t eligible to be on Maine’s ballot.

Jeez, almost seems like he’s giving out directions for possible targets.

But now his modus operandi has changed. For Pride Month, Blanchard is going after private individuals, businesses and non-profits with the audacity to NOT be homophobic.

All because the gays stole the rainbow from God.

I know that’s a lot to unpack, especially for those not familiar with the Holy Book. So before I get to today’s parable about a couple MAGA morons acting like crybabies after allegedly getting sucker-punched for spewing hate and venom at Hallowell Pride, join me for the first installment of Bible Study from the Crash Report™.

Please turn to Genesis, Chapter 6.

When human beings began to increase in number on the earth and daughters were born to them, ² the sons of God saw that the daughters of humans were beautiful, and they married any of them they chose.

The vast majority of scholars agree that “Sons of God,” btw, is Bible-speak for fallen angels. The terminology appears six times in the Old Testament. (Twice in Genesis, thrice in the Book of Job and once in the Book of Daniel.) Anyways, as the story goes, God cast out an unknown number of angels from Heaven for being involved in a failed coup d'etat. The Book of Revelation estimates 1/3 of God’s heavenly army was dismissed. However, the Book of Enoch (while not included in the Bible, the ancient Hebrew apocalyptic text is super-popular with End Times Christians) says 200 bad bois got the boot from heaven and even includes the names of the disgraced angelic leadership team. The second book of Enoch says, as time went on, the ranks of Satan’s fallen angels swelled, increasing to “200 myriad.” And since a “myriad” is a classical unit of 10,000, that means there were possibly a couple million angels under Satan’s control.

It should be noted that the bad angels were also evicted for being “prideful.” Those so-called “fallen angels,” aka “demons” were able to take human form and materialize on Earth. (Almost like being “transported” in Star Trek.) As soon as they landed, these demonic dudes started drooling. Because, to angels, Earth-women were H-O-T and sexy. One thing led to another and soon enough, spiritual beings and human-ladies started hooking up. And, amazingly, fallen angel seed found purchase in female soil. Also, when the babies were born, they turned out to be giants.

This copulation, conception and childbirth happened many, many times. Which gave rise to a giant hybrid race of half-human, half-fallen angel known as Nephilim. These extremely strong and tall half-breeds ran amok. They took over multiple local governments, then, eventually, conquered the entire known world. According to one account, when food got scarce and the Nephilim were hungry, the monsters turned cannibal and dined on human flesh.

All of this made the Lord God in Heaven above very angry. After all, the OG source of the trouble were the pride-filled fallen-angels He tossed out of Heaven. As an all-knowing god, He shoulda known the bad boys would knock up human females with their angelic sperm. Anyways, it got to the point that the Earth-scene was too sinful and dirty for God. He’d had enough of everyone and everything. Especially His immoral humans. He’d begun to regret manufacturing Adam, then cloning his rib into Eve and the rest of the whole friggin’ mess of creation.

Most of all, He wanted the Nephilim D-E-A-D. Thing is, those giant hybrids were pretty friggin’ tough. To wipe ‘em all out would require pretty significant firepower.

So God, in his divine wisdom, decided to release torrential rains on the planet and drown every damn one of the Nephilim. That’ll teach ‘em, He thought. Because everyone knows that giants — like witches — can’t float.

Of course, such a dick move would also wipe out the human-and-animal races on Earth — except for the people and critters stationed aboard Noah’s ark. Before you get all judgy with the Divine Father’s plan, though, you must understand a couple more things… at least from the Biblical perspective.

⁴ The Nephilim were on the earth in those days—and also afterward—when the sons of God went to the daughters of humans and had children by them. They were the heroes of old, men of renown.

⁵ The Lord saw how great the wickedness of the human race had become on the earth, and that every inclination of the thoughts of the human heart was only evil all the time. ⁶ The Lord regretted that he had made human beings on the earth, and his heart was deeply troubled. ⁷ So the Lord said, “I will wipe from the face of the earth the human race I have created—and with them the animals, the birds and the creatures that move along the ground—for I regret that I have made them.” ⁸ But Noah found favor in the eyes of the Lord.

God warned the sinners. In Genesis 6, he gives humankind 120 years to straighten out or face divine destruction. Around the same time (2500 B.C., according to some wacky estimates), God reached out to Noah — then about 480 years old — and ordered him to build a 450-foot long, rectangular ark. Also, assemble a whole bunch of livestock.

Contrary to popular lore, btw, animals didn’t board the vessel two by two. Also, the animal contingent weren’t just breeding pairs. According to Genesis Chapter 7, God gave the following instructions.

“Take with you seven pairs of every kind of clean animal, a male and its mate, and one pair of every kind of unclean animal, a male and its mate and also seven pairs of every kind of bird, male and female, to keep their various kinds alive throughout the earth.”

That’s quite the floating petting zoo. As for the difference between “clean” and “unclean” animals, we have to go to the Book of Leviticus which, btw, was also written by Moses, who was the reputed author of Genesis, Exodus, Numbers and Deuteronomy. Basically, clean critters can be eaten and/or sacrificed. Also, in terms of mammals, they need to be ruminants with cloven hooves like cows, giraffes, goats, sheep et al. Seafood with scales and fins were also considered clean, along with some birds.

Unclean critters were cloven-footed animals that don’t chew the cud, such as camels, llamas, alpacas and guanaco. Also unclean were pigs, rabbits, badgers, elephants, reptiles and sea-critters without fins or scales like lobsters, crabs, clams, whales and sharks.

Porcine alert: I still have one-half pig share available. Email or Dm for the deets.

Spoiler alert: Later, while some “clean” critters would be used to re-settle the planet, others will be sacrificed to God.

The Heavenly Father chose Noah as his earthly captain, btw, because, according to Scripture, Noah’s blood line was Nephilim-free. In fact, according to some ancient texts, Noah’s immediate family were the last non-hybrids on the planet without fallen-angel genome in their DNA.

Then, as promised, 120 years after warning the Earthlings and the Nephilim to change their evil ways, God opened the floodgates and triggered a 40-day, 40-night, rain-event. It’s important to note, according to Scripture, this was the FIRST time it ever rained on Earth. Prior to this divine temper tantrum, our climate was perfect, apparently with some sort of closed eco-system that didn’t require rain.

The water continued to rise, for another 150 days, after the rain stopped. Then it was another 150 days until the floodwaters receded and finally deposited Noah, his unnamed wife and their sons — Shem, Ham and Japheth — and their unnamed wives on a mountain. Where did the giant rectangular ark end up? Your guess is as good as mine, but some sleuths have claimed to find the remains of the boat atop Mount Ararat in Turkey.

I have several doubts about this entire narrative. As both a former Coast Guardsman (I lived and worked aboard a 210-foot cutter for three years) and current small farmer, I find it hard to believe the ark and animals could’ve survived the Flood. After all, Noah was not a skilled boat builder. And his vessel had no engines, sails, oars or other means of propulsion. Which meant for 340 days, the ark floated, drifting to wherever the Sky God deemed. There are many logistical issues to deal with while underway for such an extended period of time aboard a ship as large as Noah’s bobbing boat. It would have been impossible, considering the era and circumstances, for Cap’t Noah to stockpile enough potable water and food for all the humans and animals for the duration of time underway.

Also, thanks to my agricultural experience, I can assure you that there was no way that Noah and his team kept all those critters ALIVE on that vessel for such an extended period. Besides the aforementioned “food and water for 340 days” conundrum, there’s the issue of manure. Lots of it. And there’s no Biblical mention of the type of bedding the crew used to keep stalls muck-free and hygienic. Considering the rough-hewn construction of the ark, it’s highly unlikely that any watertight compartments would be wasted on storing a huge cache of animal bedding.

Which leads to another major problem: how did the staff prevent disease — fungal, viral and otherwise — from spreading across species in such dank and damp conditions? According to the Bible, Noah built the ark out of “gopher wood,” a currently unknown type of tree that some have hypothesized to be cedar or cypress or pine. Wood’s porosity creates a petri dish for bad bacteria, fungus and viruses spread by animal waste and requires lots of bleach for disinfection. I doubt Noah’s kids knew enough about tending livestock to keep up with all the necessary cleaning required on a floating animal farm.

Also, what did Noah and his sons do about predation by meat-eaters of the smaller tasty animals? Preventing carnivores from chomping on the littles would require extensive fencing or a phenomenal number of “secure” critter stalls.

And not to belabor the animal husbandry aspect of OPERATION ARK, but creating optimal conditions is essential in facilitating successful breeding. And a shit-covered stall in the bowels of a moldy ship isn’t conducive to propagation. Not to mention that the length of gestation for many of the breed stock aboard the ark was shorter than the length of the voyage. Sure, the pregnancies of the elephant, the rhino, the manatee, the camel, the giraffe and the alpine salamander (2 to 3 year period) would’ve lasted longer than the trip on the ark. But most smaller mammals, plus many birds, rats and reptiles, would’ve given birth during the period when the floodwaters were still rising or falling. As someone who has taken care of many baby animals, I assure you that the task of dealing with all the little critters, under those watery circumstances and humid conditions, would’ve been too much for Noah and his crew to handle.

Or, to put it another way… if you keep livestock on a 450-foot long dark and dank boat, you’re gonna get deadstock.

Despite all the flaws in the Noah narrative, lots of people believe this story — and every other Biblical tale — to be LITERALLY 100 percent true. According to a recent Pew survey, almost 40 percent of modern U.S. Christians believe that the Bible is inerrant. To them, the Bible is the actual word of God and can never be wrong.

With that statistic in mind, here are a few more tidbits concerning current End Timers’ beliefs about Noah and his kin. First and foremost: the RAINBOW.

Post-flood, after realizing it was a mistake to kill almost every living thing, God signed a contract with Noah (called a covenant) to abandon the use of global floods as God’s punishment for humanity’s sins and his preferred method for exterminating the Nephilim.

“I now establish my covenant with you and with your descendants after you ¹⁰ and with every living creature that was with you—the birds, the livestock and all the wild animals, all those that came out of the ark with you—every living creature on earth. ¹¹ I establish my covenant with you: Never again will all life be destroyed by the waters of a flood; never again will there be a flood to destroy the earth.”

Also, Scripture says, every single time sunlight is refracted and dispersed by atmospheric water droplets, the multi-colored visual miracle should be considered a reminder of God’s promise not to again commit genocide via Great Floods and drowning.

¹² And God said, “This is the sign of the covenant I am making between me and you and every living creature with you, a covenant for all generations to come: ¹³ I have set my rainbow in the clouds, and it will be the sign of the covenant between me and the earth. ¹⁴ Whenever I bring clouds over the earth and the rainbow appears in the clouds, ¹⁵ I will remember my covenant between me and you and all living creatures of every kind. Never again will the waters become a flood to destroy all life. ¹⁶ Whenever the rainbow appears in the clouds, I will see it and remember the everlasting covenant between God and all living creatures of every kind on the earth.”

Back to the actual Great Flood though. After the ark ran aground, Noah planted a vineyard and took to drinking. To be blunt: survivor guilt seemed to have turned the dude into a wino. And that’s not gossip. Scripture tells us Noah drank to excess. And that he passed out naked. On one such drunken occasion, his son Ham went into Noah’s room and found his dad, unclothed and unconscious. Ham went and told his brothers Shem and Japheth what he saw. Then Shem and Japheth entered their father’s boudoir, eyes averted, with a cloak and covered-up the old man’s ancient genitalia.

Next morn, Noah awakens to discover the cloak over his low-hanging fruit and somehow figured out what happened. And, for some reason, he gets pissed at Ham and, in the process, curses Ham’s son, Canaan and all Canaan’s descendants.

²⁴ When Noah awoke from his wine and found out what his youngest son had done to him, ²⁵ he said,

“Cursed be Canaan!
The lowest of slaves
will he be to his brothers.”

A brief aside: there are many weird interpretations of what actually went down on that drunken night. The strangest explanation has to do with the hermeneutic deconstruction of the phrase re: Ham seeing “his father’s nakedness.” Because of a convoluted linguistic theory involving Moses’ authorship of both Genesis and Leviticus, some weirdos interpret that phrase as meaning that Ham had sex with either Noah or, even more bizarrely, Noah’s wife. Both theories seem pretty farfetched. Proponents, however, doubt that merely seeing his dad naked would’ve been enough of a sin to trigger Noah into cursing Ham’s lineal descendants. Incestuous sex, theorists theorize, would’ve been enough to precipitate Noah’s malediction for future generations.

The descendants of Ham’s son Canaan, btw, became known as the Canaanites, a tribe cursed with all sorts of trials and tribulations, including enslavement. While it’s tough to track the lineage and bloodline to current times, some scholars claim modern Lebanese and Palestinians are descended from the Canaanites.

All that to say, according to the Bible, Noah lived for another 450 years post-Flood. According to his obituary, Noah passed on to his reward at the ripe old age of 950, due to alcohol poisoning. Another sad fact: With all that time on his hands in the years betwixt the Flood and his death, Noah was sure to have figured out the whole ark endeavor was a terrible mistake. Millions drowned and yet God’s goal of eliminating evil was not achieved.

The Flood was a Flop

Hermeneutically speaking, I can’t help but think about a clue regarding the Nephilim that emerged from the text. Consider Genesis, 6:4.

⁴ The Nephilim were on the earth in those days—and also afterward—when the sons of God went to the daughters of humans and had children by them. They were the heroes of old, men of renown.

The phrase “in those days — and also afterward” is of particular concern. “In those days” refers to Noahic times. The words “also afterward” means post-Flood, the Nephilim somehow still existed. Which means God’s attempt to rid Earth of the half-demonic Nephilim failed. Not only was the Flood’s death and destruction a horrible mistake, but it was all for naught.

Let’s link this Bible study back to current events. I’ve read FB posts and Reddit threads hypothesizing that Barron Trump is actually Nephilim. I’m not buying it. Remember, the Nephilim-type giants were the offspring of inter-species breeding between male demons and attractive Earth-women. Sure, the kid is tall. Not a giant, though. And, most importantly, for Baron to be Nephilim, Donald Trump would have to be a fallen-angel. And we know that’s not the case, due to his abnormally short fingers and his tiny mushroom-shaped phallus.

Biologically and genetically, though, I believe the whole premise of a Nephilim bloodline to be severely flawed. In breeding fallen-angels with attractive Earth-women, we need to consider what’s known as “Haldane's Rule,” which explains why hybrid mammals are almost always sterile. It’s akin to the situation with mules, which are the offspring of a male donkey (62 chromosomes) and a female horse (64 chromosomes). The resulting baby mule has 63 chromosomes, which is a serious impediment to reproduction, both in production of sperm and other issues.

Human women have 46 chromosomes and the number of chromosomes in fallen angels (and the Nephilim-babies) is heretofore unknown. The fallen angels, though, are eternal spiritual beings in a material world, which portends that their DNA is a little bit different.

As for the Nephilim, since they are giants and “heroes of old, men of renown,” and genetically half-angel, it seems improbable they would have the same number of chromosomes as female humans. Meaning the Nephilim were likely sterile. Thus, the whole premise of a Nephilim bloodline — and Noah’s fam being Neph-free — is ridiculous. Biologically speaking, there can be no “Children of Nephilim.”

That being said, the fallen-angels could still be among us. After all, angels are thought to be immortal. Thus, fallen angels — who can appear on Earth as handsome and charming human males with average length fingers and phallus — could, at this very moment, could still be impregnating beautiful “daughters of humans.” And in those cases, the offspring would be Nephilim. And likely sterile, according to Haldane's Rule.

Back to the Barron Trump question: if Melania dallied with a handsome and charming fallen angel, with average length fingers and phallus, it would be possible for Barron to be Nephilim. Unlikely, though, we’ll ever be able to confirm or deny, so I suggest you do your own research.

True-believers

I first came across the Christo-claim to rainbow-theft back in 2023 when the then-vice chair of Maine Republican Party, Sam Bridges, posted a video of him being angry in front of the Boothbay Harbor Congregational Church because of the LGBTQ-friendly logo on the church’s signage.

At first, I thought Bridges was just being a lone freaky-deek. I’d interviewed the kid for Episode 2 of my Disinfomaniacs’ podcast when— at age 18 — he became the youngest state GOP vice chair in Maine History. Gotta admit, during our conversation, it quickly became obvious the teenager wasn’t very smart or mature and def not a political savant or prodigy.

Here’s the video Bridges posted about modern churches, the rainbow connection and queer folk.

Bridge’s dumb take on the rainbow theft piqued my curiosity, so I looked into the allegations that the gays co-opted the symbol from the Bible. And surprise! It was a real thing. Calvary Chapel churches, for instance, have been promoting the dumb theory since at least 2015 (if not earlier) and there’s even more dated references to the rainbow theft from fringe homophobes.

First of all, what a stupid — and desperate — theory! I mean, pride in ownership of the whole “God’s promise not to commit genocide by flood, AGAIN!” argument is a pretty weird flex, bro. Especially daft, considering how the Noahic rainbow promise isn’t remotely connected to the message of inclusivity symbolized by the queer community’s rainbow flag.

Besides, a fringe religion can’t claim exclusive rights to a natural phenomena. It’ll be a slippery slope if the Christo-nuts are allowed to own the rainbow. Soon you’ll have Satanists laying claim to rainbows. After all, it weren’t for the fallen angels knocking up Earth-gals, there wouldn’t have been a Flood…or a rainbow to cherish.

Also, if the chuds would just duck-duck-google “who invented the rainbow flag?” they’d learn it was a cool dude named Gilbert Baker. An artist-activist-veteran-vexillographer, he first created the multicolored flag with the help of a collective of volunteers in San Francisco. The OG flags (which were actually tie-died pieces of fabric painstakingly stitched together) were a powerful new symbol that debuted on June 25, 1978. The then eight colors were symbolic of the diversity of what we now call the Pride Movement.

The Pride Flag has undergone modifications and alterations over the almost 50 years since Baker sewed the first one. Two colors were removed due to higher production costs for hot pink and certain blue hues. Nowadays, we see many versions of this powerful symbol in tons of different places, from corporate marketing to schoolrooms, signifying that, at least for some, love and acceptance of diversity is easy.

After all, Jesus said, “Love your neighbor as yourself.”

For some reason, Jesus’ “Golden Rule” to love others triggers the chuds. Maybe it’s because these guys don’t love themselves. And that might have something to do with why they’re so fixated on “who-loves-who” in the first place.

So they get tee shirts and giant signs printed in order to show their displeasure with “the alphabet cult,” their not-so-clever describer for the LGBTQ community.

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Corn Slop

And that brings us back to the walking neckbeard, aka Blanchard. A newbie to Christianity — and a real dummy when it comes to Biblical teaching — this stooge simply doesn’t understand the real message of Jesus Christ, his supposed Lord and Personal Savior. And his hatred for the rainbow flag is just the latest in a long string of contrived grievances this knucklehead has inflicted on Maine since moving here five years ago from Rhode Island.

Blanchard, btw, was very publicly baptized in the fall of 2022 in a horse trough — under a Trump banner — by the witch-hunting “Prophet” Greg Locke in the now-defunct Christo-Fash movie theater in Ellsworth that was owned by perennial failed political candidate (and serial conman) John Linnehan.

(If that previous sentence isn’t news to YOU, please try to spend some time away from the screens this week.)

These days, as a baby Christian, Blanchard spends an inordinate amount of time harassing educators across Maine who dare uphold state laws that promote diversity and inclusion. I’ve reported extensively on his creepy hobby of spewing hate and trying to disrupt school board meetings in cities and towns where he has no connection. His regular target, though, is the school board chair in Augusta, where Blanchard lives in a rental apartment and commutes on his e-bike to his job at an electrical parts warehouse. Interestingly, Blanchard never attends — or protests — at school board meetings in Waterville where his young child is enrolled.

Anyways, eager to monetize his hate, Blanchard came up with a scheme to get a bunch of “Demon Month” tee shirts printed and sell ‘em to his followers on the socials. Because, in the MAGA-verse, tee shirts are a big business. Apparently, the shirt had commercial potential, since people slide into his DMs on Facebook in order to order the shirt.

Blanchard was pumped, until he awoke on the morning of June 3rd and discovered his FB profile had been cancelled for violating community standards. He got the axe, he claimed, in connection to his anti-LGBTQ rants. Also deleted was all the contact info for the bigots who intended to buy his tee-shirts.

Ooof.

Foiled again!!

Blanchard also had a handful of 4x8 foot “Demon ” signs printed. So on the rainy Saturday, June 7, 2025 he borrowed a canopy and set up — guerrilla style — at Hallowell Pride, where he trolled all sorts of passersby, often live-streaming their responses to him being an asshole.

Driving Blanchard to Hallowell was Pavel Dokukin. You can read about this knucklehead’s arrest at an Augusta school board meeting here. Dokukin is a 39-year-old Russian immigrant and bug exterminator who came to Maine with his mom — a mail-order bride — back in 2002 when he was 16. His mother has long since divorced her green-card hubby, but not before striking a deal — according to court records — that ensured that her son would get her ex-schlub’s house in Augusta. (More on that house in a second.)

Anyways, during Hallowell Pride, the two jokers weren’t happy with the overall lack of response to their signage, so they started to wander the event, trying to bait Pride-goers into responding to a couple MAGA-hats spewing vile. And at some point, Dokukin engaged in a heated argument with a passersby, which resulted in the Russian getting “sucker-punched” twice. Right in the chompers. FAFO, chuddly.

Despite these chuds constantly filming every interaction with the public, they oddly didn’t have any footage of this alleged incident. That didn’t stop them from going to Hallowell police, though, acting like a couple of crybabies. Especially since the cops couldn’t help. After all, the two chuds had failed to capture the alleged assault on video. And, when asked if they could point out the alleged assailants, the morons couldn’t find ‘em.

Which meant, for the coppers, case closed.

The next morning, though, Blanchard finds a post (below) by a dude who took credit for slugging Dokukin. The smoking fist, so to speak. Blanchard calls 911 and tells ‘em about the post. Eventually, he was connected to the Hallowell cops and Blanchard whined like a petulant boy.

Thing is, the cop explained, Dokukin would have to be the one to file a complaint. And, according to Blanchard, Dokukin wanted to put the whole sordid incident behind him. After all, getting punched at a queer festival and crying about it isn’t good optics for a tough talking chud.

How do we know all this? Because Blanchard posts video of himself talking to the cops then making the 911 call the next morning. What a weirdo!

Instead of getting justice via the cops on that Sunday morning, they decided to trigger some libs. Perhaps even harvest some liberal tears. Remember Dokukin’s aforementioned house? It’s located on a busy section of State Street in Augusta.

The visible location inspired the dynamic duo to climb on the roof to mount a “Demon Month” sign, along with a Trump “If you come at a King, you best not miss” commemorative assassination flag.

Then Blanchard and his pal Dokukin, brandishing a rifle, posed for pics and videos. Which triggered a woman in the parking lot of an apartment building across the street. Which the chuds then filmed and posted to the socials, including Blanchard’s new Facebook account.

Which resulted in Blanchard having some lulz, until he lost that account too, due to his homophobic posts. So he started a new FB account — his third in a month — which lasted less than a week before getting zucked.

Anyways, back to the Hallowell Pride festival. Blanchard spotted the Equality Maine tent and feeling brave, he accosted the volunteer behind the table, who handled the situation well and remained calm while on the receiving end of his blather.

The “Pink Pony Club Youth Pride Party” that has Blanchard so upset is scheduled for tomorrow evening in Portland. He’s so mad about the party that he’s urging his fellow “Patriots” and “Follows [sic] of Christ” to show up prepared to “start flipping tables.”

While Blanchard keeps posting about the event on the socials, I gotta think he wouldn’t dare to make an appearance. Portland is too far to go on his e-bike and his buddy Dokukin doesn’t seem to share Blanchard’s fondness for teenagers. And neither wants to risk getting busted, considering both have already been arrested in the last six months.

Instead, he’ll probably stay home and burn another tiny Rainbow flag.

If Blanchard does show up, though, I hope organizers call the cops on him. After all, there’s ample evidence this guy is a real freak with some weird desires and willingness to spout violent talk. And teenagers these days have to contend with enough garbage already. They don’t need their fun night to be marred by an unpleasant interaction with a 35-year-old neckbearded weirdo.

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Been super busy on the land, with three new pigs and 30 broiler chickens showing up this month. Plus, I’ve been working non-stop, practically, on FAKE SHAMAN, my new true crime podcast that will be coming out very soon.

Been delayed, slightly, on releasing the podcast because the deeper I dig, the story gets more bizarre about the 37-year-old white woman from Connecticut who moved to Maine with dollar signs in her eyes and psychedelic mushrooms in her Coach bag. Not only that, I’ve been diving deep into shamanic history and practices. And the more I learn, the more I understand how fake the Fake Shaman actually is.

“This podcast is about, but not limited to, the discussions of angels, witches, con-artists, multi-dimensional evil entities, ayahuasca, spiritual bypass, psilocybin, stillbirth, business coaching, creepers, datura, Shipabo, black magick, glamour magick, histrionic personality disorder, DARVO, flower essences, kambo, the Galactic Federation, parasite cleanses, voodoo dolls, decalcification of the third eye, sananga, hape, astrology, gene keys, human design, singing bowls, the 21st dimension, lymphatic elixirs, hypnosis, multi-level marketing, Neurolinguistic Programming, Volkswagen, lactation cookies, Georgia and Maine.”

To be sure, this is weirdest story I’ve ever reported…

All that to say, I’ve got two half-pigs for sale. Critters will be harvested in November. DM for details, including how you can come visit your pig once this summer. Read below, The Crash Report from last spring explaining how the pigs work and play in the foothills of western Maine.

Thirteen of the last 15 years, Fourteen of the last 16 years, since moving to this magical spot in the western Maine foothills, I’ve been raising pigs. Usually three at a time, annually, because a trio of hogs can get a lot done, land-clearing-wise. That’s what they’re here to do: Root and dig. Roll, and wallow in the mud. As you can see in my short film from 2022 entitled Three Pigs and a Frog.

The pigs’ job is simple. Help us re-claim long-abandoned pastures and help create gardens and grazing meadows for our yet-to-be born dairy cow. Added bonus: freezers full of fine food.

Here’s how it usually goes. After I clear a section of ancient-field-turned-forest (by felling and bucking trees, then splitting and stacking ‘em for our firewood), the pigs get to work ripping up roots and chomp-chomping saplings.

With their powerful hog-snouts, they turn the soil, over and over and over again. For our friends, it is endless fun to endlessly dig for treats to eat.

Topsoil, rotting stumps and forgotten logs all are snack bars, full of grubs, ants, worms and other delicacies. Our pigs have a food-and-fun-filled life. Guaranteed.

Stumps also double as excellent back scratchers for our porcine colleagues.

Their tenure here on the land is short. In late April, they arrive as two-month old piglets, then work and wallow all summer.

When fall comes, they feast on acorns, corn stalks and other garden harvest leftovers. Meanwhile the goats, their comrades-in-the-eternal-struggle (labor vs. management), observe, knowing what the future portends.

And when the nights grow colder, in mid-autumn, they depart.

For us, the fateful trip is always on a Friday when we haul them to the local abattoir and they are quickly and efficiently dispatched. Then, via knife, saw and grinder, they are transformed into nourishment. And lots of it.

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For me, raising pigs is a win-win-win. I’m grateful to have worked with these critters and witnessed them utilize their tremendous porcine energy. And I’m overwhelmingly appreciative of the amazing morsels, including lots of sausage: breakfast, hot Italian and our limited-edition chorizo, seasoned with our own special secret spice blend.

Thanks to the pigs, our freezer is always full of pork. From fresh steaks (properly marinated, better than beef-steak on the grill) plus dozens of delicious inch-and-a-quarter chops and substantial succulent shoulders perfect for pulled pork. (An extra bonus is the multiple racks of delicious ribs.)

And I’m not even talking about the bacon.

Anyway, I’m not telling you this to make you hungry. (Or mad, if you are one of The Crash Report’s vegan readers or don’t eat flesh for other reasons.)

I’m telling you this because I have two half-pig CSAs available for purchase in 2025 in 2026. FYI: a 1/2 pig fills a standard-sized freezer or a compact chest freezer. Buyers are invited to a singular visit with their pig this summer. Reserve now to ensure your own ample supply of the world’s best pork. DM for price sheet and details.

I began researching the criminal Catholic priests of western Massachusetts in January 2017, following the death of disgraced Bishop Thomas Dupre, who had escaped prosecution for raping at least two young boys before he’d become Bishop. In 2004, that bastard fled the Bishop’s Mansion in Springfield (pictured above) in the middle of the night, just before he was going to be exposed in the local media as a serial rapist of children. His story became Episodes 9 and 10 of Unholy Fathers.

In the dead Bishop’s obituary, I had read mention of the Bishop’s handling of allegations against a serial rapist priest I knew as a young teen. After tons of research, the man I’ve called “Father X” and his never-before-told story became the subject of Episodes 5 and 6.

I tracked this priest down in Dec. 2017 — living in bedbug-infested subsidized housing in a New England city — then door-knocked and secretly recorded our three-hour conversation while feeding him 100 proof bourbon to get him to confess his sins and crimes. Father X also revealed his tragic family history, explaining how over a dozen children (including he, his sisters, plus the priest’s nieces and nephews) had all been sexually abused by the family’s 7-foot patriarch, Father X’s father. My meeting with X became Episodes 6 and 7.

The most notorious of all the priests of Springfield, without a doubt, was Father Richard Lavigne, who murdered 13-year-old Danny Croteau in 1972. And was never punished for his crime.

That’s why Unholy Fathers has 8 episodes devoted to the evil clergyman. Episodes 1 2 and 3 tell the story of Danny’s murder and the diocesan coverup, plus multiple accounts of sick abuse by other victims of Lavigne. Those episodes clearly show how the Diocese of Springfield routinely transferred known pedophiles like Lavigne to unknowing parishes who welcomed the bad priests with open arms. And how church policy allowed Lavigne to continue to molest, assault and rape altar boys, until his arrest in 1991.

In Episode 11, I knocked on Lavigne’s door for an interview in 2019. And to my surprise, the then-78-year-old ex-priest invited me inside his house for an almost hour-long conversation for the ONLY media interview the disgraced priest ever gave.

In Episode 12, we hear from my friend Cat, Danny Croteau’s youngest sister, who describes how her brother’s murder destroyed her family. Then, in Episode 13, we visit the murder scene, under a bridge in Chicopee, Massachusetts, with flowers and ribbon to wrap around a tree in Danny’s memory.

Then, in the month after Lavigne’s death from Covid in May of 2021, we returned to the bastard’s evil tale, with two episodes: Episode 14 to discuss his actual demise and how the priest got away with murder with my colleague and fellow Lavigne expert, Hell’s Acres. And in Episode 15, we hear from the long-suffering wife of one of Lavigne’s victims, a 60-year-old computer programmer with a serious drinking problem and a life ruined by his childhood trauma.

In the final two episodes of Unholy Fathers, published this month, we focus on Father Charles Sullivan and his multiple sexual assaults of a 12-year-old girl in 1981. Sullivan, who I knew very well when I was an altar boy, was also the subject of Episode 4 of Unholy Fathers, during which the untold stories of the priest’s drunken mishaps are exposed.

Episode 4 includes accounts of the priest angrily leaving me in the middle of a lake after multiple failed attempts to drunkenly try teaching an 11-year-old Crash how to water ski. The episode also re-tells his drunken fundraising failures, a drunk driving accident and arrest (when he was busted with a loaded shotgun in front seat of his car and a plan to shoot the Bishop,) and his time squatting in a church rectory, until he left after being threatened by the church with criminal charges.

More insidious, though, were the multiple sexual assaults against my pal “Cee” whose story is told in Episodes 16 and 17.

And it is with Cee’s sad story that Unholy Fathers the podcast comes to an end. In the nine years since I started reporting on this issue, I’ve discovered so many disturbing patterns and sordid details about the Catholic church. From secret documents to never-before-revealed cases against priests, it’s clear that powerful institutions aren’t subject to the same laws — and scrutiny — of mere mortals. And to me, that’s sickening.

It’s also became painfully apparent that the priests who abused children were serial offenders. And while the Catholic church likes to claim (via their lists of bad priests) that Father So-and-So only had one credible allegation made against him, the reality is that if a priest molested one kid, in all likelihood, he assaulted many more. The problem is, understandably, the victims of clergy sexual abuse rarely come forward.

Also during this time, I’ve delved deep into the details and realities of the constant trials and tribulations suffered by victims of priests, as well as their families. And while devastatingly sad, those investigations and conversations have showed me that humans have the ability to be strong and resilient. Especially if they’re able to find counseling for their trauma.

While Unholy Fathers the podcast is complete, I’m starting work on the book version of this saga, which will include even more sinister details and sad stories about the evil priests of Springfield, Massachusetts. Unholy Fathers the book spans the 50 years from the murder of Danny Croteau to the death of his killer, and recounts all sorts of priestly sins and crimes in between. Plus it chronicles my life as an Irish Catholic kid, serving as an altar boy for multiple bad Springfield priests. Not sure when the book will be published, but subscribers to The Crash Report will be among the first to know.

Until then, this finale will be the final word. And below is a human-proofed transcript of Episode 17 of Unholy Fathers that demonstrates how re-traumatizing it can be for victims to come forward with allegations against priests. Especially since the church investigative process is slow-moving.

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Transcript: She Was Haunted by a Bloody Priest, Part 2

When we left off with my friend Cee’s story in Part 1, we heard how after decades of stress and anxiety caused by the four sexual assaults committed by Father Charles Sullivan — in 1981 — she decided to seek justice, and she retained the services of a law firm to deal with the Catholic Diocese of Springfield, Massachusetts. If you haven’t listened (or read) to Part One, I recommend you do before you listen to the rest of this episode.

