From Crash: Today, in my tri-town region in the foothills of western Maine, voters will decide whether or not to leave RSU-10 (aka Regional School Unit) to form their own smaller and more economically fragile school department. Such a move is popular with Christian Nationalists and others who oppose public education due to philosophical beliefs and vaccine skepticism. All three towns are required to approve the measure. If that doesn’t happen, the plan gets abandoned…for at least three years.

I’ve been super busy with other projects and could not spare the time to research and delve deep into the numbers and motivations of those proposing the withdrawal. Then, last week, while visiting my pal Noelle Lueck in the hope of borrowing her livestock trailer to haul my three pigs to the abattoir, we got to talking about the local lunacy regarding schools. And Noelle gave me a crash course in what was wrong with the proposal. So I asked her to pen an explainer, since the Maine media has devoted almost zero coverage to the issue. This should be a warning to others in small towns across Maine who will likely be dealing with similar efforts in the years to come.

A guest Crash Report written by Noelle Lueck

I wandered into the Buckfield-Hartford-Sumner (B-H-S) withdrawal debate in July thinking I was just examining a school budget. Initially, I wasn’t necessarily opposed to withdrawal. What drew me in was hearing that our three towns were being shortchanged by RSU 10 for the benefit of the towns of Hanover, Roxbury, Rumford and Mexico (H-R-R-M). For instance, our buildings in Buckfield-Hartford-Sumner were supposedly ignored while Mexico got a beautiful new school. We were paying for everybody’s improvements, the complainers complained, and we got nothing in return. Local control — the proponents of the withdrawal movement claimed — would finally let us take care of our own needs without interference from the meddlers from H-R-R-M.

Then I started digging.

It turns out the truth was considerably less tidy than the gossip promoted by withdrawal proponents. The Mountain Valley Community School in Mexico, for instance, was heavily state-subsidized, which meant the cost was spread widely. But when septic problems arose at Hartford-Sumner Elementary, I discovered RSU 10 was actually addressing the issue and paid for the problems using money from the district’s capital reserve. Which means the towns of H-R-R-M were bailing out B-H-S kids. And that’s just one of the benefits of RSUs: spreading costs among many towns lessens the burden for all.

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The Devil is in the Details

I looked at the proposed budget for the new district promoted by supporters of the referendum. And it balanced. However, a “balanced budget” spreadsheet demonstrates arithmetic equilibrium, but doesn’t demonstrate resilience. Or reality.

The first-year budget model was tight. Without getting into all the nitty-gritty regarding the number-crunching, it’s clear there was a lot of hypothesizing and guessing going on. Curriculum and improvement spending, for instance, fell from roughly $262,000 in the comparable RSU 10 budget to about $3,500. Which doesn’t seem like enough and there was no explanation for any sort of possible fix.

Even more maddening was how anytime there was a question about future improvements, reserves or program expansion, the committee of proponents’ answer would drift toward the future school board. Which made it feel like the RSU withdrawal was a vote to designate future boards to become our municipal junk drawer. Whenever something didn’t fit in the current plan, into the future board junk drawer it went to be dealt with by others.

Then I started looking at the politics.

This was a withdrawal committee, not a neutral feasibility commission. The educational consultant, for example, was hired for “budgets and transition” but at a meeting in March, she rebranded and also spoke “as a strategist,” issuing warnings against rocking the boat too much before the referendum. Which was confusing. Were we stress-testing withdrawal? Or merely designing something voters could be persuaded to approve without thinking about future ramifications?

All Politics is Local

There was another layer I had underestimated. RSU 10 had already been fighting a ridiculous, nonsensical battle over bathrooms and parental authority at the new Mountain Valley school in Mexico. A sitting Sumner school-board member who publicly challenged the new locker room and bathroom designs also served on the withdrawal committee and is sure to pursue a seat on the B-H-S school board if voters decide to separate.

I think some people genuinely signed onto withdrawal believing “local control” would finally let us fix our buildings and address problems they felt RSU 10 had neglected. Clearly, changing the boundaries of the school district does not create the money needed to repair buildings. A new three-town district starting with essentially no dedicated emergency/capital cushion could be more exposed to fiscal catastrophe than being part of the existing RSU.

The deeper I dug, the more it appeared they had been sold a bill of goods. And I came to see that a significant part of the withdrawal support concerned the cultural fight. To some voters, issues like bathrooms, parental authority, health classes and who controls school policy became at least as important as the physical condition of the schools.