At the end of Part 1, it was September 2, 2020 and Cee had just emailed me for the first time:

“I was a student of Saint Matthew’s. I have contacted a lawyer about several issues involving myself and Father Sullivan. The lawyer is having issues finding information about Father Sullivan’s time at the school. I am hoping, if at all possible, you might be able to help.”

A couple of days later, we spoke for the first time, the first of many calls and the start of a two year journey to right the wrongs she experienced at the hands of the “Angry Drunkard Priest.” That’s what I call Father Charles Sullivan, who was the subject of episode four of Unholy Fathers.

Aside from her initial interview with the law firm, I was the first person she’d told what happened at the hands of the priest. During our recent conversation recorded last month, I asked her what it had been like to reveal such horrible details to a stranger like me. After all, she’d kept this secret to herself for decades.

Cee:

It was anxiety provoking, but it was also kind of liberating because I felt like even though I was telling people who were strangers, I thought they were going to help me with some end to this or resolution to this. I also felt like having you on my side was a way to, you know, validate everything I felt. I felt like I didn’t have to prove that he was bad, because somebody else knew he was bad. But then there were, you know, there were definitely times where I’d have to keep replaying what I said or what I thought I said, or what I thought I remembered. That’s time consuming. It’s like being at the dentist. When it’s over, you’re exhausted, because your brain is going, going, going, and you desperately want it to not be going.

Crash:

After Cee shared the details about Sullivan, I knew I could help. In my trove of “top-secret” documents that I harvested from a giant lawsuit between the Diocese of Springfield and their insurance companies, I have multiple damning pieces concerning Sullivan specifically. Including a copy of a letter from the now-dead priest asking the bishop to destroy earlier letters written by Sullivan. This letter and other documents, plus a couple photos of Father Sullivan, can be found in the show notes for this episode at crashbarry.com. It’s not a long letter, so I’ll read the whole thing now.

“Dear Bishop Dupre,

In response to your letter of December 26, 2002, concerning the copies of the letters to Attorney John J. Egan and Reverend Kevin McDonough, please destroy those letters. I merely sent them to you as a courtesy to let you know I followed through on our prior phone conversations. I now consider that matter closed.

I do hope you enjoy the holidays and were able to get some rest from your busy schedule. I spent Christmas Day with Dick long and his large extended family.

With kindest personal regards, I remain respectfully yours in Christ, Reverend Charles J. Sullivan.”

Crash:

This letter is just more proof of the secrecy practiced by the church, especially in connection to the child sexual abuse scandal. Also, this letter from Sullivan was addressed to Bishop Thomas Dupre, the child raping bishop that was the subject of Episodes 9 and 10 of Unholy Fathers called “The Lying, Depraved Bishop, Parts one and two.”

Dupre fled the Diocese of Springfield — under the cover of darkness — in February 2004, just before it was revealed that he’d raped at least two young men before becoming bishop. And Dupre was never prosecuted for his crimes or punished for the decades he spent orchestrating cover ups for other pedophile priests of Springfield. Dupre died in December of 2016, and it was his death that led me to start investigating the bad priest of Springfield.

One more thing about this letter from Father Sullivan, which you can read for yourself at crashbarry.com. The now-dead priest had asked for letters, plural, to be destroyed. Those letters didn’t end up in the court files, which meant the Bishop destroyed them, but he neglected to destroy the letter asking for the other letters to be destroyed.

All that to say, when the diocese heard from Cee’s lawyers, they already knew Sullivan had a history of assaulting kids. And yet it still took them more than two years to complete the investigation.

A quick aside: I’ve discussed the lawsuit between the insurance companies and the bishop a couple times during Unholy Fathers. That’s the lawsuit that’s been the source of lots of the evidence concerning the Catholic Church’s secret files regarding sexual abuse of minors.

In short, the Diocese of Springfield had argued that their insurance company should have to pay the tens of millions of dollars in settlements made with the victims of the criminal clerics from Springfield. The insurance companies countered and won with the argument that the diocese insurance did not include child molester coverage.

Anyways, that case file had several thousand pages and many, many boxes, which back in 2019, I went over with a fine tooth comb and a camera. Most of the paperwork was routine court filings and other judicial mumbo jumbo. However, there were several pieces of paper concerning Father Sullivan that would come in handy with Cee’s case.

In addition to Sullivan’s letter asking the Bishop to destroy previous correspondence, I’ve also found the priest’s name in several other pieces of court evidence, including a top-secret letter from a Springfield bishop to then Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger, who went on to become known as Pope Benedict XVI.

Sullivan’s name was also on other in-house diocesan records for bad priests. So church officials knew he was a bad dude, and yet it still took them more than two years to complete the investigation.

Soon after our initial phone call, I shared these smoking gun documents with Cee’s legal team. Then I had a couple hour conversation with her attorney, detailing the entire Sullivan narrative and contextualizing Cee’s situation. Then we waited. And waited and waited.

Cee:

The process was very slow.

Crash:

She’s being polite. The investigation moved at the pace of a dead snail, but life went on. January 2020 was momentous for Cee for multiple reasons. On January twentieth, she had an intake meeting via Zoom with a representative of the Diocese of Springfield. She’d been nervous the whole week before. Luckily, in my files, I had other diocesan intake forms that I had found in court records, and that enabled me to brief Cee on exactly what the diocese was going to ask her.

And Cee did a great job during the intake interview. She made it all the way through the call, which was tough enough, although telling the bloody shirt story was pretty damn triggering, especially considering the intake person was male.

I gotta say, it’s bullshit that the diocese doesn’t have an intake female to make it easier on the women who make allegations. This is just one of the many ways that I witnessed how the church treats female victims of clergy abuse in ways worse than male victims. And the church treats male victims horribly.

January was also a big month because Cee decided to tell her husband her darkest secret, and she was dreading it. In order to soften the blow of the news, she told me in an email written that morning, that she was cooking a big dinner, featuring “fresh pasta with homemade three meat sauce, salad, Italian star bread, pecan pie bars with a side of yellow bundt cake with chocolate frosting and a Miller High Life. Then I will tell him,” she wrote. “I am feeling positive.”

Even now, years later, just thinking about this emotion-filled night is tough. For me. It was a very stressful night, even at my house two hundred and fifty miles away. I was so aware and thinking of both of their perspectives. She with her big secret and he about to learn his beloved’s sad story that she’d kept from him for decades.

The following morning she emailed again.

“Last night was very rough for both of us. Yes, I feel some relief. But now, instead of me suffering alone, we’re both suffering. He was very, very quiet this morning. Hopefully when I get home tonight, it will be more normal between us. But just in case, I planned another favorite dinner. Breaded pork chops.”

In our phone call last month, five years after the big reveal, it’s clear that Cee is still troubled by having to explain to her husband that she’d been assaulted by a priest, and that she kept it from her soulmate for so long.

Cee:

Like all good conversations, it starts out with, “I have something to tell you that you don’t know.” I mean, he immediately thought it had something to do with the kids. It was surreal. And his reaction, you know, I shouldn’t have been surprised because there’s anger and sadness and anger and sadness and anger and sadness and anger and anger and anger and sadness.

I think that’s the worst part about anxiety is that it’s in your head, but it comes out. I was physically ill for a couple of days after that, even though it was over.

And even though he told me he loved me no matter what, I mean, again, you say the right thing, but his mind was working just as hard as mine was in the days and the weeks and months after that. You know, not to the same degree and in a completely different way. But it still was, because you can’t help thinking that part of your life wasn’t the truth. It’s hard to describe that.

Crash:

Even though telling her husband the secret offered her some stress relief, she didn’t get her husband involved in the intricacies of the slow moving investigation by the diocese, and her husband wasn’t aware of the multiple times she had to tell and retell the sordid details to various church employees.

Cee:

I made sure that I was home by myself, and I told you before, part of the reason why this happened when it did is I had nobody at home. I had no children at home. My husband was still working, so he wasn’t at home all the time. So I picked a time when I knew I was going to be by myself, and I didn’t have to deal with that. Sometimes I would tell him after the fact because it was what was safest for me. You know, I did what was right for me at that time, and I really wasn’t considering that he needed to know any of that.

Crash:

Here’s a timeline. Cee initially retained,the lawyer of August of 2020 and emailed me in September 2020. It wasn’t until January of 2021 that the diocese interviewed her for the first time.

The whole thing wasn’t settled until December 2022, over two years from the start. The entire process was burdened with excuses.

According to the bishop’s rules, the case had to be presented to the Hampden County DA before the church could even begin their independent investigation. That didn’t make sense to me, especially considering that Sullivan had been dead for five years at this point. Was the DA going to do dig up the drunkard priest’s grave to ask questions of a corpse?

The slowness was especially infuriating because at the same time, my brave friend was going through this drawn out re-triggering torture. The Springfield Diocese had embarked on a PR campaign to convince locals that the church was taking action in dealing with the abuse scandal.

One spring day in 2021, while picking up her mother’s mail, she found a form letter from the Bishop sent to all Western Massachusetts Catholics, letting them know that the diocese was serious about helping the victims of priestly sexual abuse.

Meanwhile, around the same time, Cee’s lawyer warned her not to expect too much from the diocese if she ended up having to sue the church because Massachusetts law protects so-called charitable institutions with what’s called a “charitable immunity cap.”

The Massachusetts law passed as emergency legislation in nineteen seventy one to protect non-profit hospitals from lawsuits. That law says that the financial liability of charitable organizations like the Catholic Church is limited to twenty thousand dollars for, and I quote, any cause of action stemming from an act committed in the course of an activity done to directly accomplish the charitable purpose of the corporation. Which is bullshit, of course. Why does state law protect the diocese from civil lawsuits stemming from criminal acts committed by the church’s priestly representatives? Currently, there are efforts to address this issue legislatively, but that didn’t help Cee in using the threat of a lawsuit against the diocese. The church knew the liability cap protected them from huge payouts.

A brief aside about Cee’s legal representation: they weren’t very aggressive, and that’s putting it mildly. Part of the problem was that the law firm was located in Maryland. That’s because, as mentioned in part one, Cee answered an online ad asking “Have you been sexually assaulted by a Catholic priest?”

Secondly, despite knowing tons of lawyers in Western Mass, she didn’t want a local firm because she did not want co-workers, friends, the general public and especially her family to know about her trauma. I think it was unfortunate that she had to retain an out of state law firm, because I believe a Western Mass attorney probably could have gotten a faster resolution due to institutional knowledge and knowing the history of local previous settlements.

That said, I totally understand Cee’s desire to protect her mom and her husband and her kids from the ordeal.

While the early winter of 2021 was tough for Cee, the spring and summer were even worse. Not only was she anxiously awaiting some sort of response from the bishop, her beloved mother — who’d been working down in Florida on a short term job — had a heart attack, then a stroke. So she was back and forth to take care of her and figure out a way to get her mom home. By August 2021, she was exhausted from everything, especially after the thirty hour ambulance ride with her mom from Florida back to Massachusetts.

Around the same time, she had a couple more interviews with diocesan investigators, and during our phone calls, I could hear the angst in her voice further increased each and every time she had contact with any of the church representatives. Recalling what had happened and retelling the impact of the priest’s actions on her life was taking its toll.

Also bothersome were some of the techniques used by the church investigators, such as testing Cee with class photos from the seventh and eighth grade and asking her to identify each classmate by name. My pal passed with flying colors, of course, but the whole ordeal was taking a toll and that stress manifested both physically and mentally. She came down with a painful case of shingles and began to experience hair loss. Plus she was besought with sadness, anger, anxiety and fear. She was worried about unknowns like how deep would church investigators look into her personal life? Because except for her husband and me, no one knew she was taking on the diocese.

The church didn’t interview me until mid-December twenty twenty one. That’s a year after she originally contacted them. My conversation with the investigators went well. It became quickly apparent that I knew more about Father Sullivan than they did, so I shared all I knew about the priest’s history. Also, it seemed obvious that they believed Cee’s story, but I knew they were just diocesan underlings. It was up to the bishop to make the final decision.

Cee:

I think the worst of it was not the two women so much. I mean, that was taxing. But the little investigator guy that they sent that I had to talk to, that was hard because I felt like he was condescending.

Crash:

On February 3, 2022, Cee received notification that the investigation was complete and had been forwarded to the Springfield Church’s Bad Priest Review Board on February 9th. The review board made a recommendation and then sent the investigative report to the Bishop’s office.

On February 26, 2022, eighteen months after initially filing a complaint, the news came via fax. That’s right, via fax. In 2022. And the church announced that the bishop found Cee’s allegations against Father Sullivan to be credible.

While the fax was three pages long, the bishop’s apology was only one page. I’ve put a redacted copy of the fax over in the show notes at crashbarry.com, but I’m going to read part of it here.

“We can never erase the harm that was done to you. However, acknowledging your allegation to be credible brings the truth of your horrific experience into the light. As a bishop and representative of the church, please accept my apology for what happened to you. I would very much welcome an opportunity to meet or speak with you and to learn if there’s anything I can do to support you in your healing process.”

Needless to say, Cee had zero interest in meeting with the Bishop.

Then, on March 2, 2022, the diocese announced publicly that the record for Charles Sullivan was updated to include that there was more than one credible allegation of sexual abuse of a minor. Which the local media dutifully repeated as if the Bishop was taking the issue seriously. That’s it. No other details about the abuse or the impact it had on Cee were ever released. And soon the news would be forgotten by almost everyone except for Cee and her husband and me.

Then, in mid-March, the diocese asked Cee for a victim’s impact statement that came as a surprise. She hadn’t known she was going to have to revisit the whole sordid tale again. Hadn’t her multiple retellings of the assault been enough? And writing the victim’s impact statement was even more exhausting and more stressful.

In emails at the time, she lamented the whole ordeal. For a year and a half, she felt like she was the one under investigation. And now, once again, she was being forced to justify and explain her pain. But this time in writing. Putting the words of the abuse to paper was excruciating. Being forced yet again to share the trauma experienced at the hands of Sullivan was debilitating. But ever the trooper, by the end of March, my friend submitted her statement to the Bishop. Then waited for the next step and the slow, slow process.

Almost four months passed before she heard back from the diocese, on July 22. Her lawyer told Cee that a financial settlement was being offered by the Bishop. The amount: ten thousand dollars.

Cee:

I know I mentioned this to you before, I really did not want to be treated as if I was some kind of fender bender. I believe that is what happened.

Crash:

The church, of course, knew that state law protected them from any judicial judgment over twenty thousand dollars. That’s the reason for the lowball offer. For 10K, they’d get off cheap, no extra legal fees and not having to even pay the capped limit.

Thing is, Cee is a strong woman. Sensitive and strong and righteous. She wasn’t going to settle for 10K. It’s not like Sullivan was involved in a slight automobile accident. A grown man, a representative of the church, had sexually assaulted a twelve year old four times. The bishop’s offer, both she and I agreed, was a frigging joke. So she told her lawyer to tell the Bishop’s lawyer no deal. And that she wanted eighty thousand dollars. After all, the assaults haunted her for decades. Not to mention, she had a bloody reminder every month until menopause, and the church’s investigation reopened old wounds and further traumatized her.

Cee:

There were a few times during that negotiation process where I was reduced to tears, and I was furious, and I had said, ‘maybe I should just write an article to the newspaper telling them everything about what they’re doing.’ And the lawyer said, ‘well, you can do that if you want to, but I don’t know that it will help.’

I mean, in the end, they were very matter of fact and far more than they had been in the beginning when I was telling them everything that happened. And I guess that’s their job. And in my detached way, I have to let go of that.

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Crash:

In December, 2022, the church came back with a counteroffer of forty thousand dollars to avoid being publicly outed in the media and to avoid the civil lawsuit. Just for context, 40K is way below the settlements often offered to male victims of clergy sexual abuse.

In February 2026, for instance, a new Jersey diocese agreed to pay one hundred and eighty million dollars to settle with three hundred victims of credibly accused priests. For an average of six hundred thousand dollars to each victim. In December 2025, the Diocese of New York started selling assets in order to come up with a three hundred million dollars to settle with the thirteen hundred priestly victims. That came to about two hundred and thirty thousand dollars each. Or the biggest recent settlement in Los Angeles, where in 2024, the church agreed to pay $880 million dollars to 1,353 victims. That’s about six hundred and fifty thousand dollars each.

Less legal fees, of course.

That’s almost a billion and a half dollars via three settlements. And that’s just since 2024. Add all the prior Catholic Church settlements, it’s way over the five billion dollars mark. Maybe even getting close to six billion bucks.

A real number will never be known because of all the settlements we’ll never hear about, due to the secretive nature of the church.

I’m going to say that again. The Catholic Church has paid over five billion dollars to victims of their so-called holy men.

But the Springfield bishop only offered forty thousand dollars to Cee. Which, by my estimates, based upon the settlements I’m familiar with, that’s less than a third of the average Springfield payout. And a mere eight percent of the largest settlement.

By this point, though, Cee was exhausted and had zero energy left to continue the fight with the church. So she agreed to the forty grand.

Cee:

The lawyer had a bigger split. And I said, ‘well, I think I’m entitled to thirty thousand. And he said, yes, okay, that’s fine. So they took whatever they were taking and I got twenty nine, not thirty, because there were some other expense in there. I don’t know, some other bullshit. I think we got that money like fourteen days before Christmas.

Crash:

After a couple of years of painful interactions with the Diocese of Springfield, it was finally over. Almost.

Cee:

I can remember taking that check to the bank and depositing it. I sat in the parking lot for a good twenty minutes and I cried. And then I drove home. I cried all the way home, which is not far, in fairness. And we waited two or three days for the money to be in there.

And then I made a donation. I made two, actually. I donated money to the battered women’s shelter for my mother. So there was a house at the time it was called Grey House, and they took in women and children. So I sent them some money. And I donated money to the Springfield Rescue Mission because I had been there several times. You know, we’d had family parties. There’s food left over. You know, you’d drive it down there and you bring the food and you drop it off. At the time I felt like feeding the poor was as close as I wanted to get to charity work. I wasn’t ready to face anybody who’d been in a similar situation as I was.

Crash:

As for the remainder of the settlement… she decided to split it between her two daughters.

Cee:

I withdrew money and I put it in envelopes for the kids at Christmas time. They had no idea why. I just did it because. Because I did. It took about twenty minutes to spend that money. Well, I shouldn’t say that. Maybe it took an hour for me to say, this is going here. This is going there, this is going here, this is going here. And then it was done. It was effortless. That was the end of that. And like I said, we don’t really talk about that so much.

Crash:

Obviously for Cee, it wasn’t about the money. It was about holding the church accountable for the actions of one of their bad men.

Cee:

I think the lesson that I would say that I learned is something that I think I learned a long time ago, which is nothing and no one is completely what they seem. And it is our job to sort out, no matter who you are or where you come from, who you let have rule over your life and your children. Because I know it’s a broad stroke, but in this day and age, it’s even more so, I think true because people online, people talking to you about all kinds of things. They’re not as together as they seem, which is really who the church is.

They seek, or sought out to be, these great redeemers, great healers, great miracle workers, doing the acts of someone who was better than them, asking you to be better tomorrow than you were today. But they’re just people. They’re not God. So anybody that you come in contact with, it’s your job to figure out who they are, where they come from, before you trust them completely or trust them with your kids completely. And even then, you can still be wrong.

Crash:

Would you call yourself religious still?

Cee:

Yes, I guess I would call myself religious in the sense that I pray to God. I don’t worship or idolize anyone in religious life, because I’ve come to realize that they’re just men and women, and while they may do good things, they may come from a place where they are broken, somewhere that you can’t see.

You know, it’s so hard because I think it makes me less likely to have close relationships because I’m mistrusting of people. I’ve lived my whole life working in corrections, pretty much from the time I was eighteen years old until now, which makes me mistrust people. Even within my own family. I mean, my mother was betrayed by someone in her own family.

I’m very careful about a lot of things, and I think it stops you from being able to do good things in the world because you’re afraid of doing good things for people who have ended up being bad. And that is part of a lesson too, because sometimes you have to do things just for the sake of doing them, not because you think that you’re doing it for good people or bad people. You do them because it’s the right thing to do.

I don’t know that I can recount everything as a lesson, but it has shaped me. It one hundred percent has shaped me. If that helped in that explanation, maybe it does not. Maybe I haven’t even answered the question.

Crash:

So what’s your relationship with Saint Anthony?

Cee:

My grandmother was a great believer in Saint Anthony. My grandmother did not have an easy life. She had five children that challenged her in multiple ways. She always felt that when she prayed to Saint Anthony, she was answered. I, like her, praise Saint Anthony often and I do at times feel like I have been answered. Um, sometimes. Not right away, sometimes not in the way I would want. But I do feel a closeness and a comfort in praying to someone who is the finder of lost things. Not so much even like looking for your lost pair of scissors. But when things seem lost, he has a way of putting them back together.

I grapple with religion. I mean, I’m not one hundred percent saying that I have faith all the time, I don’t. My faith for sure has been tested and probably will be continued to be tested till the day I die. I do feel as though when I’m praying to Saint Anthony, I feel as though I take a lot of comfort in it.

Crash:

And that’s good because I want Cee to find comfort wherever she can find it, even if it requires praying to a Catholic saint.

Crash to Cee:

You know, we’ve been talking for three hours and forty minutes. Is there anything that I’ve missed that you want to bring up?

Cee:

Just to tell you how therapeutic this has been for me. Just knowing that you are a phone call away in support of me. And it has been tremendous. Whether you realize it or not, it is tremendous just to know that I have that. I can’t tell you how comforting and healing that has been for me.

Crash:

Oh, well, you’re making me cry. So enough of that, alright? I really, really appreciate you trusting me enough to tell me the story so well. Keep me abreast of what’s going on, okay? Especially in terms of your mom, of course.

Cee:

Please let me know if there’s anything else I can do.

Crash:

I’ll let you know. All right, pal, I’m sending you hugs right now. Big hugs here digitally.

Cee:

All right, my darling.

Crash:

Bye bye.

Crash:

I’ve included that last little bit of tape for context. Not to brag about how I assisted Cee, because I should be thanking her, for allowing me to be of service and giving me the opportunity to help her find some semblance of justice and relief. Because I gotta say, in this, the finale of Unholy Fathers, her appreciation felt good for a little bit.

I’ve been in this fight to tell the story of the victims of the bad priest for a while. I started to research this project in January 2017. And while I’ve taken a couple of short breaks from the topic, the plight of the many victims of priestly abuse is almost always on my mind. Which means, despite what Cee suffered through for decades and the pittance of a financial settlement, I view her story as a rare victory in this saga. A saga that’s filled with sadness and sorrow. Because Cee is a brave woman and strong, who took on one of the most powerful institutions in the world and didn’t back down. And her words were heard by those in command. And to me, that is quite an achievement.

In the last episode we mentioned the young fella that almost got hit by the drunk driving Father Sullivan. I’m going to call him “J.” I was able to track him down and we had a very good phone call. Not only did he confirm Cee’s account of the incident, he went on to explain that there had actually been two occasions when Father Sullivan almost hit J. on his bike, once in downtown Indian Orchard, right near the church, and the second time in the schoolyard, which is the incident that Cee was referring to in episode one.

J. and I also reminisced about our respective careers as altar boys at Saint Matthews, serving mass with Father Sullivan and the priest’s propensity for drinking altar wine straight with just the tiniest drop of holy water.

Gotta say, it was nice catching up with J., who I knew back when we were kids. And to learn what he’s currently doing, because the fellow works as a brain surgeon at a major medical center and is a professor of surgery at a training hospital in a Mid-Atlantic state.

That’s after a long and distinguished career as a naval officer serving as a neurosurgeon during multiple wartime deployments to combat zones, and performing countless surgeries that often saved lives and repaired the ravages of war, all while conducting research on traumatic brain injuries. Because, as he explained to me, you can’t serve in the military as a doctor in this era and not be concerned about traumatic brain injuries.”

J. is dismissive of his record, though, calling himself a mere “brain plumber” who now spends his days in the operating room dealing with blood vessel problems in the head and procedures connected to aneurysms and strokes. And he’s an expert in arteriovenous malformation surgery, which is basically one of the most complicated types of brain fixing surgery there is.

Gotta say, I’m pretty damn proud of this silent hero from Indian Orchard, who overcame many personal hurdles and ended up saving lives and brains.

Also, I can’t help but ponder an alternate reality where Father Sullivan had drunkenly crashed into the twelve year old version of J. and killing or maiming him and how life would be different for so many. Including the unknown numbers of soldiers and sailors saved by his steady hands.

I’m tempted to end Unholy Fathers on that positive sentiment, but my forever Irish nihilist brain won’t let me. Because J.’s survival and thriving life also reminds me of the countless victims of the criminal priests of Springfield, Massachusetts, and beyond.

So many young lives were destroyed by these evil bastards, most of whom never faced any sort of accountability for their sinful acts and crimes.

What great things would those vulnerable and damaged souls have accomplished? What love would they have found? What goals achieved? What hope would they have held if not shattered by the abuse of an unholy father? Multiply that Springfield number by thousands, due to the sheer multitudes of crimes committed against children worldwide by pastors and priests, alleged holy folk of all denominations and creeds. Because this spiritual and sexual abuse obviously is not just limited to the Catholic Church.

And while some wounded by these sinful predators may have received help and were able to live some semblance of a fruitful life, the unfortunate majority never found relief or solace. Plagued for life with heartache caused by the sins of perverted so-called holy men who use their position and perceived power to destroy the psyches of so many.

This is the end of the Unholy Fathers podcast. I appreciate you listening to these terrible tales of abuse and crimes. This has not been an easy topic to absorb. So my sincere thanks to you, dear listener, for tuning in and for rating and reviewing wherever you get your podcasts. I have multiple other projects in the works, including a book version of Unholy Fathers.

For listeners of true crime podcasts, make sure you’re subscribed, because coming soon is my new investigation called Fake Shaman, that tells the true tale of a thirty-seven-year old white woman from Connecticut claiming to be an indigenously trained shaman who moved to Maine with dollar signs in her eyes and psychedelic mushrooms in her coach bag. Fake Shaman details the implosion of her shamanic mentorship due to a creepy sex magic ritual that went wrong, targeting vulnerable people in Maine and beyond. Fake Shaman is also a how-to primer in detecting fraudsters and charlatans, so please subscribe wherever you get your podcasts.

In closing, if you or someone you care about was abused by a clergy member, please try to get a good lawyer and a good therapist in order to attempt to find closure and possible healing from the trauma experienced. And for those injured folks, I’m sending you positive vibes right now through the sound waves of this podcast and those positive vibes, plus your inner strength that I know you have might be just enough to help find some bit of peace in these trying times. Even if just for a moment. Long enough for you to catch your breath and reset your brain. Then persevere onwards.

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Many thanks to the bride (pictured above) who has graciously allowed me use of this photo from her wedding in the early 1980s at St. Matthew’s Church in the Indian Orchard neighborhood of Springfield, Mass. Pictured, facing the camera (from left) is 13-year-old me, Father Charles Sullivan and my childhood pal Keith. This image was taken within a couple weeks of some of the incidents featured in the second-to-last episode of Unholy Fathers, which details a series of crimes against a young girl by the Roman Catholic priest, Charles Sullivan, in the photo above.

Also, the crucifixion mural on the wall, “high above the altar” is mentioned in this episode.

As you can hear in Episode 16, (link below) we delve deep into the vulnerable and disturbing experiences of a woman I’m calling “Cee.” We hear, in her own words, what happened to her when she was targeted and assaulted by a priest while in the seventh grade at St. Matthew’s School. And we also learn how the trauma lingered and manifested in her life for decades after the incidents.

In Episode 17 (coming out next week) you’ll hear how Cee and I became pals and how, together, we teamed up and were able to get Cee long-delayed justice AND a financial settlement PLUS an apology from the Bishop of the Diocese of Springfield. All due to the sick actions of the now-dead Charles Sullivan, whom I profiled in episode four of Unholy Fathers.

For the Crash Report readers who aren’t into listening to podcasts, I’ve included a complete transcript below — proofread by humans — of the entire episode, which is not suitable for kids or sensitive adults.

Also, this episode includes references to Sister Ruth O’Connor, pictured here (L) with Father Charles Sullivan, presenting me with my 8th grade diploma in 1982.

First to set this horrible scene. We go back in time to 1981 to when Cee was a seventh grader at St. Matthew’s School in the Indian Orchard neighborhood of Springfield, Massachusetts. At the time, I was in the eighth grade at St. Matthew’s, and while I wasn’t friends with Cee, I was aware of her. Relatively speaking, she was the new girl, this being only her second year at the school.

[[transcript of Unholy Fathers, Episode 16 “She was Haunted by a Bloody Priest.”

Cee:

I’m in class. I’m told by another student that I’m bleeding onto my skirt. I get up. I realize that that is what’s happening. I asked to go to the bathroom. I realized I have nothing to help myself with, so I think I go directly to the office. Sister Ruth is there, and she does say that she’s going to give me a pad in an envelope. And she said, you know, just go wait in that room and I’m going to look around to see if I can find a skirt. But she did hand me the envelope with the pad in it.

So I’m in the room and the door is open, and I don’t really want to sit down, because I don’t want to get anything on any of the chairs that are in that room. And the next thing I know, he’s in the room, and he’s close, he’s I mean, it’s only a few steps from the door to where I’m standing, but there’s not a ton of room because there’s things behind me. So he shuts the door, and he’s got me by the shoulders. Yet again.

He’s asking me if I’m as big of a slut as my friend. He’s got me up against the wall. He’s got his knee in my crotch, and his knee is pinching the skin of my leg up to that wall. I mean, it hurt. I couldn’t imagine what other kind of hurt was going to happen, but he’s talking at me between his teeth, but he’s still managing to sweat and spit and have a red face and reek of limes and booze of some sort, but the sweat smell is far more disturbing than even the alcohol on his breath. But his hand reaches down in between my legs, and he’s squeezing in between my legs, and then he realizes that his hand is wet.

He sees it and is continuing to say that hopefully I’m not as big of a slut as my friend is and he wipes his hand down the front of my shirt, which is a thin cotton round neck shirt, like a blouse. So now the front of my shirt is streaked. I mean, you could not not notice that. I don’t know if he hears something or he hears people talking. I’m not really quite sure what makes him turn his head, but he turns his head and he lets go of me. He leaves the room, and I leave the room.

I go directly to the bathroom, because now not only is my skirt covered in a big circle of blood, but now my shirt, my thin shirt, has got blood down the front. And I’m pretty sure that Sister Mona comes in and she’s asking me what I’m doing, and I said I got blood on my shirt. She doesn’t ask me, why do I have a bloody shirt, no. She doesn’t say any of that, and I’m furiously trying to scrub it out, although now my shirt is “see through,” which is even more horrifying to a seventh grade girl, really, than anything else. So I’m using those stupid brown paper towels to try to dry it. It comes out, but like I said, My shirt has got some really see through streaks in it. So I’m crying. I go back to class. It would seem to me that I would have tied something around my waist, either my navy blue sweater, or put my coat on. I would have done something to hide myself from what was going on. I don’t know how long I was in the bathroom, but no one ever questioned how long I was gone.

Crash Barry:

The image of the priest rubbing the 12-year-old girl between the legs, then rubbing her menstrual blood on her Catholic school girl blouse is horrifying. And the worst of the four instances of Father Charles Sullivan grabbing Cee. All the incidents, though, were traumatizing, and all of them had a lasting impact that has stained her life for over 45 years.

Cee:

I’m sure people noticed, but whomever pointed out to me that I had the blood on my skirt probably told other people my shirt smelled bad. I smelled bad, I felt bad, I felt ill. I felt ill and stunned and embarrassed for so many reasons, on so many levels, there was no way I was bringing this up to anybody. I just wanted it to go away. I just wanted the whole incident to go away. And weirdly, oddly enough, you know, the blood on your skirt thing happened to other people, I was so impervious to even mentioning it to other people that I was like the last person in that room probably to have gotten their period, because everybody was older than me in that room. I’m pretty sure I was 12 and a half, and so I was on the older end of most of those people who had gotten it when they were 12.

Crash Barry:

Her troubles with the priest, however, had started a couple months before the bloody incident. One afternoon, Cee was part of a group of seventh graders gathered around two classmates who had just been riding their bikes and almost got run down by Father Sullivan. The kids were grabbed and yelled at by the almost-always-drunk priest.

Cee:

I remember hearing about students from our school narrowly escaping being killed by him and his Cadillac and him getting out of the car, grabbing them, screaming and yelling at them. They were really taken aback by that kind of behavior. I think they thought he was going to get out of the car and say, oh my god, I’m so sorry. He just hit you, but he literally roughed them up. I don’t think that was the expectation of those students. I think they were very taken aback by his behavior. And he was clearly drunk. I mean, they said that he was drunk. He reeked of alcohol, which, at the time meant nothing to me, because I hadn’t encountered a ton of drunk people growing up. I was shocked as well.

Crash Barry:

I’ll talk about this in part two, but I’ve spoken to one of the fellows who almost got run over by the priest that day, and he corroborated Cee’s account of what happened. Also the entire almost-bike accident was witnessed by another student at St. Matthew’s.

Cee:

Her name was Brandy, and she was very small, and she had long brown hair, same as me.

Crash Barry:

A couple of days later, Cee found herself in a hallway down from the office alone with Father Sullivan.

Cee:

I believe he mistook me for her.

Crash Barry:

He called out “Brandy.” And Cee could tell that the priest was angry.

Cee:

He grabbed me. He grabbed me by the shoulder. It was so fast and bizarre. He was so close to me. It’s almost indescribable, because it was almost like it wasn’t really happening. I couldn’t even, I mean, he called me “Brandy” twice. In my mind, I’m thinking to myself, What is he talking about? You know, it’s you’re just trying to figure out what someone is talking about. I think I was so young again and so stunned that my mind was so focused on challenging him by saying, I’m not her. Who do you think I am? I couldn’t even get those words out to say it and would have gone against everything that I’d ever been taught.

You know, when an adult talks to you, or when you’re being disciplined, you’re not really supposed to question anything. It was stunning. It’s the only word I can use. It was absolutely stunning. And yes, he kind of jacked me up against the wall, pushed me, had me by the shoulder. It was bizarre. It was scary. He thought that I’d seen this accident, and wanted to ensure that I wasn’t going to repeat what happened.

I had never encountered any sort of corporal punishment or fear. I never had anyone act in such a way, and took me a little bit to realize that he was not in his right mind. It was that whole gin and tonic type smell, alcoholic type smell. It’d be something that would make you think that this person had had a couple drinks with lunch. His face was red. He was spitting. He was sweating. The whole thing happened so fast I couldn’t even speak. This was such a contradiction to any way I’d ever really been treated, although I will say this: I mean, my parents fought. My father was physical to my mother. They were young, and so it’s not as though I’d been sheltered from any sort of violence, but because it never happened to me, and I only heard about it outside the door, it silenced me in a way that was physical.

Crash Barry:

Shocked and frightened by his behavior, Cee didn’t tell anyone what happened. Up to this point in her Catholic school experience, she’d only dealt with nuns, but like all Catholic school kids of that era, she had been brainwashed into thinking that priests were special sorts of holy men, earthly representatives of God in heaven above who could turn bread and wine into the body and blood of Christ and were empowered to listen to the confessions of sinners.

Now we’re returning to the aforementioned incident when the priest smeared Cee’s blood on her white blouse. The day before that attack, Cee and the rest of her class had gone down to St. Matthew’s church, about a half mile walk from school to confess their sins to Father Sullivan.

Now I don’t want to go too far afield here, but for the non-Catholic listener, confession, also known as penance, also known as the act of reconciliation, is one of the seven sacraments and a bizarre ritual when good Catholics tell the priest all the bad things they have done, which is even creepier knowing there are so many priests sitting in the confessionals that lead far more sinful lives than any normal person could even imagine.

So Cee and her classmates were sitting there in St. Matthew’s church, sitting in the pews facing the giant and grisly and colorful and ultra realistic mural high above the altar. You can see a photo of this bloody rendition of the crucifixion of Jesus Christ, surrounded by mourners.

You can see that photo over at CrashBarry.com. That photo, by the way, is from a wedding around the same time Father Sullivan assaulted Cee. In that photo, I’m standing on the priest’s right hand side. I’m a little bit taller than the priest at age 13. My childhood pal Keith stood on his left hand side, and high above us is the mural of the bloody crucifixion.

Anyways, back to the seventh graders sitting there waiting to spill their guts to Father Sullivan. One by one, one at a time, each kid made their way into the dark and creepy confessional booth to kneel before a tiny sliding window and ask the pastor to forgive them of their sins.

Then it was the turn of a girl named Kim. I remember Kim from boyhood because she was very pretty and, as Cee explained, physically developed beyond her years. And Kim was sexually experienced due to an ongoing relationship with a boy who attended John F Kennedy Jr High School just down the road from St. Matthew’s.

Cee:

And not only was she physically mature, I don’t know what else had gone on in her home that had made her aware of these things. I don’t know if this boy taught her everything he knew or she already knew these things. I don’t know. She was a kind, nice girl. No boys really talked to her, because I think they were intimidated by her. Frankly, I don’t think that she was teasing them. I don’t think that she was being suggestive towards them. There were other girls who are getting far more attention than her, who were far less developed.

Crash Barry:

And there in St. Matthew’s Church, seventh grader Kim stood. Ready to reveal her sins to the drunken priest.

Cee:

She went into the confessional and told him about her relationship with a boy that went to to Kennedy Junior High School, very close to St. Matthew’s, and she confessed to numerous sex acts with this person. And when Father Sullivan came out of the confessional, she came out crying. He came out in a rage. She confessed later to us about the name calling. I mean, he said horrendous things to her. I think he threatened to hurt this young man, or hurt both of them.

I mean, her hands were shaking, her voice was shaking. I couldn’t have imagined at that moment, when we were in the church, what she could have possibly said to make him that mad. And it wasn’t until later that she told us everything that happened. She was using words that I had never heard before. I mean, it was completely foreign to me, because I didn’t have any older brothers and sisters. I suppose if you had older brothers and sisters, you would know exactly what she was talking about, but I had no clue.

It wasn’t until other people explained to me what those things meant that I grasped the depth of what had gone on and what she confessed to. I don’t know what part of it was willing, if she was coerced. How he got her to do those things… I couldn’t tell you. But when she came out of there and came back to the pew and was crying, of course, not only was it my inclination, but it was the inclination of the other girls in that pew to console her.

Crash Barry:

The very next day, Sullivan cornered Cee and sexually assaulted her and bloodied her blouse.

Crash Barry:

Before hearing Cee’s story for the first time in September 2020, my view of Father Sullivan had been that he was an asshole and a drunken oaf and slightly psycho. As I reported in Episode Four of Unholy Fathers, he’d been arrested back in 1989 in downtown Springfield after crashing his car drunk a couple of miles from the Bishop’s mansion, with a loaded shotgun in the front seat and a plan to shoot the bishop. But since learning what he did to Cee, I only view the dead man as an angry predator who got away with many crimes.

There were two other incidents where Sullivan inappropriately touched Cee. First, it was a school event one evening before Christmas, with the entire student body and their parents in attendance.

Cee:

Everyone was there for the winter assembly. There was singing. The whole school was going to be on stage. I was the last in line going into that auditorium where everybody was. He came up behind me, and he had hold of my chest, said it was going to be a great night, and proceeded to lead the congregation of people that were there that evening in Edelweiss, which was bizarre, and he was again, drunk and sweating. I don’t know how the man breathed. His collar was choke tight all the time. It was almost as if that collar was choking him. It was, that’s what was turning his face so red, is that the collar was so tight, almost like the drinking bloated him, like he must have woke up thin, and by the end of the day, got bloated, because it was a bizarre, bizarre appearance, and the hair oil he wore, some sort of hair oil.

Crash Barry:

Edelweiss was the big hit of a song from the musical Sound of Music, which I classify as a show tune, not a traditional Christmas song.

Cee:

And I remember my mother on the way home in the car asking me, you know, did I enjoy the show? She thought it was odd that he wanted all of us to sing Eidelweiss, but but she did love the song. I remember just thinking to myself, why are we talking about this? I just want to go home.

Crash Barry:

The next occasion was a couple of months later.

Cee:

The fourth time was during a school wide production of Peter Pan, to which I was given the job of taking care of the costumes. That was my job. God, I have no idea why anyone would give me that job, because I had no idea how to iron anything. But I was to take them home and iron them. I took them home and pretended to iron them, but I did not.

I was in the eighth grade room and there were costumes in that room, and I had my back to the door, and the door behind me closed, and I turned, and it was him, and I turned back to whatever it was that I was doing, and he came up behind me, and he had his hand up my skirt, and he was touching my behind. And it probably went on for about a minute, maybe two, and there was activity outside the door.

Crash Barry:

Then the hall door opened, and one of the nuns, Sister Susan Swasey came into the room to scold Cee for a slammed door, but the priest had already quickly exited, leaving through a second door that connected the eighth grade classroom to the seventh grade classroom, and that was the last time Father Sullivan ever touched her.

Cee:

I was frozen. I did not move. I did not say anything. I don’t even think I breathed during that interaction, because I was so afraid of it becoming something so much more frightening or that someone would see. I mean, I was paralyzed. I did not move. I turned my head to see what the noise was, but that was really it. I thought for sure whoever was coming was going to see everything, but that didn’t happen. I don’t know how or why, but it didn’t.

Crash Barry:

Cee never told anyone what happened at the hands of Father Sullivan, not even her mom, with whom Cee had a great but complicated relationship. It is a long and sad story, but her mother has had a very tough life. Growing up in the 1960s, she became pregnant while still in high school, and kept her baby, which was seriously frowned upon at the time, but Cee’s mom was determined to get her diploma, even though the principal, a very angry man, made it hell for her to graduate. After she was born, her mom vowed that her little girl would never go to a public school in that town, which I’m not going to name, but it’s just right outside Springfield, because She didn’t want her daughter to ever be in a district where that dude was employed. So Cee was enrolled in a nearby Catholic school.

Then after fifth grade, Cee and her mom moved to Springfield, to a neighborhood near Cathedral High School. In theory that would have meant she’d attend Holy Cross School. Unfortunately, Holy Cross was so popular, there was a waiting list. Instead, her mother enrolled her at St. Matthew’s, where there was never a waiting list, but would require Cee to make a couple long bus rides to Indian Orchard every day. All that to say Cee knew that revealing Sullivan’s actions would have devastated her mom, who would have felt responsible for enrolling her daughter at St. Matthew’s.

Cee:

My mother, to this day, does not know any of this happened. I would never want my mother to feel guilty about any of the decisions that she made, and only because I know how hard it is to be a mother now and to have guilt about certain things that you choose or you think are going to protect your kids, ultimately, from anyone or anything that could possibly hurt them.

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Crash Barry:

She didn’t hate St. Matthew’s, and she made some friends, but felt behind sometimes, both socially and physically, compared to her classmates. And then there was the unspoken damage from the traumas that lasted a lifetime, with a monthly reminder. There’s really no other way to say it. The bloody assault was forever linked to her period and the scent of her own menstrual blood had the ability to trigger all sorts of negative effects.

Cee:

No girl loves to get their period. It’s not a fun time. You feel miserable. There were times in my life where I did find that debilitating. I did find it triggering, but it wasn’t right away. I feel like it happened to be more when I was older and more aware of possibly I wasn’t the only one that this happened to. You know, I couldn’t define triggering then, like you can now. Couldn’t define why you wanted to shower twice a day during your period. Couldn’t define why you wanted to change your pad every single time you peed. You can’t find those things when you’re a young person. Now that I’m older and I look back on them, yeah, I probably was having much more triggering than I could even identify.

Crash Barry:

Not all her triggers were physical.

Cee:

First time I saw Sister Ruth at Cathedral High School was rough because I thought, ‘Oh, my God, if she’s here, he could be here.’

Crash Barry:

Here’s a brief aside about Sister Ruth O’Connor. She was the principal at St. Matthew’s who gave Cee the pad and envelope and told her to wait in the room where the priest assaulted her. I had a longer and far more personal relationship with Sister Ruth, as I explained in episode four of Unholy Fathers. Sister Ruth was my arch enemy. Not only was she my school principal, she was also my mother’s best friend, a relationship that started when I was in the second grade. My mom, a very talented seamstress, taught Sister Ruth how to sew, which somehow morphed into the nun coming to our house every Tuesday, Thursday and Sunday. For what I don’t know. My parents gave her gifts, money and even brought her on many vacations. And this friendship lasted forever, until my mother’s death.

I cringe, remembering from childhood when school chums would ask if Sister Ruth was home before deciding whether or not we’d play basketball at my house. And then when I graduated eighth grade and enrolled at Cathedral High School, Sister Ruth left the top job at St. Matthew’s and became a lowly math teacher at Cathedral. I’m not being paranoid when I say this, but Sister Ruth followed me to high school to spy on me for my mom.

After episode four, when I explained my dislike for Sister Ruth, I heard from a whole bunch of listeners, former students of Sister Ruth, all expressing their hatred for the now dead nun. Several use phrases like ‘ruined my life’ and ‘made me hate school’, among many other complaints. I’ve put a photo up over at crashbarry.com, of the dour Sister Ruth and the angry drunkard Father Sullivan, presenting me with my diploma for graduating from the eighth grade.

Anyways, back to my friend Cee. After graduating St. Matthew’s the year after me, she was surprised to see Sister Ruth, her former principal, wandering her high school halls, because Sister Ruth would always be a woman whose mere presence reminded Cee of the incident with the bad priest. Luckily, Father Sullivan never showed up at Cathedral. His impact on Cee lingered, even though he wasn’t physically present, because of the priest’s assault. She thinks she probably waited a little longer than some of her classmates in becoming sexually active. And then when she did, she pursued for a little while what she describes as, quote, “limited promiscuity.”

Cee:

It definitely led to some limited sort of promiscuity. And when I say limited, I mean more so than some and less than others. I think that’s where it put me.

Crash Barry:

It was at Cathedral High School, though, that she met the love of her life, her eventual husband and the father of her two beautiful daughters. And she also realized, after a period of denial, that others found her to be very beautiful.

Cee:

I don’t mean this to be a jerk, but I don’t think that for a long time, I thought I was attractive, and it turns out that I was, and it turns out that I was more attractive to other people than I think I even realized for a while. Then when you realize that you are and you realize that you can get people to do things that you want them to do, or get them to like you, even if you don’t like them. I think some girls come into that power earlier than others. Did I hurt anybody with it? No. Did I take advantage of anybody? No, but I think it blunted some of the trauma that could have been happening because my attention was wasn’t positive in a real way, but positive in an imaginary way. People like me. People think I’m beautiful, people want to be with me. So this person couldn’t possibly have hurt me as bad as he did, because I’m still desirable. I’m still okay.

Crash Barry:

She got a job right after graduating from Cathedral in corrections as a secretary, and she credits her career behind bars as the main reason she was able to not let the trauma destroy her life.

Cee:

I think it’s because I started working at a correction facility, where I was exposed to women who’d taken another path, women who’d been far more abused than me, I mean, including my mother, who suffered abuse as a child and rose above it to become who she is now, some good, some bad. But I was exposed to people who took that path of self destruction. And in a wide and all encompassing manner, and I was frightened by that. I’d seen it up close and personal. I’d smelled it. It’s up close and in your face. But I consider myself exceedingly lucky that I got a bird’s eye view into what letting yourself go into some of that can look like when you don’t understand anything other than pain.

Crash Barry:

While her job in corrections made Cee thank her lucky stars that her abuse and trauma hadn’t been worse, on one occasion, while at work, she spotted Sullivan. At the time, he was allegedly sober, serving as a chaplain at a correctional alcohol center in Springfield.

Cee:

I saw Father Sullivan at work. That was very frightening for me, and he was working there. I suppose he was sober. He was helping people, and I came out into the lobby wearing my favorite pink dress, and he was there, and I was physically shaken. He saw me. I saw him. I don’t know that he recognized me. I recognized him immediately. I was shaken up. I don’t believe he lasted long there. I didn’t go there every day, thankfully. I just happened to be in the reception area, which was quite a large room. It ran the whole length of the building, so it was very big. But I had a series of anxiety attacks after that that were pretty marked over the years.

Crash Barry:

She had multiple bouts with both depression and anxiety, but she toiled on both because she knew others had it way worse, and she had a family to take care of.

Cee:

There are so many more of those other people who are so broken, so so broken by what happened to them that they don’t see any progress for themselves again. The things that trigger me, it’s not that they don’t happen. I really have been able to not give them power over me. It’s a mantra that I say all the time, ‘give this no power over you. Give this no power over you. This has no power over you.’ This cannot hurt you, because the feelings that you have when you’re younger, you think that they have the power to hurt you, and you think that those feelings are right or wrong, they’re not right or wrong, they just are. They have no power over you. You just have to let them wash over you and try to start over. And have there been times when I’ve not been as successful? Absolutely, there have been times where I have spent a whole day in bed having the chills, feeling as though I’m not going to feel good ever again. But you do. You do, and the joy of your life does come back to you, your children, your husband, your family, if you’re that lucky to have made a few good decisions amongst mistakes, those things do come back to you and you are able to stamp them out. I mean, for me anyway, I have been able to do that.

Crash Barry:

Except for the “smell of blood” trigger, and as she found out, the night before her wedding, the smell of gin and limes, the smell of the priest, was enough to send her into a frenzy and almost cancel the marriage ceremony.

Cee:

My rehearsal dinner, in fact, was ruined by a horrible trigger, a huge incident where I was smelling the gin and tonic. It was that gin and tonic smell that got me. It was ugly, and I had to talk myself out of, you know, other people were like, you know, you’re being dramatic. You’re not really this nervous. It was just a whole series of things. And not to mention it was also a point where there had been all kinds of drinking and partying going on for, you know, days ahead of that. Not to say that maybe this trigger wouldn’t have happened, but it was ugly. I mean, there was shaking, there was crying. You feel like you can hold yourself together? Will I be able to hold myself together and never let anybody know what’s happened to me? Because I don’t want my mother to know. I don’t. Wouldn’t want my kids to know. Your mind goes into all kinds of projecting about what is going to happen, even though you have no control over that.

Crash Barry:

As previously mentioned, her monthly periods were very tough to handle. Even a worse trigger, in a way, was the months postpartum following the births of her two kids, especially after her second baby.

Cee:

After, you know, you have a baby, there’s a whole point where you bleed for a long time. And that was very uncomfortable for me. Everyone’s used to it a couple of days, you know, you have your period, you get through it the best you can. After you have a baby, it’s not like that. That was a very difficult period for me. I couldn’t get clean enough. I couldn’t get that smell off of me fast enough.

Everybody has postpartum either zero to 100. I wouldn’t say, with my first baby, it was nearly as bad as it was the second time. I had terrible postpartum. The second time I bled a lot longer and it was exacerbated by the fact that I couldn’t stand the smell of that, because it triggered me, for sure, which plays terrible tricks on the woman’s mind.

Being anemic does very bad things to a woman, especially postpartum. And for me, I had a baby that had colic. She was not comforted by me. The only reason I was able to get through the first time as easily as I was is that I had a tiny, perfect baby who did nothing but eat and sleep. She was very bonded to me, and the triggering part of it, I was able to keep to a minimum, because she was just this wonderful, beautiful infant.

I had a beautiful infant the second time. She was huge, it took a lot more out of me, and it was physically draining. She didn’t sleep, and I was bleeding really badly, really anemic. It was just harder. It was much harder. And it took longer for me to heal the second time, for sure.

And the excessive showering was a thing, and it was partly because I needed to get away from her crying. And the second part of it is I could not stand the smell of that postpartum blood. It was hideous. That part of it was really hideous. I’m sure there were smaller things here and there. Those things happened after I saw Father Sullivan at work.

Crash Barry:

And her anxiety flared in other ways.

Cee:

I’m not a big fan of having the door closed.

Crash Barry:

Or when there was a head lice outbreak at her daughter’s school and she went into panic mode, which had a dramatic impact on her mental health.

Cee:

I feel like sometimes would you have anxiety about things that you know can’t hurt you. It shifts from things that are also slightly irrational that can’t hurt you. I had horrible anxiety during a very horrible summer where my kids had head lice off and on. And I don’t know if it’s because of the cleanliness thing. I don’t know if it’s because it was out of my control, and I couldn’t, I couldn’t seem to get it to stop. And every time I thought that we were done with the lice, my kids would come in contact with someone else who was in that room that also had it. I could not gather myself to help my children and not feel upset by this. I was upset, and in turn, they were upset, and I did not do a good job of being confident in what was going on. I can’t explain it to you any other way. It was probably the most irrational I had been in a long time.

Crash Barry:

Luckily, as Cee entered menopause and her period ceased, one of her major triggers disappeared as she entered into crone-hood.

Cee:

Now that I’m older and I’m in menopause and I no longer get my period, I think some of that anxiety has left me. I don’t have to have it come up to me every single time. I don’t have to scrub myself raw because it doesn’t happen. So that is a relief. I think there are things that I’m able to let go of more easily, because I’m not traumatized on a regular basis, having to be mad at myself because I’ve scrubbed myself raw, or feel like I’ve taken three steps back because I want to do that. It is weird, but time and your physical being does have a way of changing in such a way that you’re able to let go of certain things. I don’t know if that’s true for everybody, but it has been true for me in that way.

Crash Barry:

But her aversion to gin and limes still exists.

Cee:

My husband and I go to Ireland with the Elks every year. You know, mixed drinks are not a big deal in Ireland. People drink a lot of beer. They drink a lot of Guinness. I don’t drink beer. I typically drink Jameson and ginger ale. Every single time I’m there, they ask me if I want a lime, and if they bring a lime in my drink, I will not drink it. I cannot stand the smell. I cannot stand the taste. I can’t stand it. I can’t stand it. Luckily for me, no one really drinks gin and tonics in Ireland, but you know, there are things that come up.

Crash Barry:

Which brings us to the summer of 2020, during the pandemic. Cee was on Facebook and a classmate from St. Matthew’s school invited her to join the St. Matthew’s alumni Facebook group. After perusing the pages, she declined to join, but then the all knowing algorithm kicked in and sent her an ad for a law firm with the question, “Were you abused by a Catholic priest?” She clicked the ad and answered some questions. Soon after, the law firm reached out to her.

Cee:

They’d asked me some questions about where, when, how, but not really any specifics. At that point, they asked me, Did I know anybody else who knew him, or had any interaction with him? What had happened to him, what his first name was? And it occurred to me that I didn’t know that. It occurred to me that I didn’t know his first name.

Crash Barry:

Google wasn’t helpful. But then eventually, a woman in the records department at the Our Lady of Sacred Heart parish, where all St. Matthew’s records are stashed, was able to see that Sullivan’s first name was Charles. So she returned to Google, and that’s when she found my podcast about Father Charles Sullivan. On September 2, 2020 she emailed me for the first time:

“I was a student at St. Matthew’s. I have contacted a lawyer about several incidents involving myself and Father Sullivan. The lawyer is having issues finding information about Father Sullivan’s time at the school. I am hoping, if at all possible, you might be able to help.”

Two days later, we spoke for the first time, the first of many calls, which would start an over two year journey to right the wrongs she experienced at the hands of an angry drunkard of a priest.

Next time on Unholy Fathers, we get into the Catholic Church complaint process, the investigation, the stalling by the church and the bishop, and the settlement paid out to Cee and what she did with the money.

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Many thanks to my brave friend, Cee for sharing her story.

Last couple days, I’ve been super-busy recording in the pod-studio, so I fell behind on checking out Facebook comments, DMs, tags and hate mail regarding “EXCLUSIVE: HOUSE GOP LEADER FINED $3,468 FOR CHILD LABOR LAW VIOLATIONS.”

A lot of the criticism of my reporting on House GOP leader Billy Bob Faulkingham was painful to read because the grammar, diction and spelling were atrocious. To the haters: I highly recommend the classic Strunk & White’s “Elements of Style” as a primer for effective written communication.

(Also, I deleted multiple comments that included threatened ass-whoopings, face-punches, death wishes and virulent wishes, hoping bad things to happen to me.)

Several critics have asked “How many lobster traps has this dude even hauled?” Well, none this year. Because I’m in the woods of western Maine, busy raising pigs, chickens and goats, plus felling, bucking, cutting and splitting ten cord of wood.

However, back in the early 1990s, after serving as a sailor in the U.S. Coast Guard fighting the “War on Drugs” and the “War on Haitian Refugees,” I spent two years as a sternman on Matinicus, Maine’s most remote inhabited island. Those were “pre-trap limit” days, so my captain(s) had about 1,100 traps in the water and we’d haul 250 to 300 traps a day (depending on the season), with a schedule of 3 days on, 1 day off, depending on the weather.

The trap limit, btw, was first instituted at 1000 traps per license in the mid-1990s, then reduced to the current number of 800 at the turn of the century. The government mandated limit on gear is the biggest reason there’s still a lobster industry remaining. Because, back in the olden days, some captains (fueled by cocaine AND Captain Morgan & Coke) would set a couple thousand traps and, with two sternman, haul from dawn to dusk, in order to capture as many bugs as possible.

Re: Lobster Boat captains. There are many competent and responsible people working in the industry. That said, like in any business, there are scumbuckets and con-artists. Laws are formulated, obviously, to prevent the latter group from raping the ocean floor and/or recklessly endangering others.

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Re: Billy Bob Faulkingham’s claim that he’s the first Maine lobsterman ever targeted for these labor violations. Oh well. You’d think a state lawmaker — and House GOP Leader — would be extra careful, since his actions are fair game for public exposition. Billy Bob Faulkingham is also the first — AND ONLY — Maine lobsterman to EVER claim that a rogue wave capsized his boat and was then saved by an angel, who then let his boat sink to the bottom.

Also, while Faulkingham promotes his “lobsterman persona” on the socials, in election materials and during speeches, the reality is that the bloke is barely a part-timer. Most of his earnings actually come from his pay, benefits and the per diem he gets as Big Dude under the State House dome. Fella is too busy hobnobbing in Augusta and fellating the tobacco and Big Pharma lobbyists that fund his Faulkinghammer PAC to work year-round lobstering. ALSO: SPECTRUM, the comms behemoth is his second largest fiscal sponsor.

Plus, Faulkingham as “principal” of the “House Republican Fund” is somehow, amazingly, in charge of $1,308,949.38 in donations to further his chudish desires. That bankroll includes at least $100,000 from Trad Cat Leonard Leo, aka the Supreme Court Justice-whisper who happens to be a member of the Sovereign Military Order of Malta AND a resident of Bar Harbor. Billy Bob also took in almost another $55k from Grover Gaming, a North Carolina manufacturer of electronic pull tabs, and video lottery terminals. And the state rep from Winter Harbor also took 40 large from Churchill Downs, the corporate owner of racetracks, casinos and an online wagering company. One more thing…. it’s pretty amazing that the Republican State Leadership Committee also gave Billy Bob nearly a half million. I mean, we gotta call a spade a spade and Faulkingham is a fuckin’ moron.

No wonder Faulkingham is able to connect and be “in touch” with his working class neighbors and his lobstering comrades: his monies come from tobacco companies, Big Pharma, the gaming sector, Big Cable & Phone and the Republican State Leadership Committee, a faceless entity of rich white Illuminati.

In his spare time, the guy apparently spends lots of energy plotting the harassment of LGBTQ teens, plus the hour-and-a-half on Sundays worshipping at his End Times cult-church as well as his time posting frequent Tiktok vids, plus the numerous feeding frenzies required to maintain his bulky physique. It’s amazing Faulkingham has the time or energy to lobster. After all, as the crustacean hunting professionals know, there’s a lot of work that goes into being a steward of the sea AND the harvesting of Homarus americanus.

In other chud news, Augusta School Board Candidate Nick “Corn Pop” Blanchard, who has never stepped foot aboard a lobster boat (let alone worked on a sea-going vessel) published what he thinks is my home phone number and encouraged his posse of chuds to call and harass me about Billy Bob’s victimization. Ooops, wrong digits, dummy.

Also, as I’ve written about multiple times, sternmen aboard lobster boats have it tough. Especially from a labor perspective. Their “independent contractor” paychecks are uneven and unpredictable (even more so if your captain is a dubbah), plus the self-employment tax burden for sternmen is huge and they have zero pay guarantees or workers comp. Also, sternmen lack other basic labor protections that just about every other Maine worker takes for granted. Through this lens, it’s obvious that the lobster industry is plagued with labor versus management issues. And, because of longtime special treatment, lobster captains (and other fishery skippers) are exempt from having to follow basic labor law.

Maine’s other iconic industry — blueberries — also treats the workforce poorly and resists any attempts to increase worker-safety regs. As I’ve written (and made a full-length feature film about), blueberry raking ain’t easy. And it can be hard to rake adequate blueberry bucks, especially if the farmer is a dubbah.

Also, I fully support kids participating in Maine’s “lobstering apprenticeship program.” There’s nothing wrong with young ‘uns working on a responsible adult’s lobster boat. Or, even better, having their own skiff and hauling their own traps. However, I believe that kids’ participation in the industry needs to be registered, documented and regulated. Also, the kids need good mentors who can teach them seamanship, boat handling, boat safety and environmental protection, in addition to showing them the good spots to set gear when the lobsters start to crawl. Also, the apprenticeship program needs a mandatory safety training component — taught by the Coast Guard — to reduce the risk of accident-at-sea. Because, after all, commercial fishing is one of the most dangerous industries in the world.

For the record, Billy Bob Faulkingham’s 14-year-old “sternman” was NOT part of the apprenticeship program. And there’s no way a part-timer (and dubbah) like Faulkingham should be allowed to teach an apprentice anything connected to safety, hard work and biome awareness. After all, the big guy has sunk three times and almost killed his previous sternman while friggin’ around in the surf by Turtle Island Ledges to get vids for the socials. Plus, his wharf, floats and fishhouse are embarrassingly sloppy and unkempt.

As for Lil’ Stevie Robinson, the big boss of the non-profit Maine Wire — the “media” outlet run by Maine Policy Institute — claiming that I’m a “habitual marijuana user who has very obviously fried his brain on triad weed laced with organophosphate poisons.”

Shut up, bitch. (I’m talking to you, Lil’ Steve.) I haven’t bought weed in a decade-and-a-half because of Maine’s “grow-your-own” cannabis laws. But Lil’ Stevie doesn’t know shit about cannabis (silly rabbit thinks the only illegal weed ops in Maine are run by Chinese folks) because he’s too busy harassing LGBTQ teens and non-white immigrants while platforming pedo-protecting chuds.

Besides, I don’t smoke cannabis. Quit last year after hernia surgery. These days, I occasionally vape premium hashish, made with our backyard organic flower, WITHOUT THE USE OF SOLVENTS, thanks to the Polar Vortex Extraction method, which works great during Maine’s cold snaps of frigid weather.

As for claims from Lil’ Steve and other chuds that I’m somehow in cahoots with the Mills administration OF WHICH I HAVE ZERO CONNECTION, that’s all hogwash. I’m not even a fan of Mills. Also, allegations that I’m some sort of thug for the chud-imagined “Rainbow Mafia” are ridiculous. However, if such an entity existed, I’d enlist and give ‘em my full support.

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(Lil’ Steve, btw, is pissed that I reached out to him earlier this year, asking him about his mother’s pals telling me that she’s ashamed of how dirty her Bowdoin-educated son has become.)

While Billy Bob is crying like a baby about the DOL case, claiming political persecution (just like many micro-penned MAGA men) his reality is much different. The rotund legislator first learned about my complaint about him to the Maine Dept of Labor in AUGUST 2024. The initial decision came in May ’25. And then Faulkingham filed an appeal — which kept the violations and fines secret — resulting in he and his legal team testifying in November. The case remained hidden until February, when the final decision was issued. Then, last week, a Maine-based nurse perusing the DOL violations page saw Faulkingham’s name — and the $3,468 penalty — and forwarded me the link.

Then I published “EXCLUSIVE: HOUSE GOP LEADER FINED $3,468 FOR CHILD LABOR LAW VIOLATIONS” which the news-hawks at WGME read and ripped off (without attribution) which then triggered the whole media-machine madness. Which then led to Billy Bob’s minions and apologists ridiculing child labor laws, expressing their longing for the olden days when kid-work was unregulated and children were oft endangered by greedy capitalists and other baddies.

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I’m getting a lot of grief for reporting on the Department of Labor’s verdict on Billy Bob Faulkingham for taking an untrained neighbor’s kid out to haul on a borrowed vessel just months after the House Minority leader flipped his boat and nearly killed his sternman while messing around Turtle Island Ledge, trying to get content for the socials.

Emotions from those in the fishing community are running high, understandably, since they perceive any critique of the industry as an attack on the whole fishery.

However, all the hub-bub clearly shows there’s a bigger problem and highlights the elephant in the trap. The lobstering industry has all sorts of rules that need fixing. Especially the state’s apprenticeship program for kids wanting to get to the biz, as well as the law that classifies sternmen as independent contractors, not employees, with no set wages, other than a percentage of the catch.

Even more importantly, it’s time to take a serious look at safety requirements, especially regarding the apprenticeship program. Adults, under current law, are required to take a Coast Guard safety course before obtaining a lobster license. But 8-year-olds can enter the state’s student license program with zero safety training. Which is stupid.

Also, many of the people yelling at me like to point out that since Maine allows 8-year-olds in the apprenticeship program, my complaint of Faulkingham bringing an 14-year-old out-to-haul is invalid. However, his sternman was NOT in the apprenticeship program. It’s like saying it’s okay for 17-year-olds to drive without a license because the law allows 17-year-olds to drive.

Yikes.

Most importantly, Faulkingham has shown repeatedly (by sinking fishing boats on THREE occasions) that he’s not a prudent mariner. I’d say the blame should fall on the Minority Leader of the House for not getting his alleged protégée enrolled in the mentorship program with a qualified mentor, not on me for pointing the problem out.

Also, Faulkingham getting a random neighborhood kid to work for cheap is much different than a youngster getting into the apprenticeship in order to learn a trade, which happens to be one of the most dangerous jobs in the world. And working for Faulkingham can seriously injure an independent contractor, as seen in the photo below of Faulkingham’s prior sternman whom he almost killed when his boat capsized in the fall of 2023. (A lot more on that in a second.)

Anyways, it’s weird that people are acting like the issues with labor and lobstering are new. It’s been known for a long time that Maine’s apprenticeship program violates federal child labor laws. Which begs the question: why hadn’t industry leaders like Faulkingham addressed these problems before now. Or, at least, started to work towards fixing ‘em especially after Faulkingham got caught with a sternman who wasn’t licensed or in the apprenticeship, back in 2024.

Crickets, from industry leaders, though, until I wrote about the state rep from Winter Harbor on Saturday. And I agree wholeheartedly with the below statement by the Maine Lobstermen’s Association.

However, as one insider told me, “I think Maine has been putting kids at risk in the fishery for a longtime. They are being overworked, underpaid and taken advantage of. It’s not bad if [[the current controversy]] puts an end to it.”

Sternman ≠ employee

Another aspect of the industry that needs change is the employment classification of sternmen, who do most of the actual work on the boat while underway out hauling gear. Sternmen shovel bait, fill bait bags, clean traps, band lobsters and everything else the skipper tells ‘em to do. And yet, under the current system, they’re not considered employees, but independent contractors.