Those two things were sold together under the very convenient phrase “local control”: fix our schools and take back control of their culture.

Rest assured, the conservative Christians in my neighborhood have their eyes set on running the show and getting control of the school board. Which means withdrawal is more than just bathroom policies. It’ll mean making life tougher for our LGBTQ students and promoting anti-science curriculum changes and other planks of the Project 2025 agenda. Which proves “local control” is about philosophy, which carries a helluva lot more baggage than mill rates and property taxes.

After attending and watching many meetings, it’s become apparent that for some supporters of the withdrawal, greater control over culture is worth paying more in property taxes. A lot more. And, to be clear, an unknown and unknowable increase in the future tax bills is guaranteed. And while it’s anybody’s right to hold these so-called “cultural” priorities, I just don’t believe their small-minded concerns should automatically become something myself and my neighbors — many of whom are on fixed incomes — be forced to pay.

Money doesn’t grow on trees

Which brings me back to the cash cost of this proposal. Initially, the committee considered a 50/50 valuation-and-pupil formula. Under that plan, at first glance, the numbers might appear fair. During a discussion at the July 30 hearing, however, there were explicit concerns that such a deal would increase Buckfield’s tax burden, which prompted fears that the proposal wouldn’t get enough support. And since the population of Buckfield is almost equal to the combined number of residents of Hartford and Sumner, such a move would doom the proposal.

So, in a move designed to convince Buckfielders the plan was good, the formula was revised to lessen Buckfield’s share and shifted more costs to Hartford and Sumner. As it now stands, the 75/25 formula is what residents are being asked to vote on.

I don’t fault Buckfield representatives for fighting for Buckfield taxpayers to pay less. That is their job, I guess. But I could never get past this: If withdrawal itself was valuable enough to justify higher taxes, why did Buckfield’s support depend on shifting some of its tax burden to Hartford and Sumner? And why are Hartford and Sumner taxpayers expected to pay that premium to keep the plan alive?

What about the children?

At the final forum, a teacher asked how withdrawal specifically benefited students. The educator said she had asked this question before and still had not received an answer. The committee claimed the plan intended to preserve programs, but could not guarantee them. Existing Region 9 “School of Applied Technology” students, for instance, might have transition protections, but future access for our local kids is uncertain.

Which means students in B-H-S won’t have access to the Region 9 classes teaching automotive, construction, CNA, tech, truck driving, culinary arts, welding, outdoor skills and leadership, small engine repair and other specialities. Kids around here deserve those opportunities and more. Not less. And we need those skills desperately in the western Maine workforce.

I could find no funded expansion of class courses, enrichment or other student opportunities. Which means — in plain English — that this proposal is NOT about providing quality education to our youth.

Local control tells you who makes the decisions. It does not put money in the checking account.

Since starting my fact-finding mission, I’ve been accused of deleting comments and being disingenuous. I was blocked by many of the officials involved in the process. Even my daughter’s name (who is running for the Legislature) got dragged into this mess. And someone I know quite well privately asked me not to publicly challenge their public argument. Apparently they could post their opinion and I was supposed to admire it quietly. Needless to say, that request did not work for me.

Ultimately, voters will decide. I only hope they vote on the district actually being proposed, not the one they imagine will magically appear afterward. Because enthusiasm by elected officials and supporters does not equate to a contingency fund. Local control is not a magic spell. Possibility is not a promise.

Sometimes, the hornet’s nest needs kicking. Fortunately, around here, there were several of us. And hopefully, our dissent will be enough to protect future taxpayers — and students — from getting stung.

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Noelle Lueck is a goat farmer, born and raised in Sumner.

This Crash Report is based upon media accounts contemporaneous with 1994, which are included as end notes.

In 1994, back in the olden days, when Susan Collins was running for governor versus Angus King and Joe Brennan, cannabis was illegal. And in Maine, marijuana fell into one of three categories. Top shelf was local “Maine Kind Bud” with indoor getting a higher price than sun-grown. The second shelf — aka mids — were Canadian, usually hydroponically grown, from Quebec or New Brunswick. Sometimes, if you were lucky, you’d get some of the super dank from Vancouver. Or at least that’s what the dealer would say, while charging an extra ten bucks per eighth.

The worst was brick weed, nasty brown, often chockfull of stems and seeds. That lowest level was grown and sprayed with all sorts of bad stuff in Mexico, then shipped north to the gringo dealers who didn’t care that they were poisoning customers with this cheap garbage.