Taxwise, the independent contractor classification means the sternman pays all the federal taxes (for Social Security and Medicare) which is currently 15.3% of the sternman’s earnings. That’s different than the regular workplace, where the employee and employer split those taxes. In addition, sternmen also pay federal and state income tax. And because they’re “indie contractors,” they’re expected to file and PAY taxes quarterly.

And if you know anything about sternmen, most are not the best financial planners.

Also, for the sternman, there’s no unemployment compensation, no workers comp coverage, no minimum wage and no overtime. They’re literally at the beck and call of the captain, with zero rights-to-work or protections. Yet the sternman, once again, is NOT considered an employee of the skipper. Which comes in handy if there’s a workplace accident-at-sea or other bad circumstances arise.

Also, captains have all sorts of tax deductions, thanks to their many expenses, from bait, fuel and gear to the cost of the boat and their big trucks and whatever else they claim.

Sternmen, however, have almost zero deductions, other than boots, gloves and oil clothes.

All that to say, sternmen aren’t treated fairly. However, when the lobsters are crawling and the traps are full and the price is high, they can make decent money. But when the price is low and the captain is feuding with their spouse, it’s one of the worst jobs on the planet.

Plus, there’s a lot of unpaid labor for a sternman. From painting buoys, splicing rope, building traps, setting gear in the spring, then lengthening it up in the late fall, all of that work is done for FREE.

Lobstermen, of course, will gripe, moan and scream if there’s any attempt to change the way sternmen are classified or compensated. After all, they don’t want to pay half the federal taxes or workers comp insurance or unemployment. And they most certainly don’t want to pay overtime or obey the labor laws THAT EVERY OTHER BUSINESS HAS TO CONTEND WITH.

Thing is, I’ve never heard any legit reason for the classification, other than “that’s the way it’s always been.” Which, of course, doesn’t mean shit. Labor laws and standards change with the times. Except, apparently, in the lobster industry.

Also, all this Big Picture talk distracts from the issue I’ve been reporting…that Billy Bob Faulkingham is not a prudent mariner who lied about a wave flipping his boat, almost killing his then-sternman. As you can read below, it’s scientifically impossible for Faulkingham’s fishy story to be true.

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Originally published on August 24, 2024

A Scientific Debunking of Billy Bob Faulkingham’s Fishy Tale of Rogue Wave, Angelic Rescue

Before getting to the alleged freak wave that destroyed the Maine House GOP leader’s lobster boat, a quick history of his vessel: Known as 51, she was launched in 2010. The 40-footer was named for the basketball jersey number of Faulkingham’s cousin Adam, who died in a car accident as a teenager many years ago. In 2021, the 51 was hauled out of the water and given a stem-to-stern makeover. That meant lots of body work, new paint and the re-powering of the 51 with a brand-new $80,000 750 horsepower John Deere engine.

Even though the 51 is named for a fella, btw, the vessel is still referred to with “she and her” pronouns. Also, for the record, most maritime folks believe it’s bad luck to name a boat for a dude. And, up and down the Maine coast, some mariners believe a blue-painted boat is also jinxed. While I’m not sure of the legitimacy of such superstition, please note that before the 51 sunk, her upper parts, including the cabin roof, the bow and gunnels of Faulkingham’s male-identifying vessel were painted blue.

In Episode 12 of my Disinfomaniacs podcast, you can hear Faulkingham’s rendition of his tall tale, in his own voice, via news reports and from an extended radio interview he gave three days after sinking the 51. To save you an hour of listening, here’s a synopsis of HIS version of events:

A little before noon on Sept. 15, 2023, Faulkingham and his sternman were headed back to the mooring after a short day of hauling. The weather had been nice and the sea conditions calm, even offshore where some of the Winter Harbor lobster fleet were still hard at work. Hurricane Lee was slated to arrive in the Gulf of Maine the following day, so the Coast Guard had issued a warning to local mariners to stay away from spots with breaking waves and surf. Despite that mariners’ warning, according to Faulkingham, he stopped for just a second to watch the waves breaking on the Turtle Island Ledges.

He left out a major detail. About 20 minutes before his boat sank, he wasn’t lobstering. He’d been friggin’ around in the surf, off Schoodic Point, a couple miles from where he sank. We know this because a local photographer was down on the shore and took several pics of Faulkingham’s boat playing in the surf.

Even if you don’t have any experience on the water, it’s pretty obvious that a prudent mariner wouldn’t be doing what Faulkingham was doing in his lobster boat, especially in light of the Coast Guard warnings about the coming hurricane. And especially considering Faulkingham’s maritime history. The state rep sank his previous lobster boat TWICE before this incident we’re discussing. (The vast majority of fisher-people never sink a vessel once, let alone thrice.) With that #FAILSON background, you’d think Faulkingham might exercise a little bit of caution when he’s behind the helm.

Nope.

The photographer sent the images to Faulkingham, who also happens to be their state rep. “I don’t think he was amused,” the photog told me. “I have photos of both guys taking pictures, making me wonder if a driverless boat was safe in those waves. It was the ONLY boat I’ve ever seen in that area when there was a surf warning. Definitely the only one out ‘wave-watching’ that day.”

In Faulkingham’s oft-repeated version of his tale, though, there’s zero mention of his playtime in the Schoodic Point surf. According to him, they just stopped by Turtle Island Ledges, on the way home from work, for a quick look-see at the wave action.

“And they were kind of cool. They were rolling a little bit. I’ve seen a lot bigger,” he told WVOM-FM three days after the incident. “We were just about ready to finish our way into the harbor when I saw something I never want to see again. I saw a wall of water. I mean, just a huge mountain of a wave. And I don’t know where I was gonna go. But I got to the helm and accelerated the boat to try to get away from it.”

The alleged rogue wave, according to the state rep from Winter Harbor, was faster than his 750HP John Deere. Suddenly, thousands of gallons of ocean broke over the starboard quarter. Then, according to his story, the wave pulled down Faulkingham’s trousers and tighty-whities, leaving him bare-assed as the rogue wave capsized the 51, flinging her skipper clear of the vessel.

I’m gonna repeat that and not just for the lulz. Faulkingham claims the rogue wave pulled down his pants and underwear, leaving him half-naked, then capsized the boat, with the stout state rep somehow being thrown free and clear of an overturning 40-foot vessel.

Okay. Sure.

Suddenly, he was deep underwater, with his pants and drawers down around his boots. Faulkingham claimed he looked up and saw a light. He swam towards the luminance above, broke the surface, and was greeted by a sight that must have been a surprise. His recently rehabbed 51, overturned, spewing clouds of black smoke from her stern exhaust, propeller still spinning, her heavily-damaged keel pointed toward heaven.

Despite the surreal scene, Faulkingham had the presence of mind to note (and has repeated many times since) that the salty sea was “bathwater warm.” (The actual water temp on the day of the sinking was about 63 degrees Fahrenheit, about 37 degrees colder than average bathwater.) He credited “the presence of God” for that warmth, though it was probably just a rush of adrenalin. Or maybe Faulkingham pissed himself upon realizing how badly he screwed up.

Or perhaps the bathwater-like sea is how Faulkingham interprets the Gulf of Maine’s rapid warming due to climate change. After all, average water temps off of Winter Harbor are almost five degrees warmer in 2024 than in the late 1980s when he was a kid. Sadly, the Gulf of Maine is warming 99 percent faster than the rest of Earth’s oceans. Which is gonna have a huge impact on the status of future fisheries, lobstering et al. And Faulkingham, who is NOT a scientist, has repeatedly called climate change “bogus nonsense.”

Don’t even get me going on the covid-disinfo and skepticism Faulkingham (a paradigm of good health) spread during the pandemic, all while, (according to state financial disclosure forms) he and his wife took PUA payments for almost two years.

Next, he swam through that bathwater, with trousers and panties around his ankles, amid the chaos of his $80,000 engine’s belching death throes and billowing acrid fumes, making his way towards the 51, through a debris field of crates of banded lobsters, empty totes, backpacks and other flotsam and jetsam from his work life. Then somehow, perhaps with angelic assistance (more on that soon, I promise) he was able to propel himself out of the water and onto the bottom of his overturned boat, where he immediately pulled up his wet undies and sweatpants.

Despite the destruction around him, Faulkingham repeatedly claimed, he felt a sense of calm, serenity and peace.

His hired hand, though, wasn’t as blessed.

According to a knowledgeable source, this is the sternman’s version of events.

“When the boat flipped, it threw Faulkingham out, but the sternman was hit by all the stuff on deck and then got hit by the boat. He got knocked out, briefly, broke his left arm and fractured his left wrist and came to trapped under the boat! He took a deep breath and went to swim out from under it and that’s when he realized his arm was broke. Faulkingham had gotten up onto the bottom of the boat and the sternman started yelling and then swam over and Faulkingham helped him get on. I was in the harbor when Faulkingham’s cousin brought them in and the sternman was in hard shape. Huge gash on his forehead, nose broke, and lots of cuts. Another lobsterman had to hold his arm in place so it didn’t dangle down while waiting for the ambulance.”

Yikes. That sounds terrifying to me. Like many sailors with experience on the high seas, I have a healthy respect for the power of the ocean. (And an obsessive fear of drowning.)

A rogue is a dishonest and unprincipled man.

“I knew rogue waves were real before that, but I’ve never seen a real one,” Faulkingham told WVOM-FM. “We were in fairly deep water. I feel like we were in probably 50 feet of water. And waves just don’t break in that amount of water, that far from shore where we were.”

Before explaining how we know there was no rogue wave, landlubber readers are gonna need a quick primer on the predictability of wave mechanics. Simply put, a wave needs a trigger to break, like a ledge or a rock or a shoal. Otherwise, the rule of thumb is that the wave remains a swell (rolling waves that do not break) until the wave’s height exceeds the depth of the water. (Some say it’s three-quarters of the depth of water, but we’re quibbling here.) Taking Faulkingham at his word that he was in 50 feet of water means the swell needed to be somewhere between 37 and 50 feet tall in order to break where he claimed to be physically located at the time of the incident. For reference, that’s a wave about the height of a four-story building.

(Theoretically, a good lobsterman is always aware of the depth of water beneath the keel. Standard equipment on a lobster boat is a fathometer which determines depth using sound waves.)

So if Faulkingham is to be believed, it meant somehow that a giant, office-building-sized wave escaped the notice of all the fellas still lobstering offshore, plus the sightseers on the shore taking pictures. And this huge wave came out of nowhere, headed up the Mount Desert Narrows and hit nothing else, other than Faulkingham’s boat.

Yeah. Sure. If you believe that, I have a bridge to Matinicus for sale. Real cheap.

Here’s more proof Faulkingham isn’t telling the truth. At the time of the incident, the high tide had just turned and started to ebb, so any “rogue wave” would’ve also clobbered Turtle Island, scarring the beach and/or tossing debris way above the tideline. And, according to locals, there was no sign of any rogue wave damage on the shore above the high water mark.

Also, the generally accepted definition of a real “rogue wave” is a wave twice the height of the average waves surrounding it. So if Faulkingham’s alleged rogue wave actually broke at 40 feet, the average wave action in Frenchman’s Bay, at the time, would have to be 20 footers. And we know from the photos from minutes before, over at Schoodic, and from the word of other fishermen and Faulkingham himself, the weather was nice and the sea calm, unless you were in among the breakers. Besides, no lobster boat would be out with a 20-foot chop in Frenchman’s Bay.

So if Faulkingham’s tale is scientifically impossible, what caused his boat to capsize and seriously injure his sternman?

Firstly, according to those in-the-know in Winter Harbor, the 51 wasn’t in 50 feet of water like Faulkingham claimed. Instead, he was up inside, right by the Turtle Island Ledges, a known local danger-spot and the location of a tragic father-son death of Ralph and Kenneth Byers in 1975.

The senior Byers was respected as an experienced fisherman, so the story of his death is well-known locally. Plus, the lobster boat races in Winter Harbor that Faulkingham raced on many occasions are named for Byers. Rumor has it that Faulkingham may be competing with his daddy’s boat in this year’s races — the 60th year of lobster boat racing in Winter Harbor — tomorrow, August 25.

One of my extremely knowledgeable harborfront sources explained what happened to the House GOP leader. “Faulkingham was down to Turtle Island Ledge where we have all been told a million times not to go. Two people died there, years ago, in the same exact spot,” they explained. “There are two ledges. The inner and outer breaker. He was right between them and the outer one broke and rolled him over.”

I transposed those annotations onto the nautical chart. The green circle signifies where locals say the 51 actually capsized. The red circle signifies the approximate area where the 51 was recovered. And the black oval denotes the general 50-foot deep area where Faulkingham claimed he was when the “rogue” wave struck.

You can see the Turtle Island Ledges are clearly marked on the chart. Also, there are two asterisks just outside the ledges. (On a nautical chart, the asterisk is a pictograph denoting rocks exposed at low tide.) And, in all likelihood, that’s where Faulkingham was. Just inside those two asterisks and just outside the actual Turtle Island ledges.

This is a very narrow split of ocean, surrounded by known dangers, with a hurricane approaching. If Faulkingham was up inside there, shooting videos for Tik-Tok, and not paying attention while “side to” the surging ocean, a fierce wave breaking on the ledges could possibly flip his lobster boat. Remember, though, Faulkingham claimed to be nowhere near that danger-spot, insisting he and the 51 was in fifty feet of water, a place where waves don’t break.

Forensically, though, the 51’s hull damage tells a more probable scenario than Faulkingham’s fishy rogue wave. According to the boatbuilder rebuilding the 51, there were ten big holes and gashes on both the port and starboard sides (though the starboard was more heavily damaged) plus serious injury to the keel. (More on this later.) To me and other mariners, that amount of damage suggests Faulkingham struck the Turtle Island Ledges or the nearby rocks. Or both.

Touched by an angel?

Sometimes Faulkingham has included the following sub-plot to his retelling that many have found to be creepy, weird and disrespectful. As Faulkingham explained to WVOM-FM and others, he thinks it’s possible an angelic force somehow pushed him up and out of the water and onto to the bottom of his overturned boat. After all, Faulkingham is a very big guy and not in the best of shape.

To make matters worse, Faulkingham even ventured a guess at the angel’s name: Tylar. As in Tylar Michaud, the 18-year-old lobsterman from Steuben who died tragically in the summer of 2023. By all accounts, Tylar was a hard-working striver and awesome young man.

Here is what Faulkingham told WVOM-FM: “I think Tylar was an angel in life. And he’s probably an angel right now, doing works for God. He was an amazing kid. And I don’t know how angels work. Or how God works with angels. Maybe Ty was the one that pushed us out of the ocean?”

Tylar’s boat, F/V Top Gun had been found adrift and empty near Petit Manan Point in the afternoon of a foggy late July day last summer. The recent high school grad had been tending his traps, working hard and by himself, to earn money to pay for his upcoming first year at Maine Maritime Academy, when he went overboard.

The discovery of an empty fishing boat is always agonizing. In lobstering, an empty vessel usually means the captain’s feet got hung up in pot warp, dragged over the stern into the deep to be drowned by his own gear. That’s apparently what happened with Tylar. The situation was especially sad — and hit the Hancock County’s coastal community hard — because he was a promising young fella, beloved by many.

For a month, his body remained missing, lost-at-sea, which must have been devastating to family and friends. Then, on August 26, another fisherman recovered Tylar’s corpse, floating off Addison, about seven miles from where his boat had been found. A sad relief, in a way, for the grieving family. And an awful reminder of the dangers of working on the water.

All of this to say; why in heaven’s name did Faulkingham think it was appropriate to connect the young man to his own tall tale?And it brings up the serious question no talk show host would dare ask: Why would God save a dubbah like Faulkingham while killing Tylar?

Also, when Faulkingham says “And I don’t know how angels work. Or how God works with angels,” he’s a hundred percent correct. Maybe he hasn’t read the Bible, but it’s clear he doesn’t understand the angel concepts described by Ezekiel or in Matthew’s gospel.

Angels, according to Scripture, are not dead humans. (The human-into-angel trope is more New Age or pagan than Christian.) Angels are actually spiritual creatures that, according to the Bible, sometimes look human so they blend in while working undercover on Earth. And they don’t have wings. At least, the human-looking angels don’t have wings. There are some other “angels” with wings, but they’re pretty weird-looking and would be hard to miss. Especially flying down into the waters off Winter Harbor to pluck a hefty state lawmaker from the drink, put him up onto his overturned boat, and then taking off, leaving the sternman beneath the overturned vessel. Simply not Biblical.

If an angel wasn’t responsible for getting Faulkingham up onto the boat, then how the hell did the rotund state rep get out of the water? One theory: Since his lower limbs were tied together by his undies and pants, he suddenly had the same aerodynamics as a mermaid. With a single flip of his powerful “tail,” (aka his bound legs), he propelled himself out of the water and onto the boat. Then, he was able to pull up his underpants and sweats. And like Adam and Eve with their fig leaves, he covered his meat apron.

In God he trusts

After the capsizing, Faulkingham said, he and his sternman were sitting perched atop the bottom of the overturned 51, as she floated safely in calm waters. Always the hero, the state rep removed his salty sweatpants to bandage the multiple cuts on the sternman’s head, including a four-inch noggin gash that revealed skull-bone. The midday sun warmed the black bottomed hull and quickly dried the two men while they awaited the rescuers Faulkingham knew his Christian God would send.

By this point, the 51’s engine was dead and silent. The air was clear and the sky was blue. The blankets of black smoke had dissipated. It had been “like a war scene,” Faulkingham told WVOM-FM. But while waiting for help, he said, the sea was peaceful and calm.

(Calm except for the debris and the fuel and oil in the water. Gotta wonder about the environmental impact of Faulkingham’s mess. Usually when a vessel goes down, the first response is to use a floating “oil sorbent boom” to catch the floating fuels before the petro-chems get absorbed by the water or wildlife. In the case of the 51, though, no booms were ever installed.)

“The first thing I told [the sternman] was ‘You’re gonna be alright. We’re gonna be alright. God is with us,’” he told the rapt WVOM-FM radio hosts. “I didn’t used to have faith like this, but I’ve been building my faith and having a relationship with God. And I know that it was really important in that moment, because I felt like God was with us. I know God was with us. And I just started praising him and thanking him for being alive. Thank you God! We praise you God! We love you God! Thank you for keeping us alive. Please keep this boat safe. Please get some help!”

It’s his constitutional right, of course, to believe whatever he wants. And I know religious folk find solace in praying. However, Faulkingham’s “Thanks for keeping us alive!” praise seems strange. Especially since his Christian God just let him crash into a ledge, destroy his livelihood and hurt his sternman real bad.

“What really happened to the boat is unexplainable to me because as I was praising God and thanking God out loud, I watched all the debris that came off the boat drift towards shore” he told radio listeners,“and drift into where those ledges were. And where those breakers were. And get churned up [sic] in that. And the boat stayed in safe water. And, as a matter of fact, drifted to even calmer waters.”

Arg. Not a miracle. The reason it was “unexplainable” is because this is another example of Faulkingham lying to cover up.

The tide charts says high tide was 11:49 a.m. That means, after a brief period of “slack high water,” the tide starts to ebb, meaning the high tide just started draining at the time of the alleged rogue wave. So it’s impossible, from the “50 feet deep water” location where he claimed to have capsized, that the 51 and his crates and miscellanea would’ve made their way up inside, getting smashed to bits on rocks and ledge.

However, if the 51 was located where we plotted her position on the chart, it is conceivable that the sea surge might have tossed his floating stuff around.

It would be almost an hour before Faulkingham’s cousin Mikey arrived on the scene. Must have been tough for the sternman. Poor fella was still in shock. Bloody, dazed and very confused. After all, he’d suddenly been knocked unconscious, then awoke beneath the 51. Had to swim his way out, with a broken fin. Now, with Faulkingham’s dirty sweats wrapped around his head wounds, the sternman sat on the overturned boat bottom. Shivering. Wondering WTF?

Later, Faulkingham gave the chain-of-response responsible for his “rescue”: The 51’s EPIRB radio transmitter signaled Coast Guard Boston who called Faulkingham’s wife who called the the co-op manager who put the call out on the radio and phone. And Mikey came flying in from offshore and saved the day.

The actual rescue op went amazingly smooth, thanks to the oddly calm weather. Without another rogue wave in sight, Captain William Robert Faulkingham and his one-man crew abandoned ship. According to the House GOP leader, they didn’t even get their feet wet while stepping from their roost on the overturned hull onto Mikey’s boat.

Talk about miracles!

Five minutes later, Faulkingham was ashore, awaiting medical attention for his minor boo-boos and an ambulance for the seriously-concussed and injured sternman, who sat with another Winter Harbor lobsterman, who held held his double-broken arm in place.

Meanwhile, with nobody watching, the 51 sank to the bottom, where she’d sit for a week.

How did the 51 stay afloat until help arrived? Was it another miracle? Faulkingham claims so, though there are other theories. Faulkingham’s hefty bulk, for instance, acting as top-side ballast, unintentionally kept the hull-holes above the waterline. Conversely, air trapped in the engine compartment or below deck or in the bilges could’ve added buoyancy to the overturned vessel. When he and his hired hand got onto Mikey’s boat, the 51’s load shifted and the holes took on water and down she went.

A scenario that was probably enhanced by the wake left behind by Cousin Mikey’s boat. Because once the rescued men were aboard, Mikey backed down, came about and gave it to her, hard. He’s got a big engine, according to Faulkingham, that goes 40 knots. So Mikey’s boat’s wake was probably the last straw, spoiling the calm and giving the 51 a wavy push to the bottom, where she spent the next week until being re-floated with airbags.

Of course, this is all speculation, because only two people (Faulkingham and his sternman) know for sure. And since Faulkingham has proven he is NOT a reliable narrator, that just leaves the sternman as witness. And he declined several requests from me for an on-the-record interview. For awhile, we were friends on Facebook. He’s since deleted his account, but not before sharing a major clue on his perspective about the whole damn incident.

About three weeks after the sinking, the sternman posted this fairly gruesome photo of his face. All stove up, to put it mildly. It appears the picture was taken in the hospital, just after being rescued. I’ve looked at this portrait often. These surface wounds are pretty grisly and we can’t see the internal impact of the broken bones and head trauma. But it’s no question: the sternman is lucky to be alive. Hopefully, the injuries don’t plague him for the rest of his life.

The sternman made a single terse comment to accompany the post of his bloody portrait. “Shouldn’t have happened.” And he didn’t respond to any questions from his pals. The post ultimately received 25 likes and 15 comments.

On the other hand, Faulkingham’s FB post about the alleged rogue wave and miraculous rescue, received a thousand comments and 3,000 likes and over 3,300 shares, often with links to a fundraising campaign, shared mostly by religious folk and politicians, most notably Maine’s senior Senator Susan Collins.

Here’s another thing about the sternman. Up until the wreck of the 51, the fella worked as legislative assistant for the House GOP and worked as Faulkingham’s hired hand. Which meant both men had full healthcare coverage, as legislative employees, paid for by Maine taxpayers.

Soon after the wreck, the injured fella quit both gigs, telling colleagues he didn’t wanna work in government any longer. (And, apparently, he never wanted to get on a boat with Faulkingham ever again.) Nowadays, he’s laboring down at the Winter Harbor Co-op, which means he must see Faulkingham on a regular basis. Wonder what he thinks when he witnesses the illegally-employed 14-year-old stern-boy headed out-to-hall with his ex-boss.

Saved by a NASCAR driver?

Here’s another strange twist to this tale. Back in September, when Faulkingham’s story went viral, someone claiming to be the “Maine House of Representatives” created a fundraiser on the “Give Send Go” crowd-funding platform to help Faulkingham and sternman with “medical expenses and get them back on their feet.” When I started looking into Faulkingham’s story last November for the Disinfomaniacs podcast, $3,547 of the $25,000 goal had been raised via 47 donors, including gifts by several Maine lawmakers.

(This is the 3rd Crash Report that mentions Give-Send-Go, which is sort of a GoFundMe for far-right hate mongers like Shawn McBreairty, who raised at least $10,000 through the site. Neo-Nazis like Hammer-the-chud and street thug-chuds like NSC-131 and Goyim Defense League currently have fundraisers going through the app. Yet the site’s owners claim to be Christian. Yikes.)

Looking closely at the fundraiser page (which has since been deleted, more on that in a second), it’s obvious the campaign was not sponsored by the Maine House of Representatives. First of all, the Dem-controlled Legislature wouldn’t use a chud-fundraising platform. More importantly, though, both Faulkingham and his hired hand had excellent health insurance through their jobs as legislative employees. So who and why was raising money for their medical expenses?

Digging a little deeper, I found a tag on an inner page, showing that the campaign had been created “by” the Maine House of Representatives “in” Fort Kent, Maine. Those details (plus a couple clues from social media) led me to suspect that former NASCAR driver and current GOP candidate for CD2, State Rep. Austin Theriault (R-Fort Kent) was behind the page. I checked with an Augusta insider who donated to the fundraiser and they confirmed Theriault was the organizer.

So I emailed Theriault and left messages at various phone numbers associated with him (including his CD2 congressional campaign headquarters), inquiring if he had set up the fundraiser. No one called back, but the day after I telephoned Theriault, the Give-Send-Go page for Faulkingham was deleted, disappeared forever.

No surprise Theriault took down the Give-Send-Go. He had just begun his quest to win Maine’s 2nd congressional district GOP primary and talking to a muckraker about Faulkingham’s fishy story of divine intervention wouldn’t help his campaign.

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Gotta wonder what happened to the $3,547 in the Give-Send-Go when the campaign abruptly ended. According to a source in the know, the sternman didn’t get it. And according to Faulkingham’s financial disclosure form filed with the state, there’s no mention of any fundraiser payment. The same goes for Theriault.

(It’s a gray area, of sorts. Responding to an inquiry by me as to whether the Give-Send-Go income should’ve been disclosed, the assistant director of the Maine Ethics Commission wrote, “because it was from a group of individuals, rather than one single individual, which is an exception to the [reportable gift] definition. The Commission would require additional information before responding to this question.”)

Regardless, the fundraising proceeds were small peanuts for both of ‘em. These days, as the GOP candidate for CD2, the Trump-endorsed Theriault has raised a couple million bucks. As for Faulkingham, a mere $3,500 ain’t gonna make a dent in his financial woes.

That cash would’ve helped the sternman, tho. Any cash would’ve.

A brief aside about insurance and boats. As you’ll soon learn, Faulkingham had “hull insurance” which paid him a couple hundred grand when the 51 went down. (He apparently still owed some money, though, on the 2021 rehab of the vessel, so only what’s left over was going to pay the boatyard for the 51’s current re-build.)

More importantly, for the sternman, is the fact that Faulkingham didn’t carry the “Protection and Indemnity” insurance which covers accidents occurring at sea. “P & I” pays 3rd party expenses related to maritime mishaps. The coverage is optional and expensive. Most legit lobstermen, though, consider “P & I” just another cost of doing business because the insurance covers their “independent contractor” sternman in case of catastrophe while working out-to-haul.

Which meant, post-sinking, the suddenly-jobless sternman was severely injured and unable to work. And because Faulkingham didn’t have P&I, there was zero compensation for his troubles. His only recourse: to bring his former boss to court to pay for his pain and suffering. Since blood can’t be gotten from a stone, though, is it even worth suing a heavily-mortgaged and suddenly income-less Faulkingham?

Back in November, there were rumors from the State House corridors that the former sternman had retained an attorney. As of this writing, however, there haven’t been any lawsuits filed in Maine’s courts in connection to the injurious incident.

Down at the Boatyard

It was the end of September 2023 when Faulkingham’s 51 was finally settled in her new crib at H&H Marine in the Washington County town of Steuben. H&H co-owner Eric Moores and two of his guys spent an entire weekend ripping the 40-foot lobster boat down to her bare bones. Total demolition of decks, bulkheads and cuddy. Everything, including the busted keel, removed. Nothing left, when they got done with her, besides the skin of her hull. The EXCLUSIVE Crash Report photo below shows the 51’s interior after two weeks of patching, but prior to the installation of the new keel.

An almost-new hull, practically. But in the eyes of lenders, insurers and any future buyers, the 51 will always be known as a sinker who sank. Which will make her actual value far far less than what Faulkingham will spend to get her seaworthy.

“It is a crazy rebuild,” Moores told me back in April. “But I’m saving him money by not building him a new hull.”

That’s true. A brand new forty-footer, built by Moores for Faulkingham would cost about $485,000. Moores’s initial quote to Faulkingham for the rebuild would be around $300,000 and, at the time of our conversation, he had guesstimated that would be done mid-to-late summer.

When we spoke in early-spring, the rehab of the 51 was at a standstill, because they were still awaiting delivery of the “new” engine, a re-built 550 HP John Deere, a step down from Faulkingham’s previous, now-destroyed, 750 horse. The down-powering was a fiscal decision, according to Moores. The engine’s $35,000 price tag, in today’s marine marketplace, was practically a steal.

“With the price of everything going up,” Moores explained, “taking the dropdown in speed and power makes sense even if it takes an extra hour to getcha where you were going.”

However, in late spring, Moores (who was already fighting cancer) had a heart attack. Then, in July, the lead boatbuilder on the job resigned to go back to working as a sternman.

Plus, the new engine still hasn’t shown up at the boatyard. As of early August, the re-built John Deere was still sitting in a shop in Columbia Falls located 18 miles from H&H. Waterfront chatter says there’s a messy divorce somewhere in the chain-of-command, slowing down the 51’s re-powering, thus slowing down the whole damn job.

The good news, though, is that the 51 has a keel again. Before the lead boatbuilder quit, he and Moores worked together to install a new keel. It’s tough to explain how big of a deal this is, in terms of boatbuilding. It’s a major operation, for sure, especially doing the job in a small coastal Maine boatyard. Luckily, I found some video on Facebook of the actual team rigging, then installing the new keel into the 51. And let me tell yah, those are some real good boat-repair skills, for sure.

And here are some photos of the 51 — exclusive to the Crash Report — from July, showing her slow progress. The new cabin roof was a salvage job from another vessel. That big gaping hole the in roof, btw, will be fixed once they get the engine installed.

Despite all the patching, the work on the 51 is at a standstill, due to the lack of the re-built “new” engine Faulkingham is buying for $35,000.

With the rest of the job on hold awaiting the engine’s arrival, the 51 is currently just taking up space in the shop. Once she’s re-powered, though, the real work can begin. Gears, propulsion and electrical. And re-building, from scratch, decks and bulkheads, from stem to stern. There’s also still some body repairs to finish, plus the inevitable odds and ends. Then she needs to be 100% re-outfitted, since everything was destroyed when she visited the ocean bottom. From new electronics to safety gear, nothing comes cheap. Not to mention the nickel-dime final costs like hauling the 51 back down to the shore for re-launching or filling her brand new and empty fuel tanks with diesel.

In other words, still lots left to do (and pay for) before she gets her final coat of paint. Which raises more questions. Will the GOP House Leader keep the possibly-jinxed white and blue color scheme? And will Faulkingham replicate the 51’s original flag-waving decorations? As seen in the photo below, from the 51’s prior rehab in 2021, a US flag is painted on the starboard bow. Backwards, though, as if it’s flying in the wind. On the port side, also “wind-blown” is the Marine Corps flag, because Faulkingham served as a Marine reservist for 3 years.

Painting an American flag, btw, on the bow of a vessel is a flag code violation. According to flag code, American flags are to be flown from the stern of a vessel in port or aloft underway. Not to be painted, backwards, on the bow. A flag code violation, though, is the least of Faulkingham’s worries.

As the wiseacres like to say, “A boat is just a hole in the water you pour money into.” The final total — due to delays and ancillary costs — keeps going up, with gossips predicting somewhere between $350,000 and $400,000 just for the 51 to get back in the water and lobstering.

According to Moores, Faulkingham said he received $200,000 insurance payout and still had some outstanding debt on the 51 to pay for the stem-to-stern pandemic-era rehab in 2021 and re-powering with the now-dead 750 John Deere. Also, as Moores explained to me, in the boat-repair-and-insurance-company system, the boat owner receives the check, not the boatyard doing the work. So that would mean that Faulkingham got paid 200k (less the pre-existing debt) to pay for a boat reconstruction that’s gonna cost a whole bunch more.

How the heck is he gonna handle the rest of the bill? According to his financial disclosures filed with the state, his sole source of income (in addition to his legislative pittance) is lobstering. (Plus whatever his wife earns with her home-based sales gig with a MLM skincare company.)

In terms of the stunt’s price tag, because Faulkingham claims “commercial fishing” as his sole source of income, we also have to factor in lost earnings in the total cost of sinking his boat. How much is that for Faulkingham? Only he and his Quickbooks knows for sure. Like we explained, the fella isn’t a high-liner. That being said, at certain times of year, even a dubbah can make money catching lobsters. I’d estimate that Faulkingham has the potential to clear $75k annually, unless he’s even lazier than previously thought.

A Lazy Man Lobster(ing)

Perhaps the best way to judge someone’s work ethic, down on the shore, is to take a look at their wharf, scow and dooryard. If it’s a mess, then, usually, they’re a dubbah. To be a high-liner making good money requires a certain degree of order and discipline. Pictured below is Faulkingham’s wharf and fishhouse in Winter Harbor, a couple dozen steps from the Co-op. Whaddya think?

Another sign of laziness downeast are piles of traps in need of fixing, cuz they ain’t catching lobsters sitting on the dock. Most fisher-folk I know would be embarrassed to leave their wharf in such disarray overnight, let alone for year(s).

Also, I’ve examined these photos of the dock from a laborer’s perspective. Yikes. Talk about disrepair and danger. The missing planks are indicative of neglect and poor maintenance. The untouched stacks of lumber seem to signify the unfulfilled intent to replace the missing and rotting planks in the dock.

Like I said, a real dubbah.