That was the situation in the month of March 1994, when then 44-year old Michael Collins — the oldest sibling of the current senior senator from Maine — met with an informant with the U.S. Customs Service. Collins had a favor to ask. He wanted a thousand pounds of the Mexican dirt weed. And there would be a finder’s fee if the dude could hook ‘em up.

Collins, apparently, was no stranger to the drug trade. At the time, he was on the lam from Canada. For about sixteen years. He broke out of a New Brunswick prison in April 1976. He was serving a 18 month sentence for “possession of amphetamines for the purpose of trafficking” during the jailbreak. According to news reports, the Canadian cops considered him “armed and dangerous.” And that he was probably headed to Maine.

A month later, police tried — and failed — to capture the escapee during a raid of a Portland apartment. Then, in Feb. 1977, a New Jersey state trooper pulled over a car and discovered 17 pounds of the devil’s lettuce. And Collins was in the vehicle. He was “arrested,” but somehow got loose and ran off into the woods, evading capture once again.

What he did for the next 13 years is unknown — publicly. But in 1992, he and his then-wife opened “Winthrop Paint and Paper” on Route 202 in the Kennebec County town of Winthrop. Word on the street was that the joint was a front, apparently unbeknownst to his spouse. Neighbors told the media a “paucity” of customers visited the shop.

A Dummy’s Deal

So back to 1994. The snitch who Collins asked for a hook up on the dirt weed passed the request up the chain-of-command, who forwarded the tip to the DEA.

Then, with help from the MDEA, the feds set up a reverse sting operation. And Collins was an easy mark. He met with undercover agents and immediately agreed to pay $1,275 each for 1,000 pounds of some of nastiest reefer available. The terms were pretty simple: $20k to place the order. Then another $140k when Collins got the ganja. The balance, a whopping $1.1 million, to be paid-in-full ten days after delivery was made.

According to the undercover cops, Collins told them he was part of a five person cannabis collective, supplying dealers across the northeast. The plan was to ship 2/3 of the half ton of Mexican brown to New York for his partners to sell. About a third, or 300 pounds, he intended to sell in Maine, for between $2,500 and three grand per pound of cocoa-colored cannabis.

So let’s do the numbers: Collins and his collective basically doubled the wholesale price of the schwag and stood to earn $1,425,000 after paying for the half ton. Not all profit, of course. But tax-free if it was a real deal.

Which, of course, it wasn’t. Here’s what happened instead. On Aug. 26, 1994 Collins met the undercover agents in the parking lot of the Senator Inn in Augusta. He handed 20 large to the coppers as a deposit on a thousand pounds of shitty snicklefritz.

Paying the deposit money triggered phase two of the operation. Four days later, a cash drop was made in parking lot of the Holiday Inn in Bangor. Collins handed $140,000 and keys to an empty truck to the scruffy secret gendarme. The agents then drove to an unknown location and filled the truck with drugs.

Uhhhhh. Why did the MDEA have a thousand pounds of bad grass laying around?

Meanwhile, Collins went home to Winthrop to dig up the remained $30,000 he owed the undercovers. According to court documents, he had buried the loot in his dooryard.

A couple hours later, Collins and his sidekick drove to the parking lot where they’d been told the truck — laden with a half ton of weed —would be waiting for them.

At some point after the remaining cash was passed, Collins’ #2 jumped into the truck, ready to move the Mary Jane. Thing is, the cops had disabled the truck’s engine. And when the sidekick popped the hood to take a look-see, the police swarmed and cuffed and stuffed the twosome into custody.

However, the arrest was not made public for almost three weeks. Until reporters heard rumors of the bust. Which forced then-U.S. Attorney Jay McCloskey to make it explicitly clear: Michael Collins was NOT buying the weed for his little sister Susan, who was struggling to hold onto third place in the three-person gubernatorial race.

According to the U.S. Attorney, Collins-the-dealer wasn’t new to the game. After all, he’d been the one on the prowl for a thousand pound delivery. And it was his bad luck that he’d asked a snitch.

For the alleged crime, Collins faced 10-to-life in prison and a fine of six million bucks. If he went to trial. Which would’ve been stupid. So his lawyer negotiated a plea deal. Collins pled guilty and was sentenced to 40 months in prison. And his conviction, drug cops claimed, impacted the “upper echelons” of Maine pot dealers selling the nasty.

I’m not suggesting at all, that the little sis had any impact on her brother’s sentencing. Or his involvement in poisoning Mainers with chemical-sprayed cannabis.

After all, back in 1994, Susan Collins wasn’t a super-star. She’d never been elected to anything. Her only real experience was working as a low-level staffer for Maine Sen. Bill Cohen, followed by a gig in Gov. Jock McKernan’s administration. In 1992, Old Man Bush appointed her to the Small Biz Administration’s regional office. By the time her big brother pleaded guilty in 1995, she’d lost her bid for the Blaine House and she was silently plotting her run for Senate while working a made-up job at Husson College.

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Susan was shocked

When news broke that her brother was a major league drug trafficker supplying low-quality cannabis at high prices to voters, Candidate Collins issued a press release.

“I was shocked and saddened to learn of the charges brought against my brother Michael,” the GOP gubernatorial candidate said in a statement upon learning the reverse sting op. “Obviously, this is a very difficult time for my entire family.”

Later, she told reporters that she wasn’t close to her eldest sibling, because he moved “out-of-state.” Which, apparently, is Collins-speak for being busted selling crystal-meth in another country, then participating in a jailbreak, crossing the border illegally and getting involved in the New Jersey shitty weed industry.

That said, I’m pretty sure Collins was lying about her relationship with her big bro. At the time of his arrest, she told reporters that she’d only seen him three times in the last six months, including at the 150th anniversary party for the family lumber business. And, of course, she’d seen him at the 1994 St. Patrick’s fundraiser that Michael Collins and his wife threw for “Susan Collins for Governor” at the now-defunct River Cafe in Hallowell less than six months before his arrest.

That fundraiser was held in the very same month that the elder Collins asked the U.S. Customs snitch to help score some weed. Also, that month Michael donated an additional $702 to his sister’s campaign coffers.

On May 19, her bro’s then-wife contributed $602 to the Collins campaign. On July 28, less than a month before buying a half ton of Mexican brown, Collins gave his lil’ sis another grand. And on August 16 — ten days before the weed purchase — the S-I-L gave $987 to “Collins for Gov.” Add the $203 in-kind donation for food and drinks the big bro paid for during the St. Patrick’s Day fundraiser and in total, according to campaign finance records, Collin’s bro and his spouse contributed $3,494 to her losing gubernatorial campaign.

(At the time of the arrest, Steve Abbott, Collin’s longtime henchman and current spokesman, told reporters that Michael had given the least of the candidate’s siblings. Interestingly, Michael Collins would contribute $750 to Abbott’s failed 2010 bid for governor.)

And in the years since his arrest for buying the half ton of weed, the senator’s big brother has donated at least a dozen times to his sister’s campaigns. But never as much cash as he contributed while working as a big dealer of low-grade cannabis.

And he continues to contribute today. In May of 2026, for instance, he gave $1,000 to her efforts to beat Troy Jackson.

I bring all of this up for a trio reasons.

1. Susan Collins has raised over a gazillion dollars this election cycle. If she’s is willing to take a grand from her elderly felon-of-a-brother, living on a fixed income, in southern Maine, then she’ll take money from anyone.

2. Susan Collins is eager to slur people of Asian decent, claiming that they belong to a widespread drug network and/or part of a cabal of CCP operatives trying to buy up all the farms in the Pine Tree State. Uhhh, need I remind you, Madame Senator, that your campaign for governor was funded by the proceeds of your once meth-dealing brother pivoting to selling shitty weed to Mainers? And who knows what other crimes her family committed up there in the County? I’ve heard chatter about procurement scandals that benefited her Aroostook posse, but are too complicated to explain to normies, except that she made it easier to steal from the government.

3. Collins and her bootlicking lackeys have been vicious in their attack on Troy Jackson and his family. Real scummy claims that I’m not gonna repeat.

I’ll say this: Clearly it’s jealousy when Collins and her surrogates mock and smear the love and relationship that Jackson and his longtime partner have shared. Their honest, legal and moral romance and life together is unattainable for a jezebel like Collins.

Because, as others have reported, the senator’s sexual history ain’t nuthin to be proud of. It’s been an open secret for decades in Maine GOP circles that Collins started having pre-marital sex with her current-husband long before his divorce from a woman dying of cancer.