Plus that shack is a fire hazard, chock-full of ignored “to do” lists, abandoned ambition and failed dreams. (Or old pot warp and bags of trash.) Mouse-infested, for sure. Unless muricidal wharf rats ate the mice. Not fit for anyone, not even as an Air B and B. Not even for a sternman!

Faulkingham bought the spot in 2019 for $155,000 after the Winter Harbor Lobster Co-op declined to buy it, due the high price, the dock’s crumbling condition and the lack of vehicular access. “I can’t imagine that wharf would survey for over $100k,” one fisherman told me.

Other than the existing structures, the tiny lot is unbuildable because of shoreland regulations. And there’s no ROW to the road. Which means other than running a fishing biz, or a spot to land your skiff, the wharf is worthless. Because you don’t own access to the road, you’re relying on the kindness of abutters just in order to walk to the dock on dry land.

Luckily, for Faulkingham, Machias Savings Bank doesn’t seem to view the wharf through the same realistic lens. According to the Hancock County Registry of Deeds, in March, Machias Savings Bank loaned the House GOP Leader $233,000 on his 1/10th of an acre property. That was, apparently, in addition to the balance on the existing $155,000 note to buy the dock, which was also held by Machias Savings.

And, according the insurance clause in his mortgage, full replacement coverage is required. Several waterfront observers have told me that the property is basically un-insurable at an affordable rate. Due to the dock’s rundown condition, rising sea levels, extreme weather events and a lack of fire suppression equipment, plus Faulkingham’s bad luck, the monthly premium would be outrageously high.

Considering current interest rates on a 15-year note, it appears Faulkingham is paying about $2,000 a month to borrow that cash. And that’s not counting property taxes and insurance. Also, if he takes 15 years to pay it back, looks like he’ll pay approximately $125,000 in interest over the life of the loan.

Yikes. Even just using rough numbers for his vessel repair, his lost income, the new mortgage and interest on the wharf, it’s clear that the alleged rogue wave fiasco will probably cost the state rep from Winter Harbor over a half million bucks. At least.

And I’d hate to see the bill for future insurance premiums for the 51 when she’s back in the water. Coverage is not going to come cheap.

Dubbah is a Dummy

For the purposes of this debunking, I’ve consulted with over a dozen maritime experts — from captains to sternmen to Coasties and other sailors — about the veracity of Faulkingham’s narrative After being provided with the basic details, everyone was in agreement: Nope. Not a chance. Something smelled fishy.

Beyond all the wave mechanics and alleged location and rogue wave details, the basic fact remains: lobster boats go out in all sorts of weather and don’t capsize. Unless, of course, the skipper does something stupid. Like crashing into a ledge while trying to get a vid for Tik-Tok.

The lobster boat’s classic wide beam and higher bow design has been storm-tested for decades. The dependable stability of the rugged vessel is one of the major reasons for Maine’s successful lobster industry. Every day, unless it’s blowin’ a gale, hardworking Mainers are out on the water, hauling gear and making money in horrible weather and waves AND DON’T CAPSIZE. Especially getting flipped on a nice day by a rando freak wave. It just doesn’t happen.

Also, I couldn’t find anybody who thought rebuilding the boat was a good idea. Except the boatyard owner. Paying big bucks and borrowing lots of money for a “brand new old boat” didn’t make sense, fiscally or fishing-wise.

The overall consensus was that the state rep from Winter Harbor should’ve used his insurance payout to buy a nice secondhand lobster boat, so he could get back to work, catching lobsters and making cash to support his family. Then later, when he can afford it, upgrade to a new boat. That’s what a thrifty and smart Yankee conservative would do.

I agree wholeheartedly. Ever since I started looking into Faulkingham’s situation, I keep seeing used lobster boats for sale. Lots of ‘em. And some very good deals out there. Affordable boats in great shape, all ready to go out-to-haul tomorrow.

A couple of my maritime experts suggested that, perhaps, Faulkingham was resurrecting the 51 purely for nostalgic reasons. The vessel, remember, is named for his long-dead cousin. Not to be a jerk, but I’m not sure Faulkingham can afford such sentimentality. Especially since the sinking was the result of him screwing around.

A stinking mess

See those eight crates floating in the lower right corner of the photo below? Each holds about a hundred pounds of Peekytoe crab (aka rock crab) whose claws are usually considered a delicacy. Not these crabs though. They’ve been tied up to Faulkingham’s scow since the day before Faulkingham sank the 51. For an unknown reason, in the months following, Faulkingham ignored those eight crates of crabs. At some point, the crabs died, en mass, starving to death in the crates. By March, they stunk to high heaven, according to those downwind of Faulkingham’s scow.

Not to get all preachy, but I’d say such ignoring the crated crustaceans was sinful, wasteful and weird. Faulkingham definitely could’ve used the thousand bucks he would’ve made from selling ‘em. Or someone from Winter Harbor would’ve appreciated the chance to cook and pick ‘em before they died. Probably get at least 40 pounds pounds of delicious crabmeat, with a retail value of at least $1,600.

As of late July, as you can see in the photo below, the crates are still tied to his scow. The good news, for the summer folk, is the stench is gone. Probably just empty shells left in those crates, especially after the sea fleas and other scavengers were done feasting on rotten crab meat.

Thankfully, the scow looks a tiny bit neater now than back in March. According to waterfront sources, Faulkingham’s brother was seen aboard the float, trying to straighten out his big brother’s mess. Also, I’m getting reports from down on the shore that Faulkingham’s buoys are all kelped up. You can barely see his buoy colors. Which makes it difficult for others to identify the buoy. Just another sign of his slackadasical and lazy lobstering.

Gotta wonder how Faulkingham spends his time these days. After all, Legislature is closed down for summer. And he only occasionally goes out-to-haul. Although I’ve also heard reports that he’s been bringing “out-of-staters” out for boat rides on Gramp’s Bird. Let’s hope that’s not for hire, because the state rep doesn’t hold the required six-passenger license to bring folks out sight-seeing, whale-watching or for content creation.

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A couple summers ago, I heard chatter from down on the shore that state Rep. Billy Bob Faulkingham couldn’t find anyone to go out to haul his lobster traps with him, so he hired a neighbor’s 14-year-old kid to work as his sternman aboard a borrowed lobster boat. Which is a clear violation of child labor law. Not to mention, extremely risky, considering the last fella (the grown man pictured below) who worked for the Maine GOP House Leader was nearly killed when the state rep from Winter Harbor flipped and sank his lobster boat while filming waves breaking on Turtle Island Ledge for social media.

If you’re new around here, I suggest reading these previous Crash Reports with all the deets: A Scientific Debunking of Billy Bob Faulkingham’s Fishy Tale of Rogue Wave, Angelic Rescue and The Christian God Punishes Maine GOP Leader for Breaking Child Labor Laws, Lying about Boat Wreck

That “accident” cost Faulkingham over a half-million bucks in repairs and lost earnings. And re-building the vessel (literally from the keel up) took almost two full years, so Faulkingham’s daddy occasionally lent his 47-year-old old son the F/V Grampy’s Bird to haul his gear. Since no adult would go out to haul with him, Faulkingham hired the 14-year-old to empty traps, fill bait bags and band lobsters. And the cheapskate pol only paid the kid a mere fifty bucks a day, far less than the standard rate for a sternman, thusly both endangering the life of a minor and ripping him off. So I made some inquires down on the shore and confirmed — from two extremely reliable sources — that the young teen laboring for the House Minority Leader of the Maine Legislature was indeed 14-years-old.

I reached out to the Department of Labor in Aug. 2024 with a tip about the underage worker and other possible violations. And never heard back. Below is my email explaining the situation.

Unbeknownst to me, the DOL followed my tip and investigated. Then, last spring — the DOL fined the GOP leader $6,136.00. Faulkingham, of course, appealed, which kept the details of labor law violations secret. Spoiler alert: Last month, a hearing officer reduced Faulkingham’s fine by $2,668, so the dubbah now only has to pay $3,468. More on that in a sec.

But first, cue the Faulkingham apologists defending their rotund leader, claiming kids have worked aboard Maine lobster boats for a century. For sure. But those kids — from age 8 upwards — are required to have a license as part of an apprenticeship, which Faulkingham’s stern-boy didn’t have and never applied for. Also, those apprenticeship and/or student licenses are for kids tending their own traps, not working for their neighbor, aboard the neighbor’s daddy’s boat because the neighbor’s boat sank while the neighbor was shooting vids for the socials.

To be clear, according to the investigator’s report, the youngster had zero experience lobstering and received just basic instructions on how to do the job.

I’m sure Faulkingham’s apologists will also claim the GOP Leader learned his lesson and will be sure to be extra-safe considering he had an illegal, non-licensed minor aboard. Well, those dummies probably haven’t spent much time on the water.

As longtime readers know, I was a sternman on Matinicus, Maine’s most remote inhabited island, for two years in the early 1990s. (That’s the subject of my gritty memoir Tough Island, signed copies available for $25 with free shipping. DM for details.) Which was why I was concerned about Faulkingham having a newbie youngster doing the gig, ALONE, because all sorts of shit can go wrong.

I wasn’t too worried that Faulkingham would injure the 14-year-old kid while sinking his papa’s boat while screwing around the surf to get vid for Tik-Tok. Because (you’d hope) that’s not a mistake even a dolt like Faulkingham would make twice. Because, as you can see in a now-deleted Facebook post, his injured sternman posted “shouldn’t have happened” in the days after nearly being killed.

My concern was the 14-year-old newbie finding himself in a situation he shouldn’t be in. A sad and common reality for lobstering communities is that experienced captains can easily get tangled up in a mess of pot warp on deck, get dragged overboard and then die. I know, firsthand, how scary that sort of instantaneous disaster underway can be. You can listen, below from the Audible version of Tough Island to the terrifying story of when my first captain, Cap’n Donald, got tangled up in rope and was nearly killed.

Back when Cap’n Donald almost perished, I was a young buck in my early 20s, buff and strong. And to be clear, when a fella gets hung up in pot warp and dragged aft, it happens real quick. In an instant, headed for the fishes. I credit my three years as a sailor in the Coast Guard for my ability to think quickly and prevent Cap’n Donald’s death.

Thing is, if Cap’n Faulkingham got tangled up and dragged overboard, the little kid wouldn’t have been able to do anything. His skipper — weighing over 300 pounds and boots heavy with ocean — would’ve sank like a rock and drowned. Which would be a loss to Faulkingham’s wife and kids, but also very traumatizing to the 14-year-old sternman suddenly faced with having to deal with a dead boss.

All that to say, working on a lobster boat is serious business.

Which brings us to the DOL’s findings. You can read the letter to Faulkingham and his legal team below, but the OG ruling had four violations of 26 MRS §772 “Hazardous Occupations” rules, plus four violations of 26 MRS §774 (7) “Record of work hours of minors” and four violations of 26 MRS §665 (1), regarding “records of pay statements” by the employer.

The total penalty: $6,136.00.

And as mentioned earlier, Faulkingham filed an appeal and retained Josh Tardy, a hotshot Bangor attorney who served as Republican House leader from 2006 to 2010, to represent him.

I’m not gonna spend too much time questioning the results of the appeal hearing, though gotta say Faulkingham’s defense of the violations was pretty lame. And I believe the hearing officer — who is a lawyer not a judge — screwed up.

The state showed up for the appeals hearing with all sorts of evidence.

Faulkingham, though, entered three pieces of evidence: a Facebook post about kids lobstering, a blank “Student” lobster application and a Bangor Daily News reprint of a Harpswell Anchor story about Chris McIntire, a lobsterman who died “unexpectedly” at the age of 32. Why? I dunno.

Also, as you can see (above) Faulkingham submitted “Exhibit 1: Social media children lobstering (8 pages).” However, the “posting was not authenticated and therefore not considered.”

You can read his defense (also above) in which many of the assertions appear to be out-right lies. For instance, in the “finding of fact,” it is claimed that Faulkingham’s boat is named F/V Grampy’s Bird. Not so. That’s Faulkingham’s old man’s vessel. The Minority Leader’s boat is called F/V 51.

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Or the second so-called fact: “Appellant operates Grampy’s Bird either alone or with one or more Sternmen, who are usually independent subcontractors and not employees of the Appellant.” Again, not true. Faulkingham was borrowing his dad’s boat to go out to haul, accompanied by an unlicensed, inexperienced 14-year-old stern-boy.

Also, according to Faulkinham, the kid worked five hours a day. “Each day he was paid between $80 and $140 a day. The Appellant paid with paper checks. The checks did not have any information about total payments.”

This is also bogus. As I reported back in 2024, waterfront sources who spoke to the then 14-year-old told me the kid said he got paid fifty bucks daily, in cash. However, if there were paper checks, how come Faulkingham didn’t enter them into the evidence? After all, his only other evidence was a citation of a BDN story with no connection to the case, and a Facebook post that wasn’t considered legit.

But most audaciously, Faulkingham claimed that the law was on his side, when it comes to rules of kids working on boats. I don’t understand why he claimed this. According to the U.S. DOL Wage and Hour Division Field Operations Handbook, the law is pretty friggin’ clear. “Occupations which are in connection with transportation within the meaning of Child Labor Reg. 3, and are therefore, prohibited to 14- and 15-year-olds include: (1) jobs performed on trains, boats, buses, or other media of transportation.”

However, Faulkingham and his legal team argued, somehow, that being a sternman was “fishing” not a “job performed on…boats.” Which led the hearing officer to reduce the fines.

Again, wut?

This is bullshit because federal labor law is clear and since 29 CFR 570.33(n)(1) prohibits “the employment of 14- and 15-year-olds in occupations connected with the transportation of persons or property by rail, highway, air, water, pipeline, or other means. This prohibition involves the transportation of persons or property, and not just goods, which entails movement in commerce.”

Firstly, the lobsters that Faulkingham caught would be regarded as “property” and/or “goods.” If not, what would crustaceans sold for cash be considered? Secondly, while the state rep is a lousy lobsterman, going out to haul traps has to be considered “movement in commerce” because the very action of catching lobsters to sell is the most integral part of his commerce.

As for Faulkingham’s insistence that working as a 14-year-old untrained sternman isn’t hazardous, consider 29 CFR 570.33(n)(1) prohibition on “14- and 15-year-olds performing occupations in connection with the transportation of persons or property by rail, highway, air, water, pipeline, or other means. Some amusement park rides, such as boats, paddle boats, swan rides, ferries, and railroads fall within this prohibition.”

So 14-year-olds are banned from working on paddle boats, swan rides and ferries, but they can go out to haul with Faulkingham, who sunk his own vessel and seriously injured his prior sternman. That doesn’t pass the straight-faced test.

Below, btw, is a photo of the F/V Grampy’s Bird towing Faulkingham’s F/V 51 a week after the state rep claimed an angel rescued him. (The 51 is invisible because it’s being towed while submerged.)

Also (for landlubber readers), commercial fishing is one of the most dangerous jobs in the world and in Maine. Especially if you’re working with Billy Bob.

Hopefully, Attorney Tardy’s legal fees for the defense of Rep. Faulkingham amounted to more than the reduction won by appeal. Anyways, at least Faulkingham was fined $3,468. Which, as of today, he still hasn't paid, according to the DOL database, even though the ruling was issued on Feb. 9.

Faulkingham’s appeal, though, tracks with his party’s on-going efforts to roll back child labor laws whenever possible. Also, his appeal tracks with Faulkingham’s reputation of being an irresponsible mariner who flouts the law on the reg and believes an angelic form of a recently deceased lobsterman saved him when Faulkingham sank his boat and stove up his then-sternman.

Gotta wonder, though, how this these child labor law violations will impact his candidacy for the Maine Senate, now that he’s being term-limited out of the Maine House and his leadership position.

Faulkingham is currently running for District 6, to represent Washington County and a sliver of Hancock County in the State House. That seat has, however, traditionally been held by a Washington County resident. This year though, Faulkingham broke protocol and launched a primary challenge to fellow GOPer and former Rep. Bucket Davis, a Republican from East Machias. Faulkingham entered the Senate race in January, over a month after Davis, triggering a GOP primary that will be held in June. Faulkingham apparently decided to run for Senate after he realized his shot at the Blaine House was doomed to fail, since the GOP gubernatorial slate was already over-saturated with chuds who shared Faulkingham’s xenophobic and anti-LGBTQ beliefs.

HOUSEKEEPING: Later this week, I’ll be publishing the final episode of the Unholy Fathers podcast called Haunted by a Bloody Priest which includes the never-before-told story about a series of disturbing sexual assaults in 1981 of a twelve-year-old girl, by then-45-year-old Father Charles Sullivan, one of the dozens of Catholic priests from Springfield, Massachusetts found “credibly accused” of sexually assaulting children. In this episode, Sullivan’s victim and I team up to get her long-delayed justice AND a financial settlement from the diocese of Springfield. You can listen to the previous 15 episodes of Unholy Fathers, starting with the heartbreaking murder of 13-year-old Danny Croteau by Father Richard Lavigne here.

Also, the debut of my forthcoming true crime investigative podcast Fake Shaman has been delayed a month, due to NEW developments and other folks coming forward with more stories about the 37-year-old white woman from Connecticut claiming to be an indigenously-trained shaman, who moved to Maine with dollar signs in her eyes and psychedelic mushrooms in her Coach bag.

This ten-episode investigation details the implosion of her shamanic mentorship due to a creepy sex magic ritual and exposes the manipulations of this serial liar and con-witch targeting vulnerable people in Maine and beyond. Plus, Fake Shaman is a how-to primer in detecting fraudsters and charlatans.

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Yesterday, the City of Portland published a 262-word defense of the Calvary Chapel contract on the City’s comms department website (above), but there are a couple points I’d like to address about the End Times cult bringing their traveling circus, aka Make Heaven Crowded, to the Portland Expo on May 15.

For more context, I recommend either End Times Cult to Stage Revival at Portland Expo or Turning Point USA gets sweetheart deal from City of Portland to learn how a local church played a contractual bait-and-switch to get a drastically reduced rental rate for the Make Heaven Crowded show, put on by a political non-profit whose now-deceased leader insulted our Somali residents specifically and Maine in general.

First of all, until I reached out on Feb. 26, City Hall seemed unaware that the TP-USA freak show was coming to town. According to spokesperson Jessica Grondin, the contract was with “Calvary Church.” Well, actually, it’s with Calvary Chapel-Greater Portland, a Young Earth Creationist church located in a Westbrook industrial park. And after getting a copy of the contract — and Grondin telling me there had not been any ancillary modifications to the contract — I noted the very basic violation of the “non-assignability clause” in Section 15 that states “Lessee may not assign this agreement.”

Well, that’s exactly what is happening here. Calvary Chapel clearly violated the contract by turning the night’s rental for a “Calvary Chapel Worship Night” over to TP-USA to Make Heaven Crowded, without even bothering to mention it to the City.

As for the spokesperson’s claim that “very common for a local entity to serve as a host / promoter for a touring event” that’s not what’s happening here. And that spin doesn’t pass the straight-face test. The OG deal was made by a local church to rent the city’s joint for a 400-seat “Calvary Chapel Worship Night.” That’s a helluva lot different than the multi-million dollar alleged-non-profit TP-USA coming to town to incite the local Christo-Nash-Fash to hate their neighbors and encourage them to view the LGBTQ community and Democrats as demons.

Secondly, the spokes-hack dismissed the use of security concerns as a legit way to cancel the contract with the hate group.

“At this point, we don't believe that public safety is at risk by hosting this event,” according to the press release, “but we are continuing to look at that closely in conjunction with our Events Planning team and the Police Department.”

Uhhhh. Are the folks at City Hall unaware of the network of local activists who would definitely rise to the occasion to protest, disrupt and/or monkey-wrench the arrival of a group espousing xenophobic rhetoric towards vulnerable communities?

Regarding security, this is the City’s explainer: “Any additional City event services required, including security, police presence, and the use of metal detectors, will be paid for by the event organizers/promoters as stipulated in the rental contract.”

Well, at least the city seems to recognize the potential dangers, if they’re thinking about bringing in the metal detectors, extra cops and security. After all, the ex-leader of this group was murdered by a lone gunman. And in conspiratorial circles, the momentarily-loved Erika Kirk is now disliked by all sorts of whackos who don’t trust the deadman’s widow, seen below calling Ice protestors “demonic” during the kickoff speech of the Make Heaven Tour in Los Angeles last month.

Consider yesterday’s announcement by the University of Arkansas’s TP-USA chapter that they were dissolving the org and disavowing TP-USA’s use of Charlie Kirk’s name as a way to influence chuddish collegians and other ne'er-do-wells. According to this story in the Daily Beast, the now defunct-TP-USA at UA is being renamed and rebranded as the Young American Revival, “with a renewed mission of ‘advocating for Christian conservative values and policy’ and supporting right-wing political candidates.”

According to a rant by the former TP-USA chapter president at UA published on his Insta, “We are generally put off by how Charlie Kirk has been used by TP-USA since his assassination. Statements like ‘Charlie would have said….’ and ‘Charlie would have wanted…’ have felt in many instances disingenuous and manipulative. Charlie Kirk cannot speak for himself anymore, and we do not recognize the way others have attempted to speak for him.”

(A quick check-in at a couple Maine college chapters of TP-USA showed very little activity. SMCC’s branch doesn’t have any events scheduled, despite their leaders coming to Maine’s largest city. And as for the UMaine chapter of the hate-group, they haven’t been very active since the Feb. 13 Galentine’s party, featuring “Shirley Temples, Charcuteřie and rom-coms.”)

Local media finally acknowledges Make Heaven Crowded

Shout out to the Maine Newsroom who put together a very concise vid package re: TP-USA’s sweetheart deal that you can view here. And, nicely, the MN gave me plenty of credit for the scoop and my on-going coverage.

And because the mainstream media has been reduced to the equivalent of an online dog pack all following one story, once the Maine Newsroom published (which has lots of followers), both WCSH and WGME tee-vee threw together some coverage (based on The Crash Report, but with zero credit) which included promises by Calvary Chapel that this wasn’t a political event, just good clean Christian-worship.

According to WGME, the pastor of Calvary Chapel, Travis Carey, told them that politics wouldn’t be part of Make Heaven Crowded. “We get the opportunity to dictate who does and does not get to speak,” Carey said, contradicting his previous statement that TP-USA would NOT let Carey preach during the revival. “So, you know, we're not bringing in anyone that's going to make this a partisan issue.”

Well, if you believe that, I’ve got a bridge for sale, to Peaks Island. Real cheap.

Because, as I mentioned here, Carey bragged to his congregation that he feared “someone within the municipality of Portland would try to throw a wrench in the gears if they found out it was a faith event. Maybe they’d find out it was a Turning Point event.” But then the pastor broke out into a wide grin. “And wouldn’t you know it: the manager, the guy in charge in the whole office, is a Born-again believer. Not only a Born-again believer, but this gentlemen actually spent time at Pastor Ken’s church. He knows Ken. He knows Calvary Chapel. A really dear brother. And he testified that there are some in the office that aren’t so happy about this event. But he’s the boss. So God has been really kind to us.”

Not only is TP-USA rabidly political, the group loudly advocates for the End Times Christian world government, coupled with anti-Muslim, anti-LGBTQ and misogynistic sentiments that made the now-deceased Charlie Kirk a celebrity with knuckleheads and assholes.

Secondly, if any of the media would take a couple minutes to research the Calvary Chapel’s modus operandi in Maine, the church’s literal goal is to literally take over the Legislature. As I’ve reported prior, End Times churches taking over government is an oft-repeated sermonic theme for the cult’s gravelly-voiced (and pal of the dead-Kirk) leader Pastor Ken Graves. And, as cult member and state Rep. Reagan Paul (and Baby Bottle With Bullet saleswoman) explained to her fellow cult members, church and state should NOT be separated.

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“One of the greatest lies the Enemy has sold the American church is that Christians and the Church should stay out of politics,” Rep. Paul complained to the crowd. “That lie had neutered the Church and silenced many pastors and created a power vacuum that is now filled with wickedness.”

However, in Maine, according to Rep. Paul, more Christians are need to reclaim God’s government. And they have help from her Born-again boyfriend (aka GOP Senate Leader Trey Stewart) and other Christian-Nationalist-God-fearing politicians already in office.

“Civil government is meant to be God’s avenging angel of righteousness. Civil government,” she insisted, “is a minister of God. Running for office or serving in government is no less spiritual than being a pastor or raising a family or building a business.”

Portland, Oregon or Bust

This last point may seem picayune, but words — and accuracy matter — which is why both WGME and TP-USA’s use of “Portland Expo Center” is not only lazy, but wrong.

The "Portland Expo Center," is the name of the 300,000 sf convention center in Portland, Oregon. We can only hope that Erika Kirk's traveling circus enters "Expo Center" into their GPS and her caravan of private planes end up on the Left Coast, so we don't have hear their hate-filled rhetoric in Maine.

The full name of our local venue is the "James A. Banks Sr Portland Exposition Building" but everyone knows it as just "The Expo." And as one of my Facebook pals commented, “James Banks was my uncle. And I can guarantee you that he would not be impressed about any of this.”

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An observant reader had a question about the Feb. 26 Crash Report End Times Cult to Stage Revival at Portland Expo during which I explain that at least four Maine lawmakers belong to a Young Earth End Times cult eager to experience the Last of Days via the execution of the Christian-Nationalist “Seven Mountains Mandate.”

The excerpt in question:

“Civil government is meant to be God’s avenging angel of righteousness,” state Rep. Reagan Paul insisted. “Civil government is a minister of God. Running for office or serving in government is no less spiritual than being a pastor or raising a family or building a business.”

Yeah. Okay. Says the woman who was selling baby-bottles with bullets in her on-line emporium.

“The Biblical purpose of government is to reward good and punish evil,” the state rep explained. “But how can civil government restrain evil when Christians refuse to participate?”

Also, apparently, Paul is an armchair theologian with the ability to label heresy when she sees it. “Churches staying OUT of government is wrong and heresy,” she said . Also, she rejects “the faulty notion there should be a separation between church and state.”

However, it was the snippet above that brought the question, “Who was selling baby-bottles with bullets in her online emporium?”

Wut?

Oops. I had intended to post photos (below) from Reagan Paul’s online store she shut down in late 2023, a year after getting elected to the Legislature. During my reporting on the Young Earth Christians, I kept thinking how un-serious (and un-scientific) these knuckleheads actually are. And, in the case of Rep. Paul, how she could go from selling “baby bottles with bullets” in her “Adorable Deplorable” online store to becoming the #1 legislative expert/booster of nuclear power for Maine.

The aforementioned 8-ounce baby bottle is embedded with a .308 caliber solid copper bullet. (Handwash only!) Rep. Paul promised buyers the baby bottle contained “no gunpowder and no lead; completely safe to drink from.” Apparently, though, her product had some serious flaws, according to dissatisfied customers who bought the bottle with bullets from her “Adorable Deplorable” store.

Also, Rep. Paul wasn’t offering refunds for leaky Baby Bottle(s) with Bullet. According to her “Adorable Deplorable” store policy: EXCHANGES ONLY.

Yikes. Also for sale is what can only be described as a “faux” plate carrier, though Paul calls it a “Tactical Baby Bib.” Not to read too much into this, but Paul’s cult’s End Times scenario does involve some serious fighting in areas where the “Desert Tan” would act as cammo.

While the baby bottle is a dumb product, the “Tactical Baby Bib” aka “a bullet proof vest” is potentially dangerous by giving the BABY a false sense of security. Obviously, that thing ain’t tactical and it’s not gonna withstand any sort of projectile. Let’s hope the chud babymommas heed Rep. Paul’s warning: DO NOT MICROWAVE the Baby Bottle with Bullet. And handwash only.

Frugal shoppers got a good deal — at 99 bucks — for the Tactical Baby Griftbox which includes the baby bottle with bullet, the tactical baby bib, a .45 caliber air freshener, plus a camouflage onesie and a camouflage New International Version Bible, along with an emergency diaper, a pocket-size Constitution, the Jesus Storybook Bible, the booklet “Your Duties as a Christian Citizen,” plus three “Jesus films on DVD“ and a rubber ducky (made in China) wearing an archaic battle helmet carrying a rifle with bayonet.

I don’t have kids, so I don’t understand the appeal of these weirdo gifts. Unless, however, it’s the way Christian-Nationalist parents prepare their children for war.

Details of the corporate history of Rep. Paul’s online ventures are scattered, but thanks to the Wayback Machine, legislative filings and other corners of the web, I’ve been able to establish the following: All Paul’s self-employment ventures apparently fall under her American Truck Gifts LLC, registered with Maine’s Secretary of State since Dec. 2017. I haven’t been able to find the American Truck store because it’s been long disappeared. However, web archives show that the merchandise listings got forwarded to American Heritage Gifts.

Also, her “Adorable Deplorable” online shoppe eventually morphed into a store called futurepatriotsofamerica.com. You can check a screen-saved version out below and be sure to note the store’s motto was “★PROUDLY CLINGING TO GOD AND OUR GUNS ★”

(Note, the webpages below are from the Wayback Machine via archive.org, so image links are broken.)

By 2023, though, Rep. Paul shut the Future Patriots store down and shifted leftover merch to her www.americanheritagegifts.com. Then it appears that sometime in late 2024, she removed the product listings. The store is currently not carrying any merch, but the following credo can be found wherever you can find their web presence.

“Here at American Heritage Gifts, we have no doubt that America’s Judeo-Christian founding principles and values are what made our republic great. We have confidence in the indispensable supports of religion and morality. We believe as our Founders did, that only a virtuous people are capable of freedom. Thomas Jefferson counseled, “Virtue is not hereditary.” Virtue has to be earned and it has to be learned. Neither is virtue a permanent quality in human nature. It has to be cultivated continually and exercised from hour to hour and from day to day.”

Sounds like someone is covering up some non-virtuous behavior. Perhaps some sin lurks within the confines of “American Heritage Gifts” corporate headquarters?

Speaking of sin, Rep. Paul’s new IRL boyfriend — and Maine Senate Minority Leader Harold “Trey” Stewart will be the featured speaker at the March 19 at the TPUSA-Faith meeting at Calvary Chapel Portland. This will be his second visit to the Young Earth cult’s church — located in a Westbrook industrial park — in as many months. He attended Rep. Paul’s speech to the same local TPUSA group back in late January.

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City Responds to Sweetheart Deal Claim

Portland City Spokesperson Jessica Grondin emailed me after the March 8 Crash Report re: Turning Point USA allegedly getting special treatment from the Portland Expo manager was published, claiming that the TPUSA event contract was for an “exhibit” not an “assembly.”

Not sure what dictionary they use in Portland City Hall, but the standard definition for “exhibit” is “public display (a work of art or item of interest) in an art gallery or museum or at a trade fair.” As for “assembly” the standard definition is “a group of people gathered together in one place for a common purpose.” And Merriam-Webster goes even further by saying an assembly is “a company of persons gathered for deliberation and legislation, worship, or entertainment.”

Here’s Grondin’s explainer: “We have two fee structures -- an ‘exhibit’ rental fee and an ‘assembly’ rental fee. Assembly rentals are for large scale concerts. You stated the assembly rental fee and not the exhibit rental, which is what they were charged at for the type of event they are hosting. I think it’s worth pointing out that you are not comparing apples to apples when it comes to the fee structure. Between the two rate sheets you have - we charged the newer and higher fee for Exhibit rentals. The $2720 is comparative to the older $2585 fee on the sheet you found online.”

My response: “The TPUSA is set up like a concert, with music, has people on stage praying and singing, plus political speeches. How does that qualify as an ‘exhibit?’ Is there a list of qualifiers delineating the difference between an exhibit and assembly? Who makes that decision?”

As of this evening, no response.

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Bait and Switch

Also, Grondin references “the sheet you found online,” while neglecting to note that the numbers I used had been posted on Portland’s own official website UNTIL this afternoon (3.10.26) when the city took down the rental information page I cited and replaced it with the above “Exhibit Rate Schedule.”

This doesn’t change the undeniable fact that Calvary Chapel signed the original contract with the city for a 400-person assembly, and now Erika Kirk’s well-funded traveling End Times circus is getting “exhibit” rates for their racist revival, with the potential of over two thousand people showing up to listen to their Islamophobic, homophobic, misogynist rhetoric targeting our Somali neighbors, LGBTQ folks and women. Also, the question remains: which city employee quelled dissent in the Expo’s offices re: TPUSA?

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Multi-millionaire Erika Kirk is only paying $2,720 to rent the Portland Expo for her May 15 Make Heaven Crowded End Times revival. That’s $2,230 below the usual advertised non-profit rate of $4,950 listed on the city’s own website.

Why so cheap? Especially since Turning Point USA raked in $85 million in 2024. The latest available numbers show annual spending of $81 million annually, with a little more than $26 million in assets. And those totals are before their founder Charlie Kirk was murdered at Utah Valley University back on Sept. 10, 2025.

C. Kirk, btw, spoke in southern Maine less than a month before his death, at a “Maine Civic Action” event held in Old Orchard Beach, when he repeatedly dissed Mainers, Portland, Lewiston and our Somali neighbors.

During his speech, Kirk acted like a real asshole while spewing a series of hateful lies about Maine’s immigrant community. Then he did a Q & A, led by The Maine Wire’s “Scott” Robinson. (Apparently “Scott” was Kirk’s nickname for “Steve Robinson,” the Bowdoin-educated bootlicker responsible for Maine Policy Institute’s racist online presence.)

If you want to be tortured by a smug rich dude from Away’s perspective on Maine, you could listen to his lecture “What’s the Matter with Maine?” here. However, I don’t recommend it, especially if you’re already aware that he’s an arrogant racist… as you can see in the following excerpt from his polemic pre-assassination soliloquy of lies presented, unchallenged, to his unquestioning Maine sycophants.

“Your leaders, who should all be run out of office, they made a traitorous decision to not just be colonized by foreign ideas, but foreigners themselves. And here is the part that you all know what’s happening. You get called mean and nasty names for saying that out loud. But there’s something wrong with the fact that Maine continues to import people from the Third World and call it progress. Lewiston is unrecognizable. South Portland is unrecognizable. I say this as someone who’s been coming here over the last 10 years. The fact that half of the kids in some Portland schools, half do not speak English and they speak a different language. Immigration without assimilation is an invasion, and Maine is being invaded…Somali immigrants are not making the state better. They’re not making you happier. They’re not making Portland safer.”

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According to the spokesperson for the City of Portland, the rental contract was not made with TPUSA. Instead, the deal was struck with Calvary Chapel Greater Portland, the Westbrook chapter of the Young Earth Cult profiled in The Crash Report last week. That contract — signed in Oct 2025 — was made under the auspices of the church holding a “Calvary Chapel Worship Night” at the city facility, not hosting a Christian-Nationalist traveling carnival.

The Make Heaven Crowded tour — currently underway and slated to visit 33 cities— features fiery preaching by the tear-filled widow of the martyred influencer who encouraged a virulent racist, anti-immigrant, anti-LGBTQ lifestyle. E. Kirk is accompanied by a posse of Bible-thumping loudmouths who engage in spiritual warfare with demons on a regular basis in order to bring about Jesus’ kingdom on Earth.

And in Portland, the carnies will be joined by local cult leader — and self-described mentor to Charlie Kirk (more on that in a bit) — Ken Graves who will likely pontificate on the importance of End Times Churches seizing control of government and the rest of society, all part of the plan to trigger the Rapture, then Seven Years of Tribulations, followed by the return of Jesus Christ, incarnate, for a millennium of Christly reign, after all the sinners are cast into the Lake of Fire.

The reason for the cheap rent, according to the spokesperson for the city of Portland, was “based on what was presented to us as what the event was at the time of booking,” Jessica Grondin said via email. “We did not feel this event fell under the rate that has been reserved for concerts in the past.”

Grondin sent me a rate sheet from 2024 (below) that shows the non-profit rate as $2,720, which, as mentioned above, is dramatically cheaper than the 2026 rate currently listed on the city’s website now, in March of 2026.

[[UPDATE: 3/10/26: Grondin reached out after this piece was published, claiming that the TPUSA event contract was for an “exhibit” not an “assembly.”

Not sure what dictionary they use in Portland City Hall, but the standard definition for “exhibit” is “public display (a work of art or item of interest) in an art gallery or museum or at a trade fair.” As for “assembly” the standard definition is “a group of people gathered together in one place for a common purpose.” And Merriam-Webster goes even further by saying an assembly is “a company of persons gathered for deliberation and legislation, worship, or entertainment.”

Here’s Grondin’s explainer: “We have two fee structures -- an ‘exhibit’rental fee and an ‘assembly’ rental fee. Assembly rentals are for large scale concerts. You stated the assembly rental fee and not the exhibit rental, which is what they were charged at for the type of event they are hosting. I think it’s worth pointing out that you are not comparing apples to apples when it comes to the fee structure. Between the two rate sheets you have - we charged the newer and higher fee for Exhibit rentals. The $2720 is comparative to the older $2585 fee on the sheet you found online.”

My response: “The TPUSA Make Heaven Crowded event is set up like a concert, with music, has people on stage praying and singing, plus political speeches. How does that qualify as an ‘exhibit?’ Is there a list of qualifiers delineating the difference between an exhibit and assembly? Who makes that decision?”

Also, Grondin references “the sheet you found online,” while neglecting to note that the numbers I used are currently posted on Portland’s own official website.

As of this morning, no response.]]

2024 rental info provided by Portland spokesperson.

Current rental rates according to City of Portland website.

Grondin also provided a copy of the contract for the May 15th event, which is clickable below for those eager to peruse the fine print. I’m gonna highlight a trio of contractual points that Portland activists might use to prevent TPUSA from staging their Christo-Fash political event — at a deep discount — in a building owned by a city populated mostly by humans disgusted by the faux-Christians’ racist rantings.

Firstly, the “non-assignability clause” in Section 15 states “Lessee may not assign this agreement.” To assign — in real estate-speak— is the act of transferring rights or other benefits to another party. Pretty simple. And Calvary Chapel clearly violated the contract by turning the night’s rental over to TPUSA. Also, Calvary Chapel Portland’s own pastor (who signed the contract and booked the gig) isn’t being allowed to speak, further proof the event has been “assigned” to TPUSA. Thus, the contract should be rendered null and void.

Most of the rest of the contract isn’t pertinent for monkey-wrenching purposes, except for “Section 9: Termination by CITY.” As you can read below, the city reserves the “absolute right” to terminate the contract without prior notice under certain conditions.

Despite the big announcement bragging about the Portland Expo show by both the local cult and TPUSA, the downtowners at City Hall were NOT aware of the shift from “local church gathering” into a Turning Point Christo-political rally. As of Feb. 27, they still believed the event was merely a “Calvary Chapel Worship Night.” Until I reached out for comment, that is.

The story, though, was a little different at the 212 Canco Road headquarters of Portland’s “Public Assembly Facilities” department, 3.5 miles away from the watchful eye of City Hall.

Bait and switch

“There are some in the [Portland Expo’s] office that aren’t so happy about this event,” according to Pastor Travis Carey, Calvary Chapel’s signatory on the contract. Luckily, the boss of the Portland Expo, according to Carey, is a “born-again believer” who knows Senior Pastor Ken Graves, and, apparently, the boss silenced any workplace dissent.

At least that’s what Pastor Carey told the Feb. 12 meeting of the local TPUSA-Faith chapter held at his church on Spring Street in Westbook. According to the livestream, linked below, before introducing his special guest (the above-mentioned Pastor Graves), Pastor Carey explained to the assembled 60 people (and the couple hundred on Youtube) how he feared that the libs in Portland would find out the Make Heaven Crowded circus was coming to town.

“My fear — me of little faith — my fear was that someone within the municipality of Portland would try to throw a wrench in the gears if they found out it was a faith event,” he told the audience. “Maybe they’d find out it was a Turning Point event.” But then the pastor broke out into a wide grin. “And wouldn’t you know it: the manager, the guy in charge in the whole office, is a Born-again believer. Not only a Born-again believer, but this gentlemen actually spent time at Pastor Ken’s church. He knows Ken. He knows Calvary Chapel. A really dear brother. And he testified that there are some in the office that aren’t so happy about this event. But he’s the boss. So God has been really kind to us.”

The contract, as you can see below, was signed on behalf of the city by Andrew Downs, “public assembly facilities director” for the city of Portland.

Is there a City of Portland employee in cahoots with the bait-and-switching Young Earth Creationists? I’ve reached out multiple time to Downs to ask about the accuracy of Pastor Carey’s claims and haven’t heard back.

City spokesperson Grondin also declined to answer questions regarding the Pastor’s assertion that city workers unhappy with the TPUSA event were overruled by “the boss.”

Again, the signed contract makes zero mention of Turning Point USA and, according to City Hall, no additional agreements or codicils have been made. So no matter what the preacher claims, the bait-and-switch is a clear contractual violation. And under Section 9.2, this misrepresentation is grounds for contract termination by the city.

Is Erika Kirk a security issue?

Section 9.3 of the contract is another provision antifa activists could cite. “If the event,” according to the terminations clause, “presents a substantial security problem” then the city can cancel, no problemo. Back when this event was merely a “Calvary Chapel Worship Night,” I’d argue, there wasn’t much of a security risk.

However, the pivot to TPUSA loathsome revival is gonna bring out all the haters, both the anti- LGBTQ/Muslim/Women MAGA chuds and the good folks who despise TPUSA’s fascistic mission. In these fierce days, I don’t think a face-off, on public property, is conducive to anything other than turmoil.

Also, Erika Kirk is not to be trusted, according to Charlie Kirk’s bestie Candace Owens, whose new documentary Bride of Charlie is very very long. The doc includes assertions, by Owens, that Charlie Kirk claimed on multiple occasions to be a “time traveler.”

(A brief aside: My ears always perk up whenever time travel references appear in political discourse. For the record, I don’t believe Charlie Kirk was a time traveler. After all, someone coming from the future would be privy to assassination attempts and able to avoid them. Unless he’d grown tired of rushing around on the time-space continuum and decided to turn his recent time-stop on this time-line into a suicide mission.)

Also, in terms of security at the Portland Expo Make Heaven Crowded event, there’s gonna be a lot of nut-jobs who idolized the now-dead Charlie Kirk in attendance. And in certain circles within that community, some have suspicions that Erika Kirk may have been involved in the murder of her husband.

I have yet to see any actual evidence of this claim. However, the theory gets play in multiple places, including a very popular Christian-Nationalist-End-Times-Flat-Earther podcast that I listen to (so YOU don’t have to) where the host-and-guest delved into their alt-theories of Charlie Kirk’s death, including hypothesizing how a firearm hidden in the microphone could’ve fired the fatal shot into the now-dead man’s neck.

For some reason, many of these Kirk-fan-boys just don’t believe that a Mauser Model 98 .30-06 in the hands of Tyler Robinson, fired a single shot from a distance of 142 yards from Kirk, is what killed their hero on the Utah Valley University campus last fall. Instead, they view Robinson as a patsy, facing aggravated murder charges, plus felony discharge of a firearm and obstruction of justice charges for allegedly shooting Kirk.

Anyways, there’s all sort of Kirk-related conspiracies in the Q-anon-adjacent zone, which can attract the wrong folks to party at the Portland Expo . Which also means the city should probably bring in some magnetometers in order to ensure the gun-nuts don’t shoot Ericka Kirk or other attendees.

Another security issue I’d be concerned with, from a public safety standpoint, is the Make Heaven Crowded ticket policy. There is none. This is a first come, first serve event. General admission. The preacher says 3,000 are welcome, but the city contract limits the crowd size to 2,400.

(There is a TPUSA registration form on the Make Heaven Crowded website, but registering doesn’t get you a ticket. Instead, it gives TPUSA your contact info.)

The free-for-all non-ticketing means opportunities for multiple problems and hijinks. Consider, for instance, a group of Queer activists attending in super-glam and revealing outfits. I’m sure the Make Heaven Crowded security would deny admission. Or, conversely the same same Queer activists play nice to get inside, but then rise to disrupt every time hate is spewed from the ersatz pulpit under the basketball lights.

Of course, security would try to remove hecklers, but that would violate the free speech of the attendees.

Because, as city spokesperson Grondin told me, “When the City rents out its facilities for events, the First Amendment prohibits us from discriminating based on the viewpoints of the event sponsors.” Which should also mean, the renters (aka TPUSA) don’t have the right to limit any speech during the event. Especially since “no tickets” in a public space actually means open-to-the-public.

Anyways, sounds like a real shit show waiting to happen and an event that could be easily manipulated by those who want to monkey-wrench en masse.

Also, re: spokesperson Grondin’s First Amendment claim. I responded by asking “would the city rent the Expo to someone interested in running a film festival that included what some people would call hardcore pornography?”

No response. Also no response to questions concerning whether Portland PD would be involved in security plans for the event, if all the associated security costs have been determined and I asked specifically about the non-assignability clause in the contract.

All this to say, it would seem pretty easy for the city to just cancel the damn thing. “Sorry, you signed a contract for a church event, not TPUSA,” the Expo’s director could say. “Here’s your $680 deposit back.”

Then Make Heaven Crowded can try to book a space under its own name. If they can. According to Pastor Carey, TPUSA told him there were NO other churches in New England willing to host the Making Heaven Crowded jamboree.

Which means if the Portland gig gets cancelled, for Erika Kirk and company, the venue of last resort might turn out to be Pastor Carey’s Calvary Chapel, located in a Westbrook industrial park. Seats about 500, with plenty of free parking in the lot shared with a local HVAC company.

Also, it’ll be interesting to see how the Portland City Council reacts to the news of a discounted rate at a city rental property for an evening of misogynistic rantings about the local LGBTQ community being demonically-possessed. Also, considering Portland is already in a financial crisis, with reports of almost two dozen established local non-profits losing their property tax exemptions in order to generate revenue for the city-by-the-sea, I betcha the City Council won’t let a Westbrook church pull a bait-and-switch. Especially not to sneak in a super-wealthy, old-time racist religious revival whose dead founder repeatedly insulted our Somali neighbors, many of whom live within shouting distance of the Portland Expo.

Ken Graves and Charlie Kirk were in a group chat together

Senior Pastor Ken Graves Calvary Chapel - Bangor is slated to speak at the TPUSA event, but not local Pastor Carey, who said the Make Heaven Crowded organizers declined his offer to preach. Graves, tho, was wanted. Because, as Graves brags, he was a major influence on Charlie Kirk.

According to a sermon given by Graves three days after Kirk’s murder, the two met several years earlier at Liberty University, where they both were giving speeches at an event. And Graves was so impressed with the young Christian agitator that he gifted Kirk his personally annotated copy of The Book that Made Your World: How the Bible Created the Soul of Western Civilization by the Indian-Christian intellectual and social reformer Vishal Mangalwadi. That book, then, apparently became a major influence on the TPUSA founder.

(If you’re not familiar with Ken Graves — called by some “The Viking Preacher” — of Calvary Chapel-Bangor, located in the town of Orrington, consider yourself lucky. In a nutshell, the gravelly voiced Christian-Nationalist is an anti-LGBTQ preacher who has “planted” two dozen Calvary Chapels in Maine. Also, he’s a Biblical literalist and believes the Earth is 6,000 years old.)

During his Sept. 14 sermon, Graves also told his congregation that for the last several years, he was in Kirk’s group chat of anti-vaccine pastors “that [Kirk] got acquainted with during Covid-tyranny.”

The chatters chatted almost daily, Graves said. And, according to the Viking Preacher, Kirk also spoke to Calvary Chapel-Bangor’s congregation in Orrington (tho I haven’t found that video) and would’ve visited again last year when Kirk was vacationing at a rich donor’s estate on Mount Desert Island (Leonard Leo, perhaps?), but for an unknown reason, Kirk didn’t show up.

It’s obvious Graves had some real affection for Kirk. “Tall, lean, six foot five, spindly little arms, great big head,” he said with a smile, remembering his first impressions of Kirk. “And in that head, a brain that’s firing on all cylinders.”

A day or so after Kirk’s death, Graves reached out and texted Vishal Mangalwadi to tell the author “something you should know if you’re not already aware of…” In short, he didn’t know if the Indian Christian intellectual was aware that Graves gave Charlie Kirk his book and Kirk loved it. (Around 7:50 in the vid below.)

And then, according to Graves, “I was blessed, he responded. I didn’t, he didn’t know.” Gibberish preacher diction aside, it appears that Graves is claiming that Mangalwadi didn’t know Kirk was a fanboi. Which makes Graves more of a hero, I guess, in the on-going narrative inside his noggin.

Thing is, not to quibble over details, but Mangalwadi was def aware of Kirk’s love for his book. After all, he was interviewed by Kirk on the Charlie Kirk Show on Sept. 16, 2020, which includes many references to The Book that Made Your World: How the Bible Created the Soul of Western Civilization. In fact, the show notes describe Mangalwadi “as one of the most insightful guests to appear on The Charlie Kirk Show yet. The two discuss the foundational aspects of Western Civilization found in the Bible; grunge rocker Kurt Cobain; the true nature of Hinduism, and so much more. This is a conversation with an author who has informed so much of Charlie’s thinking, so buckle up, here we go!”

Anyways, not sure what Graves was getting at with his Mangalwadi story, but (along with his belief in the 6,000 year old Earth and other oddities) it def makes Graves an unreliable narrator and makes him seem like a creepy and pathetic dude in need of validation from a stranger.

Also, as I’ve said before, no matter what Graves claims, it’s obvious he’s one of the those faux-Christian grifters who has bastardized their alleged savior’s teachings. The list of Graves chud-tastic utterances is too long to go into here, but I did find his reaction to the arrest of 22-year-old Tyler Robinson indicative of Graves’ general demeanor. “I hope and pray for an execution date that inspires his repentance.”

Not very WWJD for a fella who claims to a devoted follower of Christ.

FYI: In The Crash Report on Tuesday, March 10, you'll learn which Maine State Rep's online store sold a $99 "tactical baby gift box" that included a baby bottle with a bullet in it "because the 2A starts at birth." Bottle is fully functional, but DO NOT put in the microwave.

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On Friday night, May 15, the Portland Expo will be rocking with revival as magic-practicing fanatics pontificate perverted Pentecostal prophecies, along with a sideshow of faith-healing, divination and glossolalia, aka “speaking-in-tongues.”

Attendees are being promised “three or four hours of fiery preaching” and the opportunity for a public altar call so devotees can performatively express a new spiritual commitment to Jesus Christ. Most importantly, the Make Heaven Crowded event will further misconstrue Jesus’ teachings to mask the white supremacist sentiments of the Christian-Nationalist “Seven Mountain Mandate” dominionist agenda.

Also, most of the people in the audience are likely to believe the entire Universe was created about 6,000 years ago.

At least a half-dozen Maine lawmakers will be there, hands raised toward heaven, à la the Orans Posture, in order to demonstrate fealty to their gravelly-voiced preacher-leader, famous for saying stupid shit like “militant homo-fascism seeks to take over our land and make it Sodom.” And this chud-preacher, who leads a Maine-based cult with 21 cells across the state, is sponsoring the gala.

As I’ve written before, the Seven Mountains Mandate aka “7MM” is a doomsday framework followed by an alliance of radical End Timers, fueled by an urgent goal to bring Jesus Christ back to Earth so he can rule the planet for a thousand years. And these folks aren’t talking metaphorically. Their bizarre plan cumulates with the actual return — re-animation if you will — of a real life living and breathing replicate of their crucified Messiah.

Their grand scheme is quite straight-forward: Gain control of global government, religion, education, family, media, arts and entertainment and business sectors of society. Which will then trigger the End Times. And after seven crazy years of famine and pestilence, Jesus will return to Earth and rule over a brave new (post-apocalyptic) world for a millennium.

The Make Heaven Crowded tour-stop is free-to-the-first 3,000 registrants, but the current website for tickets is glitchy. And the forms for press passes wouldn’t let me select the Portland option. The event, according to TPUSA, “is a gospel centered gathering calling people to repentance, faith and bold obedience to Jesus.” Also, the lead sponsor of the tour is the “International Fellowship of Christians and Jews” a Christian-Zionist non-profit with tons of cash and anti-Palestinian goals.

Unfortunately, mainstream journalists don’t often examine the belief structure of religious movements trying to influence public policy and political discourse. Especially when it comes to End Timers. Instead, the media lazily uses the non-judgmental and catch-all “non-denominational church,” rather than the more accurate “Doomsday, anti-LGBTQ, patriarchal, prophecy-practicing bigots who don’t pay taxes and still try to influence political outcomes in clear violation of federal law.”

Contrary to the implications of the tour’s name, btw, the goal of Make Heaven Crowded IS NOT TO KILL A LOT OF CHRISTIANS. Instead, the tour is supposed to be a modern-extension to the “Great Commission” from the Gospel of Matthew when Jesus allegedly commands his posse to convert every person on the planet to Christianity and “teach them to obey” all his rules.

Jesus, however, would hate how these evangelicals twisted his words. Especially their use of homophobia, xenophobia and racism as a fundraising technique to fill their faux-Christian coffers and for extra-clout on the socials. And in light of last year’s murder of TPUSA’s founder Charlie Kirk, the Make Heaven Crowded tour also reeks of a mixture of sainthood veneration and death-cultism that’s used to enhance their End Times message.

After many years of eschatological study, by me, it’s become apparent that most End Timers actually thirst for the Final Days. I listen to multiple prophecy podcasts (so YOU don’t have to) and they are always praying for the quick return of their Savior. TOMORROW, if at all possible, would be great for the final reckoning. They long to meet their Maker ASAP and constantly talk about their dream of breaking free of the earthly strictures to reunite with dead grandparents, pets and certain celebrities. Plus the angels.

The rush for the End Times is especially curious when viewed through the Young Earth lens promoted by the cult sponsoring the Make Heaven Crowded stop at the Expo. If you add their estimated “age of Earth” plus the length of Christ’s future reign as Earth-king (more on that in a sec) before the End Times implosion, followed by the construction of a “New Heaven and Earth,” it means the length of the current Universe’s entire timeline will span just 7,000 years, give or take a couple decades.

It’s weird, of course, that Young Earthers — and certain members of the Maine legislature — believe that the universe is currently 6,000 years old. It’s been proven, in various ways using various scientific measures that Earth is very old. Which makes it ludicrous that so-called “modern” folk could believe such an absurd theory. However, according to a Gallup poll from 2024, almost 30 percent of Americans believe the Earth is younger than 10,000 years.

Yikes.

The Earth’s youngness, according to the local cult’s website, is an indisputable fact. That’s why the age of Earth is worthy of the final listing under their “What We Believe” tab. Their adherence to Young Earth and including the “6,000 years” number in their ministry’s coda (above) gives the dumb concept imprimatur legitimacy.

The 6,000 year-old mantra has a tendency to piss off a lot of Old Earth Creationists. Especially when the Old Earth Creationists see Young Earthers quote from the Bible to legitimize their belief in the young age of Earth… I mean, the Universe. Because Young Earthers literally believe the creation tale in Genesis, where the Christian and Hebrew God(s) built the entire universe in six days. Actual 24-hour days. In 144 hours, the belief goes, the entire cosmos was constructed. And to top it off, on the sixth day, God rested.

It’s tough to tell what bothers Old World Creationists more: the 6,000 year number OR the belief the Lord needed an actual day to rest. There’s a gazillion Youtube and/or Rumble videos of Old Earth Creationists vehemently disparaging both POVs. Old Earthers have crafted countless counter-arguments to Young Earth theory and love to diss Young Earthers for being so naive to think the vast universe has only been around for 2,190,000 days. All while complaining that Young Earthers make all Creationists “look stupid” in the eyes of normies.

The Young Earthers, however, dismiss the Old Earthers’ critique, then take their frustrations out on the Flat Earthers. (?!?!?!?!?!?!?) Young Earthers say the Flatsters are stupid for their use of Scripture to claim the Earth is “flat, disc-like” thing floating in water, enclosed in a solid dome. Not to dwell on Biblical cosmology, but a heads up: If anyone in your circle describes the sky as “firmament” or uses the terms “Globe Earth” or “Ice Wall,” they’re probably part of the two percent of society who mock “Spherical Earthers.”

Anyways, for our local Young Earth cult, the “6,000 years old theory” serves as a good litmus test. Those who believe the Earth is a geological baby because “the Bible says so” will also undoubtedly believe the other fantastical stories found within their sacred text. Also, these types are easily conditioned to NEVER question directives from their leader.

The Dead Bishop Society

The Young Earth Creationist theory is even a thing because these literalists believe the words (and math) of Bishop James Ussher, the Protestant “Primate of all Ireland.” Six years before his death in 1656, Bishop Ussher determined Creation happened on the evening of Sunday, October 23, 4004 B.C.

The Bishop came up with that very specific time and date after doing all sorts of research, including adding the ages of a certain Biblical lineage, from Cain to the birth of Christ on December 25th, 0000. It doesn’t take a rocket mathematician to add the years since the OG Christmas (2,026) to come up with the actual number of years since Creation: 4004 + 2026 = 6,030 years.

(Actually, 6,029 and a half years, taking into account the Bishop’s assertion that October, allegedly, was when it all began and I’m writing this at the end of February, 2026.)

Btw, that six thousand (+/-) is the age of the whole universe. Not just our planet. Every damn bit of existence, from the Big Bang to Earth-birth, outwards to the absolute edge of the void. Young Earthers interpret cryptic Biblical passages to justify the Universe’s start time, including multiple puzzling clues mentioned in Genesis and other parts of Scripture. Which, of course, is a very unscientific way to measure the age of the planet.

Young Earth Creationists are proudly anti-science, so it’s no surprise they won’t consider data from Carbon-14 dating. And don’t even mention the radiometric techniques for determining the approximate age of a rock. To the Young Earthers, measuring the radioactive decay of known elements in a rock via samarium–neodymium or even the potassium–argon dating methods might as well be the Devil’s magic.

Instead, these folks are steadfast in their belief in BIBLICAL science, mostly hyper-focussed on the Great Flood Theory, to justify their beliefs. Including the why and how of the existence of what normies call “fossils.”

Basically, after the Great Flood receded, the whole damn world was like a back road in Oxford County during mud season. To make the muck even worse, the goop-soup was chockfull with the millions of skeletons of the “reptilian” sea critters (but not sea mammals) and land-dwelling animals killed by the Great Flood. Then, according to their thesis, the mud dried and the clay-caked bones and skulls were transformed into what the libs call “fossils.”

In addition, these cultists simply deny the basic sedimental structure of Earth. For Young Earthers, the varying strata of the geological column isn’t a chronological record but more of a geographical aspect of a particular locale than an expression of time. The Biblical mud world theory, of course, doesn’t align with reality. Visit any canyon to easily view — geologically speaking — years and years of slow deposition of material. Then examine photos from recoveries from flooded disaster areas. Totally different impact.

Also, not to get too geeky about this, but how can Young Earthers dispute that ice core samples taken in the Arctic that show Earth is, at minimum, several hundred thousand years old? Counting ice crust layers — using a technique akin to “tree ring dating” — in a cored sample is pretty simple and doesn’t require the Devil’s tech or laboratories or radiation.

Unless, of course, the Devil was involved with the Arctic expeditions. Which would be plausible for many Young Earthers who battle literal demons regularly with spiritual warfare and prayerfare. And, hilariously, within the Young Earth community many believe Satan stashed the dinosaur bones that became fossils in order destroy the faith and Biblical adherence of archeologists, paleontologists and other dinophiles.

Which gets to the crux of the problem: the lack of a shared reality.

How can we discuss climate change (or Earth history) with Young Earthers? Impossible to dialogue if you can’t even agree on basic scientific facts. Especially if one side belongs to a death-cult eagerly praying for the immediate destruction and painful death for billions via the End Times and the other side is trying — for the sake of future generations — to find a way to survive on a rapidly-warming planet.

Also, I can’t stress enough about how much these Young Earthers are obsessed with their God flooding the planet around 4,350 years ago to rid of Nephilim, aka the bastard sons of Fallen Angels who mated with sexy human females. The half-breed babies, aka Nephilim, grew into bad giants who corrupted, destroyed and plundered everything everywhere. So God instructed Noah to build a large vessel to give humanity a brand new start.

(I explore the Nephilim/Noah’s Ark narrative in this Crash Report, as part of an explanation why current Augusta School Board candidate and Flat-Earther Nick “Corn Plop” Blanchard printed up a huge anti-Pride flag to fly from a visible location on State St. in Maine’s capital city to own the libs.)

The Heavenly Father chose Noah as his earthly ship captain because, according to Scripture, Noah’s blood line was Nephilim-free. In fact, according to some ancient texts, Noah’s immediate family were the very last non-hybrids on the planet with zero Fallen-Angel genomes in their DNA.

Which begs the question: If Noah’s posse’s pure-blood was required for God’s anti-Nephilim plan to work, what about his sons’ wives? Were they Nephilim-free? Unlikely, especially if Noah’s family were the last pure-bloods on Earth. Perhaps the D-I-L’s lineage had giant (literal) skeletons lurking in their family closet, which would have sabotaged God’s flood plan.

Furthermore, in breeding Fallen Angels with attractive Earth-women, we need to consider what’s known as “Haldane’s Rule,” which explains why hybrid mammals are almost always sterile. It’s akin to the situation with mules, which are the offspring of a male donkey (62 chromosomes) and a female horse (64 chromosomes). The resulting baby mule has 63 chromosomes, which is a serious impediment to reproduction, both in production of sperm and other issues.

Human women have 46 chromosomes and the number of chromosomes in Fallen Angels (and the Nephilim-babies) is heretofore unknown. The Fallen Angels, though, are eternal spiritual beings in a material world, which portends that their DNA is a little bit different.

All that to say, God’s wrath was directed towards the wrong critters. He should’ve declared war on Fallen Angels, not the Nephilim. I mean, Haldane’s Rule, duh. Eventually, the Nephilim would die, childless, and presumably, alone. But if Fallen Angels (as spiritual beings) are immortal, then they’re just gonna keep sleeping with and cross-breeding with hot human females and producing more baby giants. To be blunt: the Lord in Heaven should’ve dealt with the source of the problem, not the offspring.

As some wags have dared to note, there’s no question God’s plan to sanitize our planet of evil via water-world failed. Sure, he killed off the local giant population. But for what gain? These days, a mere 4,350 years after Noah lowered the Ark’s gangway into the corpse and bone-strewn muck, Earth is once again filled with evildoers.

I can already hear the critique from religious apologists: “Crash, it’s not fair to cherrypick religious precepts and judge a sect based upon their ‘flood-and-age-of-planet’ belief system. After all, this End Times cult has more nuanced rules than just a ‘no room for dinos on the Ark’ narrative. Truly, this church’s FUTURE is what’s important, not the relatively-recent or ancient-past.”

Of course, it’s Young Earthers’ constitutional right to believe that Earth is only six thousand years old and that a massive flood eliminated Earth’s giant population. I just don’t want believers in the Noah narrative and Nephilim to be crafting public policy in Maine.

The End is Nigh

This is where eschatology gets a little tricky for normal people to comprehend. Regarding the End Times, this cult employs cognitive dissonance, along with the suspension of logic, to justify their apocalyptic jibber-jabber and doomsday scenarios. Also, like I’ve mentioned, THEY WANT THE END TIMES TO COME ASAP!!! They’d welcome (tomorrow if possible) the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse with open arms. They yearn for the disease, famine and suffering that’s part of their beloved Biblical prophecy.

My guess: most subscribers to The Crash Report are NOT interested in the differences between the Pre-Tribulation vs Post-Tribulation Rapture. Nor would the difference between Pre-Millenial, Post-Millenial, Amillenial or (my fav) missioholism be interesting to most sane people.

All this to say, this cult — that’s paying the city of Portland $2,720 (a couple grand less than $4,950, the normal discounted non-profit rate listed by the city) to rent the Expo in mid-May — is a Pre-Millenial, Pre-Trib rapture kind of club, where believers escape into the ether above Earth when shit starts to get crazy here on terra firma.

“All believers will meet the Lord in the air,” the cult’s website proclaims, “and be taken out of this world prior to the Tribulation that will come upon the Earth.”

And then, the cult believes, they will become “the bride of Christ” complete with a white wedding gown (even for the dudes) entering some sort of Christo-gender-fluid-marriage, that lasts for seven years.

This 7-year stretch, btw, coincides with the prophecy of pestilence, plagues, natural disasters and the rise of a dictator and/or anti-Christ (with dyed hair and a 3” mushroom phallus) who demands worship, adoration, bribes, etc.

Some might think current events resemble those problems. Especially the “anti-Christ with dyed hair and a 3” mushroom phallus” part. Does that mean our current geo-political situation is akin to the prophecies in the Book of Revelation? That would track, in theory, with the Post-Tribbers’ belief system. Post-Tribbers don’t get Raptured into Heaven until AFTER the seven years of Tribulations, but prior to the Return of their Savior.

However, our cult this week, as I mentioned above, is Pre-Trib. Which means, the Rapture (as of today) hasn’t happened, as long as the four cult members prominently serving in the Maine Legislature remain here on Earth and don’t levitate to disappear into a “meeting with the Lord in the air.”

Also, it’s always important to remember the cult’s prime directive is to conquer society’s Seven Mountains in order to trigger the End Times. And, oddly, rank-and-file church members might not even be aware of that agenda. Church leaders, however, at countless locations across the U.S., are in on the plan and scheming for global domination on behalf of bringing their crucified Messiah back to life for a millenium-long reign.

Not a Five-Folder

With all the pending fire and brimstone, pastors gotta do something to keep the congregation involved and occupied, awaiting the Rapture, while convincing them that — despite the odds — they’re gonna win in the battle against demons, the devil and the atheist masses dominating the godless world.

Thus, this local cult utilizes belief in what some call the “5-Fold” ministry. Simply put, this is “Christo-Magic” because of its focus on the supernatural, including divine prophecy, healing the sick and the aforementioned speaking-in -tongues.

Five-Folders believing we’re living in miraculous times, akin to the biblical era when all sorts of mystical stuff happened on a regular basis. In a nutshell (literally), these people believe modern-day prophets (soothsayers) and apostles (divine spokesmen) walk among us and have been “gifted” the magical ability to directly communicate with the Christian God. (The other three “gifts” in the five-fold quiver are evangelist, pastor and teacher.)

The best part: there’s no certification required and you can possess multiple gifts. Anybody can declare themselves, for instance, a prophet and evangelist — or, in theory, all five — without blinking. And there are actually trade groups for apostles and pastors and even for the self-proclaimed prophets, who issue a collective annual predictions of what’s gonna happen in the near future.

Five-fold congregations also use miracles and “spiritual warfare” to battle the evil demonic enemy, both foreign and domestic, with help from the Holy Spirit. This spiritual warfare includes the tongue-speak, plus fervent praying, exorcisms, wailing, gnashing of teeth and blowing the shofar.

For those unfamiliar with the shofar, it’s a curved ram’s horn horn, traditionally blown by ancient Jews as a battle signal and was used as both a call to war and a call to freedom. (In modern Judaism, the shofar is part of synagogue services on Rosh Hashanah and at the end of Yom Kippur.) In recent years, the Christo-Nationalist and End Timers have appropriated the horn-blowing into their spiritual warfare arsenal whenever they wanna get in the mood to battle the agents of the Devil.

Interestingly, the term “5-Fold” has taken on a negative vibe in some evangelical Christian circles, due to the perception that believing your pastor speaks to Jesus, has the ability to heal the sick, can speak-in-tongues and other magick is off-putting to regular Christians who DON’T believe we’re living in miraculous times. Also, seems sort of sacrilegious and cringe.