What follows is just part of a recent post [[read the whole thing here]] by legendary Maine political operative Dennis Bailey (turned expatriate), the brain behind the operation that got Angus King elected to the Blaine House back in ’94 when Big Mike got busted by the feds.

I also got calls even then from several people claiming to have knowledge of Collin’s affair with a very married Tom Daffron, Bill Cohen’s former chief of staff who later become a powerful D.C. lobbyist. One person even offered to furnish pictures of Daffron’s car parked overnight at Collins’ home. It was….interesting, but not something Angus would ever use in a campaign. Daffron later married Collins while his ex-wife was battling terminal cancer. It’s not clear if Daffron left his wife before she was diagnosed with cancer or after. Either way, Collins saw nothing troubling about entering into a marriage under those circumstances.

To me, it’s crazy that people can still support Collins the senator. I mean, in addition to being instrumental in overturning Roe v. Wade, she’s part of the pedo-protector Epstein class and has enabled on countless times, the rotting-and-stinking anti-Christly MAGA Daddy.

But if you still think she has a moral bone left in her meat-suit, gimme a jingle. I’ve got a half ton of ditch weed for sale. Real cheap.

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In the late afternoon of Thursday, Oct. 22, Maine Republican activist Nick “Corn Pop” Blanchard glided his e-bike into the parking lot of the old Cumbies convenience store — now called “Country Farm” — on Mount Vernon Ave in Augusta. Almost immediately, he was surrounded by four livid conservative Christian women. And soon after, three Augusta police cruisers would arrive to try to sort out the hub-bub. No arrests were made, despite all sorts of angry words and accusations that the 37-year-old Blanchard was a chlamydia vector and was having sex with a local high schooler.

“The moral of this story,” said one of the cops on the scene, “is to stop sleeping with Nick Blanchard.”

The MAGA women had turned on their once-hero for several reasons: Most notably, he had been spreading chlamydia among his coterie of conservative Christian lovers. At this count, it appears there are at least five — if not six — secret gal pals whom he possibly infected. Including the local high school student whom he started having sex with a couple months after losing his bid for the school board by about 1,300 votes.

(Disturbingly, 1,258 Augusta citizens voted for the chud, who’d been making a name for himself by harassing LGBTQ teens, school teachers and administrators.)

I’m not identifying any of those involved by name, except for Blanchard. After all, his multiple sex partners didn’t choose to enter the public arena as victims of his diseased phallus.

(New around here? Search the Crash Report archive to read about Blanchard’s exploits since he moving to Maine from Rhode Island about six years ago. Stories include his involvement in a fatal accident in Oct. 2024 and an OUI arrest in Feb. 2025 after leaving his then-6-year old kid home alone. Also, Blanchard has a strong belief that the gays stole the rainbow symbol from the Christians, as you can read below.)

According to their individual social media (except for the 18-year-old high schooler), the angry women in the parking lot were right-wing Trump-supporters. Most notably, a 48-year-old woman who filmed the dispute and describes herself as “Conservative Christian Mama x 7.”

And, as you’ll soon hear and see, this lady was pissed.

In addition to being Blanchard’s sex partner, this woman was his sidekick and camera-person on many chuddish adventures in the last couple years. And, according to her video of the parking lot confrontation, she and Blanchard had been copulating until sometime in August.

These days, karma is stalking Blanchard as he enters the “Find Out” phase of FAFO.

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Auditioning for Jerry Springer?

There are two videos of the convenience store parking lot kerfluffle, for a total of 19 minutes. The footage includes the arrival of three Augusta police cruisers carrying a trio of cops to keep the peace. If you search online, you’ll probably find the vids.

I’m not sharing the videos — or even a link — because there are all sorts of innocent folks in the raw footage. Including Blanchard’s 18-year-old former sex partner and local high school student whom he infected chlamydia and her aunt, who was trying to convince Blanchard to take another STD test. Unless you’re familiar with all the players in this sordid saga, some of the accusations and stories might be confusing.

None of these women should be put on blast. But most importantly, the 18-year-old appears in parts of the video and she’s obviously a victim of Blanchard, twenty years older than the high school student.

But I’ll share the start of the confrontation.

The woman videoing and yelling is one of his now former-lovers who helped Blanchard disrupt school board and city council meetings on multiple occasions. And she was with Blanchard when he was arrested during the No Kings rally in Oct. 2025. And she was left behind on the bridge when the cops hauled Blanchard off to jail. Luckily, a group of liberal women surrounded her to protect her from Blanchard’s foes at the rally.