Thus, our local cult doesn’t use 5-Fold label. Instead, they tack the same belief system under the “Holy Spirit” section of the beliefs tab. “We believe in the present ministry of the Holy Spirit,” their website proclaims, “and in the exercise of all biblical gifts of the Spirit according to the instructions given to us in 1 Corinthians 12-14.”

Also, and sometimes it feels like this can’t be said enough: this cult is literally literal about everything in the Bible.

“We believe in a literal Heaven and a literal Hell,” their website declares. “Those members who place their faith, hope and trust in Jesus Christ will spend eternity in Heaven with the Lord. Those who willfully reject Jesus’ free gift of salvation will spend eternity separated from the Lord in Hell.”

After the smoke of seven years of Tribulation dissipates (because this cult is Pre-Trib and Pre-Millenial), it’s time for the Second Coming of Jesus, accompanied by his bride(s) i.e. the culties who’d enjoying life as a “Bride of Christ” in “Heaven” above while Earth below had descended into turmoil and terror. Next: a triumphant and glorious return, aka, Judgement Day, when Jesus sits on a “Throne of Judgement” and facilitates a one-on-one performance review on every single human who ever existed.

If Earth actually reaches this point, the next millennium is pretty sweet, for the cultists, thanks to the restoration of Israel and Jesus taking his rightful place as Earth Ruler. During this period, Jesus is a real physical being, living and governing, with a velvet glove and love. For a thousand years, a theocracy!

Then, in a weird ceremony, Jesus (and presumably his father with an assist by the Holy Ghost) do some planetary destructive/constructive magic and form a fresh joint, tentatively (and unimaginably) called “New Heaven and Earth,” which, to me, sounds like an assisted-living-to-grave community in Florida.

Also, depending on your brand of End Timing, the baddies might end up burning in the Lake of Fire for eternal torment. Or, if you subscribe to the Annihilationism way of thought, all the bad humans, Fallen Angels and Satan will be totally destroyed by God terminating their consciousness and extinguishing the soulfire within.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. What are the chances the 7 MM cultists in Maine could even gain control of the government and the other six mountains of society necessary to trigger the End of Days?

Fideism will be the Death of US

Fideism is a philosophical Christian doctrine claiming “faith” is superior to “reason” in determining “Truth.” Fideists are hostile to reason, and by extension, logic, proof, experimentation and re-creatable conclusions and outcomes. The Fideistic philosophy — à la anti-vaxxers, climate change denialists and other anti-scientism — is already running rampant in modern America. And due to Trump’s attacks on colleges and universities (fueled by his evangelical handlers), we’ll experience stalling and setbacks domestically while global efforts to scientifically deal with climate crisis and catastrophe move on without us.

Fideists, not surprisingly, don’t refer to themselves as such. Instead, they self-identify as “non-denominational Christians.” Or in the case of our local cult, more specifically, the fideists belong to the multitudes of “Calvary Chapels.”

In the Pine Tree State, almost two-dozen Calvary Chapels have been “planted” by Senior Pastor Ken Graves, who has the local exclusive franchise for the Christian-Nationalist sect. This is the aforementioned gravelly-voiced and tattoed preacher who carries a Bible in a purse/holster on his belt who sued (and lost) the State of Maine over COVID-restrictions in the early days of the pandemic that prohibited gathers of over 10 people. Graves filed the legal challenge to Gov. Janet Mills’ pandemic precautions because he was pissed that in Maine, weed and booze was still for sale, but in-person magic services at his cultic headquarters in the Penobscot County town of Orrington were not.

(Gotta be careful when using the word “Calvary" when you’re talking about places of worship. Joints that use the moniker “Calvary Chapel” belong to the Young Earth cult with a couple dozen branches, listed here, run by Pastor Graves in Maine. CC's are non-denominational, but belong to a national network of autonomous, self-governing churches with shared beliefs. And in Maine, Graves is top dawg. However, Calvary Baptist Hill Church in Wilton, Calvary Baptist in Turner, Calvary Bible in Hiram, Calvary Pentecostal in Madison, Calvary United Methodist in Lewiston, Calvary Apostolic in Hampden, Calvary Bible-Baptist in Whitefield and Calvary Gospel Assembly up in the County aren’t connected to the Graves-group. I don’t know if any of those churches believe in the Young Earth theory, though.)

In addition to being a pompous preacher who loves to use statements like “militant homofascism seeks to take over our land and make it Sodom,” Graves works with the “American Renewal Project,” an avowed Seven Mountains Mandate org that tries to convince Christian-Nationalist pastors to run for office. Graves, as anyone in his cult will be sure to tell you, allegedly “spearheaded” the national movement to remove the division between church and state. All as part of the 7MM to trigger the End Times.

To be blunt, I can’t stand the sound of this dude’s voice. And, over the years, I’ve forced myself to listen Grave’s sermonizing on several occasions. But I gotta say, my ears quickly tire with his style of discordant hucksterism. When I tried to listen to his recent speechifying about the now-dead Charlie Kirk, I lasted a mere five minutes.

Graves, btw, claims to have been pals with Kirk. Not for a long time, according to the pastor, but a short and meaningful friendship. So it’s no surprise that Pastor Graves will be front and center on the Portland Expo’s stage, spewing his sonorous scratchings for the Turning Point USA Faith’s Make Heaven Crowded circus in May.

The Saboteurs

You’re probably wondering which four (at least) Maine lawmakers belong to Graves/Young Earth cult. First and foremost (for this Crash Report) is State Rep. Reagan Paul, the 26-year-old End Timer from Winterport who attends Calvary Chapel in Belfast. Joining Paul at Sunday services in Belfast is Asst. Republican House Leader, State Rep. Katrina Smith. Also belonging to the Young Earth cult are the husband-wife lawmaking duo from Hampden, Sen. David Haggan and Rep. Kimberly Haggan, both of whom worship under Graves at the cult headquarters in Orrington.

(A brief aside: Reps. Paul and Smith, along with their Calvary Chapel Belfast pastor, were very upset last year after the University of Maine backed out of a deal with Calvary Chapel to sell the now-closed Hutchinson Center to the cult. Calvary Chapel sought the help of Liberty Counsel — the same law firm “ministry” that sued Maine on behalf of Ken Graves over the weed and booze sales during COVID — to sue UMaine, “claiming evidence of religious animus and numerous irregularities in the bidding process.” Calvary Chapel has lost each step of the suit so far. The First Circuit Court of Appeals listened to both sides during a Nov. 2025 appeal hearing and hasn’t yet issued a ruling. However, I listened to the audio from the half hour proceedings and the judges didn’t seem impressed with the Church’s lawyer’s argument.)

As regular Crash Report readers might remember, Rep. Paul is part of the coterie of Maine Christian-Nationalist lawmakers who refuse to return about $100k in contributions from MAGA conman Brant Frost (a Charlie Kirk podcast advertiser) who has admitted to bilking millions from investors in a Ponzi scheme. Despite being told by Georgia Secretary of State to return the stolen lucre, neither Rep. Paul nor the other Maine pols have returned the cash. According to campaign finance records, Paul received and kept $2,850 in pilfered funds from Frost and his family for her 2024 race. Her campaign account is still active with a current balance of $14,379. Which means the state rep from Winterport could pony up the cake to pay the debt, as I’m sure her Savior would prefer.

Also, Rep. Paul is currently the lead spokesperson — in Maine — for the nuclear power cartel. Which is pretty crazy for several reasons.

First (and I should cut Paul a little slack on this initial point because Maine Yankee closed in 1996, four years before the state rep was even born) but Mainers have already decided NO NUKES. Secondly, it’s ironic that the loudest proponent for local nukes also believes the Earth is merely 6,000 years old. Wut? The half life of plutonium is 24,100 years or four times the alleged age of the planet. How the heck does that square with the pro-nuclear Young Earth’s Biblical world view? Except, of course, her dream for the End of Days might be sped up if we suddenly had a bunch of small modular nuclear reactors into Maine.

Anyways, Paul made a special speech at the TPUSA-Faith monthly meeting at the cult’s Westbrook hangout. During which, Paul expounded on the need for more cult members to get involved in the political process. Also, she bragged about how much power the End Times cultists have in the legislature. Heck, according to Paul, serial fabulist and House Minority Leader Billy Bob Faulkingham who belongs to an End Times church in Sullivan is cult-philosophy-friendly. So is Senate Minority Leader Trey Stewart. (We’ll return to Stewart in a sec.)

Gotta say, I don’t recommend watching the vid unless you’re a glutton for boring punishment. She’s not a charismatic speaker — at all — and her “God Created Government” schtick is annoying. Also, her overall spiel is a little frightening, when you realize Paul is just mimicking what her cult leader and other 7MM leaders say over and over to convince mental midgets that taking over society will bring back Jesus.

The second-term rep from Winter Harbor began her soliloquy with the tale of how she decided to seek a seat in the Legislature. Short version: God told her to run. At the time, she was a 22-year-old Christian high school girls basketball coach with an ETSY store.

“It was an undeniable call on my soul,” she told the Westbrook audience on Jan. 22. “I was sitting in a church in southern Maine and felt this wave of God’s presence wash over me. And I heard in my soul, basically, God telling me, ‘Smarten up. Stop procrastinating. Stop doubting and just trust me. Well, that was my turning point. I didn’t wanna run for office, but how could I deny something I heard so clear from the Lord. Especially when it made no sense at all.”

And, with God as her campaign manager, she couldn’t fail, apparently, winning her first race for House District 37 by 222 votes. Her secret weapon? During her speech, she bragged how, contrary to her GOP advisors’ advice, her campaign literature included the words “Principled conservative and Pro-life” and how she wanted a “personhood amendment” added to the Maine Constitution to ban abortion.

(Her second campaign — in 2024 — yielded slightly better results, securing her victory by 557 votes. Oddly, according to state records, Paul has yet to register her campaign for re-election to her third term. Which has fueled speculation that she’s gonna challenge incumbent state Sen. Chip Curry. However, there are also rumors she’s moving to points North, out of her district. More on that in a bit. )

In summary, she said, “God had a crazy plan for this girl from Winterport.”

From the start of her first term in the Legislature, she knew the State House was possessed by evil and viewed lawmaking as “spiritual warfare disguised as public policy.” She also framed her ongoing legislative battles as “Christ vs chaos.”

“One of the greatest lies the Enemy has sold the American church is that Christians and the Church should stay out of politics,” she complained to the crowd. “That lie had neutered the Church and silenced many pastors and created a power vacuum that is now filled with wickedness.”

The aforementioned “enemy,” mentioned by Paul includes the Devil, Satan, flocks of Demons and the bands of Fallen Angels roaming the Earth impregnating attractive Christian humanoids in order to produce an army of Earth giants. (A question, in certain circles, is whether Baron Trump is Nephilim.)

“We hear the word government and we think ‘swamp in D.C., bureaucrats and corruption.’ A lot of that’s true. But government is God’s idea,” said the 2020 graduate of Liberty University’s on-line Bible college. According to Paul, her God created three branches of government… but not, according to her, the executive, legislative and judicial branches. “The family. The church and civil government. All three are ordained by Him,” Paul told the crowd. “Not one of them is optional. And not one of them is inherently evil.”

However, Christians need to take action to re-claim God’s government.

“Civil government is meant to be God’s avenging angel of righteousness. Civil government,” she insisted, “is a minister of God. Running for office or serving in government is no less spiritual than being a pastor or raising a family or building a business.”

Yeah. Okay. Says the woman who was selling baby-bottles with bullets in her on-line emporium.

“The Biblical purpose of government,” the state rep explained, “is to reward good and punish evil. But how can civil government restrain evil when Christians refuse to participate.”

Also, apparently, Paul is an armchair theologian with the ability to label heresy when she sees it. “Churches staying OUT of government is wrong and heresy,” she said . Also, she rejects “the faulty notion there should be a separation between church and state.”

Wowza.

“I’d like to share with you something from my campaigns that may surprise you,” the state rep went on to tell the receptive church crowd. “The most discouraging doors I knocked on were not the hardcore leftists. Yep, there were plenty of those. The ones who screamed in my face, slammed doors, called me names, threw things at me, and people who despised I’m a conservative Christian woman and were absolutely unapologetic about it. Those were not the hardest encounters. You want to know who the hardest doors were? Christians. People who said things to me like, ‘I agree with you. You have my vote, but please leave. I do not want my neighbors seeing me talk to you.’ Or, ‘I can’t put your sign on my lawn. I don’t want to look political.’ Or, ‘I don’t want to upset anybody. I just want to focus on the gospel.’ I had a pastor in my district who wouldn’t even put one of my signs on his yard because he was afraid for his 501c3 status even though the sign was at his house and not the church.”

In effect, Paul went on to blame her fellow “weak Christians” for the legislative failures that she claimed currently allows babies to be murdered (lie) and prostitution to be half-legal in Maine. (?!?!?) Statistically, she claimed, if 2,150 more Christians voted in 2022, the GOPers would’ve been victorious and prevented many baby-murders. In 2024, she said, they lost the chance to become the majority by a mere 60 votes.

(Her “more Christian voters means chud victory” theory may technically be true, but it’s not as easy as Paul might think. In Maine, one of the least religious states in the Union, these new “Christian voters” have to be scattered strategically to various legislative districts to make a difference. Which, unless there’s a willing bunch of Bible Thumpers to move into Maine’s progressive strongholds, ain’t gonna happen. Plus, those numbers need further adjusting to account for the annual culling of GOP voters by the Grim Reaper. )

However, Paul wasn’t all doomsday and gloom. According to her, Maine Republicans have a chance to seize control of the Legislature this November.

“The Maine Legislature is ready for harvest,” Paul proclaimed from the pulpit. “We also have strong Christian candidates stepping up to run across the state. And both the House Republican leader and the Senate Republican leader are both born again Christians. Is everything fixed? No. Is the battle over? Uh, absolutely not. But there is hope. God is not finished with the state of Maine. Our hope is not in comfort. It is not in safety. Our hope is in Christ who has already overcome. And if he has overcome the world, then we can endure the world’s hatred for the sake of obedience to him.”

Speaking of her revealing the Senate Republican leader as born-again. That, btw, is a recent development, according to State Sen. Harold “Trey” Stewart’s socials. And, oddly, the minority leader’s return to Bible-thumping was the direct result of an unknown “someone” challenging him to read the entire Bible, from front to back. Which he did during the entirety of 2025.

Then, in early 2026, Rep. Paul proclaimed, on her socials, that she was now in love with Sen. Stewart. Which makes them the second “End Times, Cross-Chambered Legislative Couple” who believe Earth is 6,000 year old.

Except, as I mentioned earlier, Paul still hasn’t taken out re-election papers. State House scuttlebutt, apparently, includes hints that Paul will sell her Waldo County farmhouse to head North, to Aroostook County, to shack up with her prayer-buddy and fellow Biblical scholar, Sen. Stewart. That move, of course, would probably require nuptials since any less holy co-housing arrangement would irk their Pastor.

Other speculation about Paul’s future involves her auditioning to work for a group like Turning Point USA. That’s why, some wags hypothesized, Paul introduced legislation last month — which was approved without a vote because Maine Dems worried opposing the measure would make them look bad — “JOINT RESOLUTION TO HONOR THE LIFE, FAITH, LEADERSHIP AND LEGACY OF CHARLES “CHARLIE” JAMES KIRK.”

I’ve posted the entire proclamation below but CONTENT WARNING: Hagiographic musings about a dead chud ahead.

Anyways, it’ll be interesting to see if Sen. Stewart end up abandoning his current “United Baptist Church Mars Hill” and joining a Calvary Chapel chapter, instead. Problem is, most members of the United Baptist Churches are “Old Earth Creationists.” And for Stewart to join his gal’s congregation, he’s gonna have to reject that theory and embrace Young Earthism.

Hmm. The things a fella does for love.

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Been busy in the foothills of western Maine. Thankfully the Polar Vortex’s sub-zero temps broke just in time for the arrival of the first kid born here.

Photo (above) of Basil Maurice Eclipse was taken three hours after his birth on Tuesday at 3:30 a.m. By the end of his first day here on Earth, he ditched the sweater, because he doesn’t need such frivolity. Basil was born with blue eyes and both of his parents have brown eyes, so that makes him extra special. Most important, he’s a healthy, happy and hoppy buckling. And his mother, Violet, has turned out to be a great nurturer and kind momma.

Basil, btw, wasn’t a planned breeding. Neither was Fern (below) supposed to be bred. However, she too is about to kid, so we moved her into a nursery pen last night.

We didn’t intend to breed our goats because to do it right, you gotta maintain a maximum security buck-yard, separated from the girls and wethers. Plus, we weren’t sure we were ready to take on the milking commitment. So when, five years ago, we brought Violet and her twin Oak (below) to the land (along with Fern and the dearly departed Juniper), their #1 job was to be cute. Secondarily, their task is to browse the abandoned pastures we’ve cleared, feeding on bramble, brush, poison ivy and other non-essentials to pave the way for pasture robust enough for an eventual dairy cow.

So last summer, we introduced two new boys to the farmstead to increase the landscaping squad. Unlike Oak, Hawthorn Partyboi and Spruce hadn’t been castrated. That task has been on the to-do list for awhile. But I’ve been busy. Long story short, in the fall, while in rut, the little boys (they are pretty damn short) convinced both Violet and Fern to copulate.

WHICH MEANS KIDS HAVING KIDS!

Needless to say, those boys are about to experience the discomfort of bands around their scrotum to prevent them from impregnating the does again. For a couple reasons: the ladies could get preggers as soon as a month after giving birth. And since goat gestation is about 150 days, any nextGen kids would be birthed at the height of a Maine summer. And that ain’t good, due to the heat and/or preponderance of warm-weather worms.

Also, by wethering these two boys, they can remain part of the herd and live in the same goat shack as the rest of ‘em. And if Fern kids a doeling, we wouldn’t want the boys (one of whom would be the baby’s father) knocking up a daughter.

Basil is named in honor of a childhood pal, who served as an altar boy with me at St. Matthew’s Church in Indian Orchard back in the mid-1970s. He was a kind and soft-spoken fella, with some vision and noggin’ issues, and one of the nicest guys you’d ever meet.

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Not one of the nicest people you’ll ever meet, btw, is the subject of my new true crime podcast that comes out next month. Fake Shaman is the never-before-told story of a con-witch who moved to Ellsworth with dollar bills in her eyes and psychedelic mushrooms in her Coach bag. Also, the Fake Shaman called herself a doctor and targeted vulnerable women in Maine and beyond.

Please listen to the 13-minute prelude below to hear about the creepy sex magic ritual that took place in a barn in a York County town last summer, which caused the implosion of the Fake Shaman’s fake-shamanic mentorship program. Also, if you’re not already, be sure to become a paid subscriber to The Crash Report for early access, bonus content and ad-free episodes of Fake Shaman.

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I’m looking forward to tomorrow’s Zoom call for The Crash Report’s paid subscribers at 7 p.m., during which I will reveal, for the first time, how I discovered that the Fake Shaman (above) is a liar, fraud and sex creep. Plus I’ll explain the back story of my new, 10-episode true crime podcast (premiering in March) and how I got involved with this tale about a shyster who came to Maine with dollar signs in her eyes and psychedelic mushrooms in her Coach bag.

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Also, via show-and-tell, I’ll demonstrate some of the tactics I used to debunk and fact-check this woman’s false claims of being an indigenously-trained shaman with 16-years experience. And you’ll learn about the allegations of her sexually-inappropriate behavior during her “Shamanic Mentorship” that imploded after she staged a black magic solstice ritual, fueled by ayahuasca, psilocybin, tequila, flower essences, a little bit of weed and a brooding emo-Spotify playlist.

Yikes.

Also, one paid subscriber will win a Crash Pack, which includes signed copies of my gritty memoir Tough Island, the out-of-print true story of Marijuana Valley and both the rollicking novel Sex, Drugs and Blueberries AND a DVD of the indie film sex, drugs and blueberries.

Speaking of the SDB DVD, my co-star in the film — Grammy-winning songwriter and Maine rock icon Dave Gutter — will be joining the Zoom call briefly to promote his Feb. 20 performance at Bayside Bowl in Portland as part of “Rock Salt Resistance” a benefit for The Maine Immigrant Rights Coalition.

Gutter and I have been pals for a long time, so I’m sure he’ll play a couple tunes for us during the Zoom call. Picture below, from 2017, was taken before I pivoted from smoking weed to vaping only the purest hashish.

I hope you can join us tomorrow, Sunday, Feb. 15th, at 7 p.m. Your exclusive invite is below… but don’t share it with your posse, because it’s for PAID SUBs ONLY!!

Also, Happy Valentine’s day to those that celebrate. Btw, I’m a marriage officiant and offer a super “elopement” package at our farmstead in the foothills of western Maine.

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I want to give you a heads-up about Fake Shaman and tell you about the opportunity for behind-the-scenes and ad-free access to the craziest story I’ve ever covered. Premiering in March, Fake Shaman is the true tale of a 37-year-old white woman from Connecticut claiming to be an indigenously-trained shaman, who came to Maine with dollar signs in her eyes and psychedelic mushrooms in her Coach bag.

Also, she has a blue stuffed dino named Rex that she uses in her weird magic.

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This fake shaman came to my attention after her “shamanic mentorship program” imploded last summer in a bougie-barn in a York County town .

On the fourth night of the mentorship’s retreat, the fake shaman launched into a black magic solstice ritual fueled by ayahuasca, psilocybin ‘shrooms, tequila, flower essences, a little bit of weed and a brooding emo-Spotify playlist. Her goal: to birth a dark entity from beyond the veil, using the power of her cornucopia of plant medicines, hypnotism and orgasm.

Spoiler alert: the sex magic didn’t work. Not only did she alienate her mentees into abandoning her mentorship, it appears — at least under Maine law — that she allegedly committed gross sexual assault. Fake Shaman is a ten-episode investigation into the history and actions of this con-witch and her evil habit of preying on vulnerable people in Maine and beyond.

Over the last eight months, I’ve done a deep dive on this predatory woman selling mind-altering drug experiences to victims of trauma for thousands of dollars, supposedly to heal the trauma and bring solace to the client. As part of her marketing sales pitch, she claimed to have spent the last 15 years training in the traditions of five separate shamanic lineages: Columbian, Brazilian, Mexican, Hawaiian and Siberian.

The reality: she’s a former life and business coach who magically morphed into a shaman after a week-long vacation in late February 2021 at “Rythmia” in Costa Rica. Rythmia, known as the Disneyland of ayahuasca resorts, is the place where this fake shaman claimed a psychedelic ceremony cured her then-3-year-old daughter’s autism…a kid who was thousands of miles away from the ayahuasca resort.

Thanks to dozens of hours of secret tapes, scores of documents, court files, insider stories and in-depth interviews, along with a giant treasure trove of supporting evidence gathered from the dustbins and forgotten corners of the internet, I’ve been able to prove — beyond a doubt — that this woman is a serial con artist and a sexual predator.

Throughout Fake Shaman, you’ll hear the voices and stories of multiple women, from Maine to Georgia to Wisconsin to Florida who fell prey to the smooth talk and big promises of this charlatan. A fake shaman who, as of today, is seeking bankruptcy protection, due to financial shenanigans connected to her failed social media platform geared towards aligned New Agers.

Via Fake Shaman, you’ll be able to come along for the journey as I explain to my podcast sidekick — my friend “Alice” — all the dirt I’ve discovered about this fraudulent woman. Also during the podcast, “Alice” gets a “Crash Course in Investigative Journalism,” as I teach her (and listeners) various tricks, hacks and open source intel gathering techniques I use while researching baddies like the aforementioned con witch. These methods, btw, translate well into investigating folks YOU might find suspicious.

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Why is Alice co-hosting the Fake Shaman podcast? Because she’s the one who told me about this shyster. Last year, “Alice” fell for the shaman’s spiel and paid $4,500 to join the shamanic mentorship. But then the big freaky magic reveal — and alleged sexual assault — during the York County retreat boggled her mind and her sense of morality. So “Alice” left in disgust and anger. She felt betrayed by a woman she’d grown to trust, admire and viewed as an inspiration, only to discover her guru was nothing but a pervy liar.

Fake Shaman is coming out in March, but if you want early access, ad free and bonus content, make sure you’re a paid subscriber to The Crash Report.

Anyone who is a paid sub on or before Feb 15th is invited to a special Zoom call for an exclusive live sneak peak into the whole shebang, including a crash course in debunking a fake shaman, a Q & A, plus a song or two by our musical guest, Grammy-winning songwriter and poet Dave Gutter.

So, if you’re not already, become paid subscriber NOW to get the whole damn story AND attend the special Zoom call, plus receive bonus content that delves deep into some pretty crazy rabbit holes connected to shamanism, plant medicine and other multi-dimensional activities, including an exploration into the life and times of Rex, the stuffed animal empowered with magic by the fake shaman.

In the photo below, you’ll see the fake shaman administering hapé, a sort of Amazonian snuff (made from wild tobacco, tree bark, cinnamon, cedar and other ingredients) to the stuffed dino. The fake shaman is using a tepi, a sort of double-ended blowpipe to serve the snuff to the stuffie.

This photo, btw, is from a special ceremony hours before the shaman’s mentorship program actually collapsed. Which is ironic, because Rex was supposed to protect the group from dark entities while preventing the property owner’s rich dad from interfering in the black magic rituals.

Like I said, a crazy story.

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With the massive release of more Epstein filth, I googled to see if Mitchell, the now 92-year-old Waterville native, appeared in any new documents. That’s when I discovered the freshly-posted press release from the US-Ireland Alliance announcing the removal of Mitchell’s name (misspelled) from the prestigious “George J. Mitchell Scholarship Program.”

The reason?

“The decision was made due to new information that has come to light as part of the release of documents related to Jeffrey Epstein by the Department of Justice on Friday,” according to Trina Vargo, president of US-Ireland Alliance.

I don’t have the time or energy to do a deep dive on the former senator’s alleged perversions, but the US-Ireland Alliance’s decision reenforces my theory on the folly of naming buildings, institutions, boats, et al, after living humans.

(A similar problem was discussed in Episode 14 of my Unholy Fathers podcast in connection to the renaming of a hospital in Springfield, Mass after the Catholic diocese found credible an allegation of child rape against Bishop Christopher Weldon, who also protected dozens of pedo-priests and the child murderer Richard Lavigne.)

For the record, Mitchell denies ever meeting Virginia Giuffre, but there’s no denying he and Epstein were buddies. In an October 2002 New York Magazine story entitled “Jeffrey Epstein: International Moneyman of Mystery,” the former Maine senator is quoted as saying, “I would certainly call [Epstein] a friend and a supporter.”

Mitchell’s words and signature are also found in the infamous “Birthday Book” compiled for Epstein by Ghislaine Maxwell. While I don’t wanna dissect the hard-to-read copy of the letter, the P.S. Mitchell added is illuminating. “As you know,” Mitchell wrote, “Heather [Mitchell’s wife] shares your birthday, confirming my belief that a lot of great people were born on January 20th.”

Which got me thinking… what other things need re-naming in light of Mitchell’s bromance with Epstein?

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First on this list, the Waterville school board will need to ponder the name of the “George J. Mitchell School” on Drummond Ave in the former senator’s hometown. The school — named after him in 1995 — teaches students from kindergarten through third grade. Which makes his name above the door seem icky.

A bigger conundrum, it would seem, is the name of the “Mitchell Institute,” the organization he founded in 1999 with big money assistance from the Harold Alfond Foundation. As far as I know, the Mitchell Institute does good work. Such as the aforementioned and now-un-named “George J. Mitchell Scholarship Program” which pays for American scholars to attend a year of college in Ireland and Northern Ireland.

Also laudatory are the Mitchell Institute’s programs that helps many Maine kids attend college, including annual $10k scholarships presented to one college-bound senior from every public Maine high school. According to their website, the non-profit has awarded over $25 million since 1995 in “scholarship, fellowship and contingency funds to more than 3,600 scholars and alumni who hail from every community in Maine.”

(The non-profit, btw, according to IRS documents, currently has about $48,222,963 in the bank and in assets.)

Meanwhile, over at UMaine, the “Senator George J. Mitchell Center for Sustainability Solutions” is still part of the Orono campus community. I recommend an op-ed published in Feb. 2022 in The Maine Campus by Nicolas Tiner, entitled “UMaine is no place for Epstein accomplices: Rename the Mitchell Center.”

And down in Brunswick, at Mitchell’s alma mater of Bowdoin College, perhaps it’s time to change the name of the “George J. Mitchell Department of Special Collections & Archives” to something a little less creepy.

Mitchell’s name-game isn’t just a Maine thing. Consider, for instance, “the Senator George Mitchell Peace Bridge” located on the border between British-occupied Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland. The 98-foot bridge spans the Woodford River (aka Sruth Gráinne in Irish) between Cavan in County Cavan in the Republic and Enniskillen in County Fermanagh in the north.

The bridge is named for Mitchell (who was the son of an Irish immigrant dad and a Lebanese-American mum) because of his contributions as chairman of the Irish Peace Accords that led to the “Good Friday Agreement” in 1998 that ended most of the Troubles that plagued Ireland since the 1960s.

Also up for re-naming, in theory, due to his relationship to the pedo-Epstein, would be the so-called “Mitchell Principles” which were the ground rules adopted by Irish and English governments during the peace talks. Below are the rules, according to the Irish Times newspaper in 1996.

Admittedly, it’s probably too late to change the name of the bridge or the principles. There’s still time, however, to change the moniker of the M/V George Mitchell, the 207-foot electric ferry proposed to replace the M/V Margaret Chase Smith, the 166-foot diesel-guzzling ferry currently serving Islesboro from Lincolnville.

According to a MDOT report published last month, the shipyard bids to build the M/V George Mitchell came in too high for the budgeted cash, with price-tags ranging from $41.5 million to $43 million to build the dingy. The state rejected all the bids and is currently re-evaluating their plans.

Which means they can totally erase M/V George Mitchell from the architectural drawings and the stern of any mock-ups. From a nautical perspective, the time for the name change is NOW, before any keel is laid or vessel launched. Because, as we know, scientifically, it’s bad luck to change the name of a boat once she’s gotten wet. (Re: Billy Bob Faulkingham’s shipwreck)

Perhaps the name of the new ship should be the M/V Margaret Chase Smith II.

(Boats shouldn’t named after dudes anyways.)

Also currently pending in the U.S. Senate but not yet approved, is re-naming the “Hulls Cove Visitor Center” in Acadia National Park to “honor” former Majority Leader Mitchell. Sponsored by his buddies Senators Susan Collins and Angus King, according to Senate records, the measure to christen “George J. Mitchell, Jr. Visitors Center” still faces a full Senate vote.

No word, yet, if Mitchell is still being considered for the honor.

In closing, though, there’s one “George J. Mitchell Elementary School” not needing a name change. That’s the kindergarten through second grade school in Little Egg Harbor Township in New Jersey. (GO OSPREYS!!)

That school was named for a different George J. Mitchell, a now-deceased school administrator who didn’t hang out with Jeffry Epstein.

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from Tough Island, True Stories from Matinicus, Maine

From my perspective as a sternman, Vance Bunker was an awesome guy. A gentle, funny giant. An island Renaissance Man. He was old enough to remember hauling spruce traps, but young and intelligent enough to embrace modern improvements. Smart about the ocean, he drove a boat like it was an extension of his body. And he could fly. On several occasions he gave me a lift to the mainland in his tiny plane. He was kind and generous, tough and strong – his hands as big as heads, his arms mighty muscles developed during a lifetime of hard labor, working the waters off Maine’s most remote island.

January 16, 1992 was a frigid night. The outer reaches of Penobscot Bay swirled. The sea smoke was thicker than fog. Screeching winds gusted over 30 knots. Four-to-eight footers of North Atlantic chop. That’s the weather the tugboat Harkness was trudging through when she started taking on water. Lots of water. The crew believed they were doomed. The sea was so rough, no fishermen would be out. They were too far from shore for the Coasties to help. They gave their position, via Loran numbers, over the radio. MAYDAY! MAYDAY! They were going down.

A voice on the radio urged them to head for Matinicus. The crew had seen the island on the chart and assumed it was uninhabited. Not so, the radio voice said. “Steam for Matinicus, it’s your only chance.”

On the island, people sprung to action. Vance, along with Captain Rick Kohls and island handyman Paul Murray, climbed aboard Vance’s lobster boat, the Jan-Ellen, and headed toward the tug’s last known position. The plan: Lead the Harkness safely into the harbor and lean her against the Steamboat Wharf. The rest of us would bring the dewatering pumps on the fire engine.

The fire truck wouldn’t start, but it didn’t matter. No pumps could beat that winter night’s watery wrath. Out at sea, the tug’s stern went awash. The three-man crew abandoned ship as she went down, deep into the North Atlantic. Gone forever.

Meanwhile, Vance and his crew battled the freezing spray and waves. The Jan-Ellen was icing up. Couldn’t see through the windshield. Nothing on radar anywhere near the last known position. They wouldn’t spot the tug, since Davy Jones had already taken her. These three island men, however, were hardy and determined. Engulfed in sea smoke, there was no sky. They stared into the churning gray-and-black froth all around them. Searching. Seeking.

The men in the water? Bobbing. Bone-chilling waves broke and tossed them. Were they praying? Crying? Each man knew his end was near, in minutes or even less. Did panic set in? Or sorrow? Hypothermia follows. Drifting. Drifting toward unconsciousness. Cold. So very cold. They must have known death would soon arrive.

But a miracle happened. One of the tug’s crew had grabbed a waterproof flashlight (a Christmas present from his daughter) before abandoning ship. His right hand was seized up and clenched tight around the gift. His frozen claw glowed into the dark night.

The men aboard the Jan-Ellen saw the light. In the middle of the savage sea, they pulled the sailor aboard. And then, wondrously, they spotted and snatched the two other men from the Reaper’s grip.

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Vance turned toward the island. His crew tore the wet clothing from the survivors and gave them semi-dry gloves, hats, and the coats off their own backs. When the Jan-Ellen arrived at the Steamboat Wharf, the Matinicus men stood in t-shirts and trousers, half-frozen. But not as cold as the crew of the Harkness.

I know, firsthand, how cold the rescued men were. As one of three sternmen standing on the wharf, I was chosen as a warm body and found myself in the back of someone’s truck, sharing a sleeping bag with a fella just plucked from the sea. Stripped of his soaked loaner coat and hat, his bare body was ice. I wrapped my arms around him and snuggled the shivering, chattering, nearly naked man. I remember his tighty-whities, wet against my pants. I shared my heat, across the island, until we got him inside Vance and Sari’s house, where there was a warm fire and a huge pot of lobster stew. And biscuits.

My memory of the celebration will be foggy forever because I got drunk. Real drunk. It was like a good Christmas party. Lots of joy and love for those around you. Vance making wisecracks. People laughing. The three strangers he saved sat at his table. Blankets around their shoulders. Hair still wet and salty from the sea. In shock. Slowly, hesitantly, they start to eat the best stew in the world. And biscuits. Not believing they’re alive. Wondering, for a second, if they’re in heaven.

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The Croteau Family. From upper left: Greg, Mike, Carl Jr., Joe. Bottom left: Bunny holding Cat, Jackie, Carl Sr., Danny.

A note: I had intended to just post sections of the AI-transcript of the “Unholy Fathers” episode about Cat (Croteau) Powers. While proofing, I once again realized how poorly AI transcribes true human emotion and story.

Plus, revisiting Cat’s words and wisdom hit me hard. I feel her POV is important and can be helpful to the rest of us. So I decided it would be more appropriate to share the entire transcription as way for folks to learn her family’s tragic story AND possibly glean tips for dealing with stress, anger, worry and sorrow.

Below the podcast link, in text format, is a transcript of “Danny Croteau’s Sister.”

Crash

This episode of “Unholy Fathers” will be a little different than the previous eleven. We’re going to discuss, in detail, how the murder of Danny Croteau by Rev. Richard Lavigne affected Danny’s family.

We’ll hear from Danny’s youngest sister, an inspiring woman named Cat, who also happens to be a high school classmate of mine, a fellow Cathedral Panther “Class of 1986.” In 1983, we both took the “Introduction to Journalism” course taught by Sister Ann Lynch.

I remember Cat as being a nice person, though I wasn’t close to her at all. I thought she was cool because she was a punk, which was a rare creature in the preppy corridors of Cathedral. And because I was a wannabe punk.

Back in high school, I hadn’t known Cat was Danny’s sister. In fact, I didn’t learn Danny’s actual identity and his relation to Cat until Rev. Richard Lavigne was arrested in 1992. Before that, I just knew of the local legend of a priest suspected of killing an altar boy a couple miles away from my childhood home and getting away with murder.

Unbeknownst to most of us at Cathedral High, Cat, haunted by her brother’s death, was dealing with serious trauma. That’s probably why, as she explains it, her teenage years were a mess. Obsessed with a certain boy and smoking a ton of marijuana and cigarettes. She enjoyed many of her British style weed-and-tobacco cigs in Cathedral’s official student smoking area, conveniently located outside, near the cafeteria, on the path to the school science wing.

In 2019, 34 years after we graduated from Cathedral, I reached out to Cat, asking to interview her about her experiences connected to the death of her brother.

Graciously, she agreed.

Cat

Whenever anybody ever asks me how Danny’s death affected my life, I always say it was like a bomb going off in Hiroshima, because it never stopped. It’s generational. My kids are affected by this. My daughter was named after my brother. I don’t know how much of an honor having this heavy name on her shoulders has been. My family did not survive this. Instead, we chose to live, in spite of this. And that’s a huge difference. I chose to live. I’m part of the world.

Crash

Even after 48 years, the murder looms large in her life. She thinks about her brothers, her parents and Lavigne every single day.

Cat

You see all those specials on television that says “Time heals all wounds.” Or “Eventually you’re going to get past this.” That is a lie. You have to learn how to live with it. You can’t ignore it. You can’t get over it. It doesn’t feel better, ever. It’s not something that heals with time. There’s no such thing as getting justice. There’s no such thing as that moment when somebody goes to jail that’s going to make anything okay.

Crash

Just to be clear, Cat, her family and Lieutenant James Fitzgibbons of the Massachusetts State Police, and lots and lots of other cops, journalists, lawyers and locals who knew the entire sordid story all believe that, without a doubt, Richard Lavigne murdered Danny.

Cat

My dad and my mother until the day they died, believed with their whole heart, mind in full, that Lavigne was the one who took their son’s life. And some of that was because of that phone call.

Crash

She’s talking about the phone call on the afternoon of May 2, 1972, seventeen days after Danny’s body was found floating in the Chicopee River. During that call from Father Richard Lavigne to Bunny Croteau, Cat’s mom, the priest told her that “under the circumstances, it would be best if I didn’t come around for now.” Then without another word, Lavigne hung up. Bunny was baffled. Why was their devoted friend suddenly abandoning them? On this of all days. It had already been a tough one. That morning, the state crime lab had released Danny’s blood alcohol test results: .18%, nearly twice the Massachusetts legal limit for adults.

Cat

They found it very weird, very odd. What do you mean? You’re not going to be coming around anymore. That specific phone call was very damning for him. They just lost their child. This is the individual that just said their son’s funeral mass. It was very confusing for my parents to be told this by somebody who was their friend and their spiritual support person, “Bye, see you later.” That was really, really hard for them both.

Crash

For the longest time, she wondered why Lavigne called and spoke with her mom rather than her father. Now she has a theory.

Cat

I don’t think Lavigne was brave enough to speak with my dad. I think he was afraid to do that. It was easier to hit my mom in the back of the knees. My mother could be stoic at times, and kind of kept everything inside. But when she did that, she kind of shut down. And I think that Lavigne was counting on that. Because he’d known her for a while at the point. And he knew my father would have been the person to ask “Why?”

Crash

Cat’s memories of April, 1972 are blurry and distant. No surprise. She just turned five years old a couple weeks before.

Cat

I really didn’t understand what was going on. I just had an understanding that people were very upset. There was a lot of chaos. There were people in and out of the house. I remember going into the car with my mom and looking for my brother with her. I remember her calling his name. It was in a time where you called kids’ names, and they usually came home. You’d scream their names throughout the neighborhood and then they went running back home.

Crash

As we know, sadly, Danny never came home. And Cat was sent to stay with a family friend for a couple of days, until things calmed down a little bit.

Cat

I have no recollection whatsoever of that visit. I remember the gathering after the funeral at my parents house. I remember rain. I remember my mom crying a lot. And a lot of cigarettes being smoked, and people were so, so sad. My brothers were acting weird. I didn’t understand, really what was going on, feeling like I was invisible. I twirled around for my great aunts. And I did my ABCs backwards and got $5 from an uncle. I was trying so hard to make everybody laugh. And I wasn’t really understanding what was going on because everybody was just so serious.

Crash

Even though she was just five, Cat had dealt with death before. A beloved aunt and her grandfather had passed away the previous year. But this was different.

Cat

I have a very, very clear recollection of throwing an absolute temper tantrum crying my eyes out and screaming, “I just want my brother back!” My mom didn’t know how to handle it, and my poor aunt was the one who really had to explain to me that he’s not going to come back to the house anymore. I don’t think even my little girl mind comprehended that my aunt and my grandfather were not going to come back. They didn’t live with us. But Danny was my toy in so many ways. Like when the all the boys were going off to do something and my sister was going off to play with someone… there weren’t a lot of kids in this area in my age bracket. And he would play tea with me. He would read me stories. He’d play “peek-a-boo” with me. One of my favorite memories is laying on the floor, sticking the little pegs into the Lite Brite with him and being very angry with that Lite Brite afterwards. I have no idea why, but for some reason in my little girl head, that Lite Brite was bad, but I don’t know if I somehow correlated that with my brother being gone. Or I don’t know why, but I really didn’t like the Lite Brite very much after that.

Crash

Cat’s memories of Richard Lavigne are vague.

Cat

I know I didn’t like him. I just didn’t like him. That’s really pretty much all I remember is that when he was present, I didn’t care for him. I always liken it to a dog. When a dog just doesn’t like somebody and they growl at someone, I just did not like him. Matter of fact, I know my mom kind of pushed me towards him. And so did my father. In retrospect, I think, in their minds at that time, I was being disrespectful to Lavigne. By not being “woo-hoo” for him. Everybody else liked him. But for me, I just didn’t care for him. Years later, there was a person that my aunt was dating and I didn’t like him. My mom let me leave the table because I just did not want to be near him. And she said, “No, her instincts are right.” She let me leave.

Crash

Her parents’ relationship with the child molesting priest had been exceptionally strong just before Danny’s death.

Cat

Lavigne was extremely close to my parents, to both my father and my mother. He was close to both of them. At one point, my mom had told me that there were rumors her and Lavigne were having an affair because he was over at the house so much. I have very distinct memories of pulling into the church parking lot and having Father Lavigne come out and talk to my parents. And that just made me really kind of nauseous to call him “Father.” But he would come out and would talk to her. Sometimes I would be half asleep in the backseat. It was the good old days when you didn’t have to wear a seat belt. And they would talk, and my mom would drive away.

Back then, it’s my understanding, that you made a formal appointment with your priest. Or you went to the confessional and you discussed things. Whether it’s family problems, whatever. The way my dad described it to me was it was like that with Lavigne, but only had a more casual feel to it. Instead of feeling like you are in front of the principal and you’ve been a bad person and you’re not going to go to heaven, Lavigne managed to put you at ease. And he would discuss things, and my father would tell you if he were here today, that Lavigne was very, very charismatic when he preached from the pulpit. And how he was very charismatic when he had one-on-one conversations with you. Whether it was about the war or where he traveled or doing whatever he did. My father would often say Lavigne was extremely intelligent and he made mom and dad feel comfortable.

Crash

As with many unsolved mysteries, myths arise. One that’s been retold often in the media accounts of Danny’s murder was that Lavigne was the one who identified Danny’s body. Cat says that’s not true. Her Uncle Richard was the one who id-ed Danny at the funeral parlor. Lavigne was there providing comfort. As a priest.

Cat

Honestly, I don’t think it matters at this point. I know that the biggest struggle that my parents had to deal with was the fact that Lavigne convinced them to keep that casket closed. And that was horrifying for my mother. Because my mom would sometimes wonder, is it really her son? It interfered with her grief process.

Crash

The closed casket was totally unnecessary. As we learned from Lieutenant Fitzgibbons in Episode one, Danny’s injuries were either internal and invisible or external, but easily covered by mortician’s make-up. Fitzy, by the way, became part of Cat’s childhood. He visited the Croteau house frequently, keeping Carl senior updated on the investigation. And if it wasn’t for Fitzy, Cat’s brothers probably never would have revealed that Lavigne fed them booze and molested them individually on a regular basis, for years. Her brothers, true to form for 1970s era Catholics, couldn’t discuss sex with their parents. Much less sexual abuse by their supposedly beloved parish priest. They had reluctantly told Fitzy of being molested by Lavigne about three weeks after their brother’s murder.

Cat

They were extremely fearful of telling my father, prior to Danny’s death, what had happened to them. And after Danny’s death, my brother, Greg, had related to me. He felt very responsible. That if he had told my dad, would dad had believed him? If he had told Dad, would this have have stopped it from happening. My brother struggled all his life with the guilt of not telling my dad and having a really difficult time communicating with my dad about what happened to him.

Crash

Sadly, Greg was burdened forever after, never able to convince himself that he was not responsible for the murder of his little brother.

Cat

But when you’re forty years old, and you’re looking back, or you’re 25 years old or 30 years old, you’re being told that the primary person who might have killed your brother is the man who hurt you, you don’t think, “Oh, my God, I’m just a teenager.” You think “I should have told my parents? I could have stopped this.” You start playing the blame game. It’s not an abnormal thing for kids to do that.

Crash

The year after Danny’s murder, Cat began attending OLSH, aka Our Lady of Sacred Heart, like all her siblings had. Unlike most of her fellow students, she loved the nuns who ran the school.

I was treated very well by the nuns. I know I have friends that go, “you were what? They were mean!” I don’t think any of the nuns at OLSH were mean. I thought they were wonderful. Could they be hard? Yeah, but I always felt that they were how nuns were supposed to be. And I guess for other people, it wasn’t necessarily the same experience. And I hate thinking that it would be because of my brother’s death, that they treated me well. But I also felt protected by them.

Crash

Turns out she did need protection, at least during her first two years at OLSH. I’ve mentioned Father Gerry Spafford a couple times before. He was a very close friend of both Richard Lavigne and Father X. In fact, he was the one who suggested Father X commission the family portraits that still hang on the X priest’s living room wall in Episode 7 of “Unholy Fathers.” Also like Lavigne, Spafford was the rare priest in the early 1970s who spoke out from the pulpit against the Vietnam War. From Cat’s perspective, as a young girl, though, Spafford did not seem like a priest.

Cat

He wore sandals. He looked like Jesus. My best description of him is he kind of, retrospectively, reminded me of Charles Manson, his beard and the long hair. And I did see him with the sandals on, with the priestly garments on. But at the same time, to my little, very strict Irish-Catholic family, priests had short hair. They dressed in their black suits. Except for, I do know that Lavigne would show up in the house with casual clothing on. But not like being in dungarees and a t-shirt. More like a dress shirt and pair of pants.

Crash

Gerry Spafford has not been placed on the list of Springfield clergy credibly accused of child sexual abuse, though I’ve found several mentions of him in court documents related to child molesting priests. Ordained in 1967 by child molesting Bishop Christopher Weldon, Spafford served as a priest at OLSH until 1976 when he suddenly disappeared and was given a so-called “leave of absence” for a year. Then, he returned to the priesthood, serving at Sacred Heart parish in Holyoke for a couple more years, before taking another “leave of absence” and then leaving the priesthood for good in 1979.

Spafford died in 2015 at age 75, and I gotta admit, I hope he suffered before kicking the bucket. (His obit, though, says he “died peacefully.”) I wanted him to suffer because in 1973, when Cat was in the first grade, this scary “Charles Manson-looking priest” accosted her in the hallway. She was alone. On her way back from using the girls’ room. Spafford grabbed the six-year-old Cat by the arm and said, “Your parents are going to burn in hell.” When he let go, Cat ran back into her first grade classroom and told Sister Marie what happened.

Cat

I was very upset. I was crying. And she took me out into the little hallway, and she spoke with me for a few minutes. And I told her that that man said my parents are going to burn in hell. And I just remember being really, really upset. And she told me to calm down, then sent me to my desk. She didn’t come back into the room right away, but I will tell you that after that, Father Spafford did not come anywhere near me.

Crash

Why did Spafford say that to Cat? We’ll never know, but in the wake of Danny’s murder, the Croteaus had strayed from the flock.

Cat

For a while, my parents did not go to church. Specifically my mom. She stayed away from her church the longest. The one thing my mother never did, though, was give up her rosary. She had a rosary everywhere. But she eventually did go back to church.

Crash

Interestingly, Cat also has her mother’s devotion to the rosary. However, Cat believes her fondness for the meditation comes from the David Carradine character she saw on reruns of the old “Kung Fu” TV show.

Cat

That show did plant some seeds for me. And, as a little girl, gave me some coping mechanism. So I had the rosary, which were like his beads on the program, and I would do the Rosary. The Rosary has always been something very comforting to me. And I know that a lot of people would be going, “What do you mean? That’s a Catholic thing?” Well, it’s a mala [used in Buddhism to count repetitions of mantras] and it’s not necessarily a Catholic thing. And I don’t have a problem with being Catholic. I have a different perspective than some people. And my perspective is not black and white.

I don’t believe that any religion in the world is necessarily a bad thing or wrong thing. I don’t think that if you’re a practicing Buddhist and you once were a Catholic, that you’re going to burn in hell.

Crash

About a year after Danny’s death, Carl senior returned to church and mass. Initially at OLSH, though, not St. Catherine’s, their longtime parish where they’d befriended Lavigne. According to Cat, her dad kept pestering Bunny to accompany him to church. Eventually, after about four years, she gave in. And, sadly, when they began attending Mass, the Croteau family wasn’t welcomed by everyone.

Cat

We did start going back to church and it wasn’t a pretty picture. My parents were treated kind of like pariahs. Some people snubbed my parents.

My parents were trying to warn different people, “you really don’t want your kids to be with Lavigne.” Those people weren’t happy with them. It never went beyond the [failed] investigation, so they felt like my parents had sullied this good priest’s name.

There were also people who showed my parents a great deal of support. I don’t want to downplay that by any means, because there were some wonderful people in the community. Even if they didn’t agree with my parents, they were supportive of my parents. But there were some people who were assholes, like we had the bubonic plague. In 1992, when people were coming out of the woodwork saying “Oh my God, I’m so sorry [[we doubted you]]. Our son [was abused] by Lavigne.” They didn’t take my parents advice. And their children had become victims.

Crash

Danny’s name was rarely mentioned in the Croteau household in the years following his murder. And almost never in front of Cat’s four brothers. All of whom were haunted by guilt. Whenever Lieutenant Fitzgibbons came around, he always discussed the investigation with Carl senior outside. Fitzy and her parents were trying to protect Cat from the painful reality of their loss. And, probably, trying to protect their own mental well-being. As she got older, Cat wanted to learn more about her dearly departed brother and honor the scant memories she had. However, that didn’t go over too well, especially with her brothers.

At this point, one of my siblings had told me, when I was nine years old, “You can’t talk about Danny. You’re too young. You don’t remember him. You were too young when he died.” And that really ate at me for a while.

Crash

The following year, it happened again, this time with another brother, a traveling salesman who came home for a visit.

Cat

He was home with his girlfriend, and his girlfriend was asking about Danny, and I couldn’t give her some of the answers that she wanted. Like, I know she was digging about Danny stuff, but I was talking to her about what I remember of him. Like how he played tea with me. And how he made my dolls talk and my bears talk. I remembered that, and I wanted to share that. I finally had somebody who would listen to me. And my brother blew. He blew like you would not believe. It didn’t sit well with him. He was like, “I don’t want you [his girlfriend] asking my sister. She’s too effing young to remember this.”

Crash

Today Cat knows the girlfriend was asking questions about Danny because the woman had been concerned about the terrifying nightmares Cat’s brother had almost every night. But at the time, as a young girl, Cat certainly couldn’t fill in the details about Danny’s vicious murder. And she was very upset by her brother’s anger. Unfortunately, Cat’s mom had been at a ceramics class during that painful conversation, so young Cat was all alone in her distress.

Cat

When my mom came home, I did tell her what happened, and she did tell him, “You know what? I get that this is hard for you. But Danny was her brother, too.”

Crash

Decades later, when that brother fell ill, he moved into Cat’s home, and she took care of him.

Cat

He remembered that incident. And we talked about it too. It bothered him for awhile that he had basically forbidden me to speak about Danny. But it had a profound effect on me. Because it became even bigger for me than you can imagine.

Crash

A couple of months later, when she was 10 years old, Cat decided it was time to find out what happened to Danny. But not from her mom.

Cat

You could literally talk to my mother about anything. Like I could ask my mother “I heard this. What does this mean?” But I couldn’t talk to her about Danny.

Crash

Despite being extremely protective of her daughter, Bunny allowed Cat to make occasional trips around town on the city bus, provided she went with a friend. One day that summer, Cat decided to visit the main branch of the Springfield library to see what she could learn about her brother’s murder. This would have been quite the adventure, in the late 1970s, for two young girls from Sixteen Acres to hop aboard the PVTA bus and head downtown to the Springfield quadrangle.

I was a reader, and I loved the library and I knew that they had newspapers. I didn’t necessarily know that they had my brother’s stories on microfiche, but I knew that they kept the newspapers. So I went downtown with my friend, and I did not tell the librarian what I was looking up. I wanted to see the newspapers that had articles about my brother. And the librarian was like, “Well, those are old. They’re on microfiche now.” So they set up the machine and I looked, and I was pissed. There were only two articles on my brother’s death. Two, that’s all I could find.

Crash

Cat is correct about the lack of media coverage of Danny’s murder. The two stories from 1972 had very few details, leaving Cat with more questions than answers. It would be another 20 years, when Lavigne was arrested for molesting altar boys, before reporters began to dig deep into the priest’s sins and crimes. Cat returned to Sixteen Acres that day, deeply disappointed.

Cat

I remember being upset. It didn’t really explain enough for me. I wanted to know what was going on. And what happened to him. And when I went home, I told my mom. She asked how our trip to the library was, and I was like, “I went to do this.” And my mom was upset that I didn’t feel like I could ask her questions or talk to her about Danny.

Crash

What happened next would transform Cat’s life forever. Her mom offered to try to answer any question Cat might have about her brother and his murder. So Cat asked about what had been bothering her the most. She’d always thought that Danny had drowned because he was found in the Chicopee River. But now, she wasn’t so sure. She took a deep breath and asked her mother, “How did he die?”

Cat

She asked me “Are sure you really want to know this. Are you sure you can handle it? Because it’s going to be hard.” And then she said she would get Danny’s death certificate.

Crash

Bunny couldn’t bring herself to read the official document aloud.

Cat

She got it and she showed it to me, and it said, ‘death by laceration to the brain.’ That moment probably changed me in more ways than I can say. It changed me in more ways than I can explain.

Crash

From then onward, Cat was a different person.

Cat

I look at my pictures from when I was a small child, and I can tell you right when I found out the complete and total truth about Danny. Because I start gaining weight. And I’ve struggled with my weight, since. A lot of stress and a lot of grief can cause physical ailments. Back then, I suffered profusely from migraines. They were horrible. There were times in my life as a teenager, that I could not get out of bed. I was throwing up. I never correlated the two between each other.

I believe that Lavigne murdered more than just Danny. I believe he murdered -- the physicality of death -- two of my other brothers. And I believe he changed the very nature of every person in my family.

Crash

It’s impossible to rank the impact of each member of her family’s personal pain and suffering, but the murder probably damaged her four brothers the most. All her siblings had emotional and substance abuse problems. And a couple brothers had extreme drug and alcohol issues that wreaked havoc on their lives and the lives of their children.

Cat

My brother’s death — and what happened to them — absolutely ate at them like poison. Like somebody just feeding a little bit of arsenic every single day. Every day. That’s why they didn’t want to hear his name. When I got older, when I was in my 20s, talking about him was fine, but when I was a kid, you did not say his name in front of my brothers. That was a no go. At that time, I didn’t understand. Retrospectively, I don’t understand because I think it interfered with their healing process, but you just didn’t mention Danny.

I loved all my brothers so much. They were so funny and they had so much to offer this world. And they struggled with guilt. They struggled with shame. They struggled with fear because as one of my brothers told me, “I’m afraid to be around my kids. Sometimes I’m afraid that I’ll become like that monster.” He talked to me about about that fear. It was not something that he easily discussed and I could tell the effect that it had on them was just indescribable. Because in the 80s and the 90s, therapists started talking like “if it happened to you, then, basically, it destroys you, or you become a monster.” There was never any gray area ever presented. It’s like... I’m either going to be destroyed completely, or I’m going to become a monster.

Crash

Her parents, of course, also suffered great sorrow.

Cat

My mom never went for counseling and she was profusely and profoundly depressed. And she hid it quite well. There are pictures of my mom where she smiles. She has this beautiful smile, pre Danny, and then post-Danny…there’s almost like a snarl to her lips. Part of her lip is just slightly raised, like it’s her ‘tell’ that that’s not a real smile.

My mom really tried very, very hard not to be absent. But she was very absent for a period of time in my life when I was little. And I think it was her processing the crap that was going on and the investigation. And my father was extremely protective of my mom, and I don’t know how much he told her at different junctures. He knew everything, but I always felt like my father kind of piece-mealed the information to her.

Crash

While her mother never saw a shrink, she did have weekly visits with one of her sisters, who served as her sounding board and confidant, listening to Bunny’s fears and tribulations for decades. Carl senior never sought professional help either, but found some solace in booze and attending church. And while playing poker with a bunch of fellow Korean War veterans who returned to Springfield in 1953. All of them shell shocked and finding camaraderie with others damaged by the horrors of modern warfare.

Carl never spoke to Cat about the atrocities he witnessed, although he did share a handful of details with the other older children. Some of the battles his unit fought are known for being particularly brutal, and there, playing cards, among comrades, Carl was able to talk about his devastating feelings of loss. And Danny’s murder and Carl’s anger that Lavigne was still walking free. Cat, luckily, learned a coping mechanism from her dad.

Cat

When I was about 17 years old and super-angry and crying and just really, really, really, really, really angry, my father said something to me. “You’re never going to get past this unless you forgive him.” I asked, “Dad, what do you mean? How do you forgive him?” He said, “Every single day I have to try all over again to forgive him.”

I don’t forgive Lavigne the man, but I forgive Lavigne the child. Because I really, truly believe in my heart, for somebody to be that kind of a sociopathic monster, that something horrible had to have happened to them. Whether it was, as some have reported, at the hands of his mother… I don’t know who it was at the hands of, but I don’t think people are just born monsters. I think their environment plays a key part in what happens to them.

Crash

Cat’s attempts to forgive Lavigne, though, haven’t ended her suffering.

Cat

I’m still angry. I’m so very angry. I don’t think anything is ever truly cathartic. People who learn how to deal with a tragic loss, learn how to deal with it by getting to know the monster in the room. How has this affected me? How has it changed me? What can I do to make this more positive for myself? Because I could have very well became a drug addict and an alcoholic.

I’ve also come to recognize that I use the word hate a lot. And that’s a very strong word. And I recently had to think about, where is that coming from? The elephant in the room? I’m literally looking around it going, I don’t understand why I’m like this. Why do I use “hate” as always my go-to. I don’t go to “I dislike,” I always say “I hate.”

Well, when you grow up, where you feel like you didn’t just lose your one brother, you feel like you lost them all. Instantly. Because one is away to California because he can’t deal with it. And another one goes into the Army because he can’t deal with it. And you have another brother working this weird job, and you never see him anymore. And it’s not just the natural evolution. It seemed like they all just dispersed. Your sister is no longer at the house with you. She’s down the street, and avoiding being home at all possible costs. Baby-sitting... just not wanting to be around the house. When you’re five, six, nine and twelve years old. You really feel like your entire family just died.

Crash

As an adult, Cat has occasionally crossed paths with Richard Lavigne. She’s seen him at the Holyoke Mall. Once at BJs Wholesale Club, she had to leave because the child molesting priest was also shopping there. Another time, she bumped into him at the cardiologist office where she was bringing her mother for a doctor’s appointment. She had always avoided speaking to him until a couple of years before our conversation.

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Two years ago, I ran into him at a diner. And he pissed me off because I recognized him. And I must have had that look of recognition. Like “I know you from someplace. Or you’re famous.” Or whatever it was, because he gave me this smug nonchalant look like “Yeah, I’m famous” kind of nod back. And it just sent me through the roof.

And I got up and followed him out into the parking lot. And I told him, “Don’t worry, Danny and Mike and Joe will never forget you. And we are always watching. We are always watching.” Then I turned around and walked back into the dinner and sat down. I was shaking like a leaf. Not from fear, though.

First, I can’t believe I did it, but I was not a happy person seeing him and felt like saying “You raped boys and ruined their lives. I don’t know how many suicides you probably caused in Sixteen Acres. And you think that you can just give me a flip of your head? Like, yeah, that’s right. I’m saying you’re a smug, arrogant bastard.”

I just wanted him to know that people haven’t forgotten. That people are still looking out for him. They still they know who he is and what he is.

I don’t think that we should torture ourselves thinking that “only if someone had just spoken up back in the early 1970s” that the course of this life would have been changed. And Danny would have possibly lived. Back then, I don’t necessarily think that anybody in the church would have acted on information about Lavigne. I think if two or three people came forward and and if they tried to act on it, I think somebody higher in the power scheme would have said, “not gonna happen.”

Crash

Obviously, Cat will always be haunted by the murder of Danny and the slow demise of her brothers Mike and Joe. But she’s trying to live her life in spite of that trauma. These days, she’s a post op RN at a Springfield Hospital. She recently became further accredited as a holistic nurse, which gives her more latitude to discuss alternative treatments with her hospital patients. And she tries to follow her own advice.

Cat

I suffer from clinical depression and I’m not ashamed to say that. I experienced the traumatic event at a young age, and I struggle every day to not be sad. It’s something that’s always very tangible for me. I could be having a great day, and something could trigger me. So I have struggled with that.

I will tell you that part and parcel of choosing “to live” is to say “today, I’m not gonna let this get to me.” And I will not lie and say I was super successful. Because I wasn’t always. I made bad choices. I made bad decisions. But mindful meditation, alternative therapies, like reflexology and breathing exercises. I’ve done Reiki. I’ve gone to meditation groups in the Springfield area. I’ve done anything and everything that had been suggested to me that could possibly help me without having to pop a pill to feel better.

By no means is it perfect. It’s not like peaceful things just happen immediately when you’re doing these meditations. But it does help calm the soul.

And finding a little spark of joy in every day and being proud of yourself... and there’s something my mom told me once that probably helped me the most is to tell myself, “I love myself.” Every day, even if I didn’t believe it in the moment. Every morning, tell yourself you love yourself.

Crash

As for talk therapy, Cat believe sometimes it’s helpful. Sometimes not.

Cat

So when you’re told most of your young life that you’re not allowed to talk about a particular subject, and then all of a sudden you can talk about this… talk therapy is very, very helpful. But sometimes we get very stagnant in it, and we start the loop in this “I feel sorry for myself” narrative, and I don’t want my life narrative to be, “I felt sorry for myself.”

My grandfather had nicknamed me ‘Sunshine’ and I remember being a very happy little girl. And I really try to keep a part of her alive in me every single day and find some sort of joy every single day. And it’s not easy. It’s not easy. And it doesn’t have to be anything big. Getting yourself out of bed and putting on something other than your pajamas… that’s a start.

I was like a five-year-old the other day because I saw a doe on the side of the road. In Springfield, a doe on the side of the road is a big deal.

I know there are people out there that are suffering, feeling guilty and feeling a whole range of emotions. I hope they know that they’re not alone.

Crash

I want to thank Cat for speaking to me about Danny and her family’s ordeal. To relive and discuss those stories must be so awful.

To me, Cat is a hero for surviving such a horrific trauma and going on to create a life for herself. I’m so happy that she’s found a loving husband, has two great kids and a rewarding career where her healing and compassion helps others.

During our first conversation, there were many times when I broke down sobbing after Cat revealed some terrible detail. While researching and investigating the Catholic church for this podcast, tears came easily. And they came frequently, especially as I listened to her sad tale, in her own words and voice.

At the end of the phone call, she urged me to try to find some joy. She knew I had spent the last three years working on this investigation and that I was extremely depressed. She was worried about me. I wish I could have hugged her. Right then through the phone lines.

As our second phone call wrapped up, she told me she wanted to thank me, and I’m like, “thank me? Why?” And she explained that the night after our first interview, she’d been replaying our conversation in her head. As she drifted off to sleep, she’d been worried that nightmares were headed her way.

Instead, she had a wondrous dream, which she views as more of a memory than a dream. She was a baby in her crib in her parents’ house. And her brothers, the ones who passed away, were playing with her. Peek-a-boo. Peek-a-boo.

She saw them. Remembered them. Laughing and giggling. And then she heard her mom yelling at the boys, telling them to calm down, because they were starting to play too rough with each other. And then she heard Bunny’s sweet voice speak to her, saying, “It’s time to lay down. It’s time to lay down.”

For Cat, even though the dream -- the memory -- probably just lasted a couple of seconds, for her, it was a precious gift.

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The latest episode of Unholy Fathers is much different than the previous 11, thanks to the calming presence of my pal Cat, who is the youngest sister of Danny Croteau (pictured above) the 13-year-old altar boy murdered by then-Rev. Richard Lavigne in April 1972, under a bridge on the banks of the Chicopee River in western Massachusetts.

(For those who are new here, Danny’s murder was one of the reasons for my multi-year investigation of the child molesting Catholic priests of Springfield.)

The interview for this episode was recorded during the summer of 2019. To say I’m thankful to Cat for her time, words and wisdom is an understatement. Cat is a strong and resilient woman, haunted by the murder of her brother, but she demonstrates the ability to deal with the depression and sadness with an amazing attitude we can all learn from.

Cat and her family experienced unimaginable pain and suffering because of the violent acts of Lavigne, an evil man who pretended to be their family friend and confidant. And, as we hear from Cat, the murder destroyed her family. Even worse is the longterm impact the tragedy had on her siblings and parents. The lingering cloud of grief — felt by Cat and her loved ones — is inescapable and forevermore.

Earlier this week, while re-listening to the interview prior to re-publishing, I was moved to tears multiple times by Cat’s story and the way she tries to “deal” with the immeasurable sadness and pain from the loss of her beloved brother Danny.

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And I felt anger, too, because Richard Lavigne lived longer than many of his victims and their families. I was furious on behalf of the victims and because of the trickledown effect on their loved ones. That son-of-a-bitch went unpunished, never to serve a day in prison for killing Danny or for molesting scores of other boys.

But mostly, while listening to Cat, I felt awe, reveling in the presence of a strong and powerful human, resilient and brave, cursed by a savage horror, but able to move forward with dignity and aplomb. Despite the sorrow and fury.

Cat is an inspiration. For all of us. Especially in these uncertain days, as more tragedy undoubtedly looms during this dark and dangerous winter. Perhaps, if we follow her example, we can somehow see grace, beauty and love, despite the chaos and misery unfolding around us.

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