Nowadays, this MAGA-momma hates Blanchard. First, because he dumped her for having “feelings” for him. She’s also pissed because he threw away two of her phones — “satellite phones” she says — that she left at his house for safekeeping. Most importantly, though, she was angry that she had to learn via the Maine conservative Christian pipeline and gossip mill that she had been exposed to chlamydia.

The whole damn mess feels like an episode of tabloid trash tee-vee. This sordid rigmarole is just sad and pitiful. Especially in light of the suicide earlier this month by one of his jilted lovers in the driveway of Blanchard’s #1 girlfriend.

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Many accusations were made during the parking lot clash. The women, for instance, theorized that the now-dead lover had gone to kill him upon learning that she was infected and had possibly passed a venereal disease along to others.

Other details were revealed, too. Like how Blanchard’s #1 girlfriend had dumped him in light of the suicide in her driveway.

Clearly, the 37-year-old Blanchard is a manipulative asshole, fake Christian and a pedo. That’s obvious from his history of hanging around with teenagers. And in the parking lot video, he admits to the high schooler’s aunt to having sex with her 18-year-old niece and infecting her with chlamydia. And this coming from the guy who has spent the last half decade harassing LGBTQ kids, while trying to intimidate librarians, teachers and school officials across Maine and calling THEM pedos, child molesters and perverts.

Talk about projection.

Also, Blanchard is apparently feeling some stress. In the video, he looks defeated and distressed. And his previous gusto for attacking others seems to have vanished.

Expensive chud to keep around

This 3-officer response to the parking lot squabble was just the latest police expense for Augusta taxpayers. From his OUI to repeated outbursts at meetings to Blanchard himself calling 911 and crying to the cops about people harassing him, there have been lots of resources devoted to keeping Corn Pop safe.

In addition, on Wednesday of this week, the City of Augusta’s insurance company paid Blanchard’s law firm the so-called “Institute for Free Speech” $50,000 in legal fees for the chud’s “free speech” lawsuit vs Augusta Board of Education. Blanchard was awarded $17.91 in damages.

And he brought a large “joke” check to the September 9 board meeting, upon the suggestion of WVOM talk show host and chud-enabler Ric Tyler. In the video, he chastises the school board while struggling to hold the jumbo cheque. His arm is in a sling, sources tell me, because he’d been hurt in a scuffle with an unhoused Augusta resident that Blanchard had been harassing.

Gotta wonder the price of Augusta’s in-house legal bills for Blanchard’s free speech lawsuit. Also, what’s the price tag for his subsequent — and still pending — lawsuit against the Augusta P.D. after getting arrested during a No Kings rally last year?

Most importantly, there’s no way of putting a dollar amount on the value of time and energy wasted during school board meetings because of this chucklehead. Or the mental and emotional toll on the normal people forced to deal with him.

As you can see from the novelty check (retailing for around $30) Blanchard doesn’t even know how to fill out a simple banking document.

Enablers galore

The biggest promotor of Blanchard’s antics in the last several years has been the Maine Policy Institute, the multi-million dollar non-profit run by WGAN Radio’s Matthew Gagnon and funded by uber-chud — and Knight of Malta — Leonard Leo, who unfortunately has a residence in Maine. MPI’s fake news outlet, The Maine Wire, regularly highlights and encourage Blanchard’s bullshit ad nauseam.

Even after the video of the parking lot kerfuffle, many GOP pedo protectors still stand by their man, usually with the defense that the young woman was 18, meaning of legal age to have sex with Blanchard.

Yeah. Okay. So friggin’ gross.

Let’s say, for the sake of argument, it was revealed that a Democrat running for school board was in a sexual relationship with a high school student almost 20 years younger. Pretty friggin’ sure every single GOPer would be calling for the rope.

But in this case, when the pedo is one of the GOP’s beloved, not a problem. After all, if they can love their MAGA Daddy, an adjudicated rapist with a weird fascination with his own daughter, it’s no surprise they’d adore a scumbucket like Blanchard.

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CONTENT WARNING: This Crash Report deals with a suicide. Sensitive readers beware. In Maine, individuals or families in a behavioral or mental health crisis can call 1-888-568-1112.

This is a sad and sordid story of deceit and desperation, which also happens to be another chapter in the on-going saga of Nicholas Blanchard, the MAGA clown-troll who goes by the nickname Corn Pop. I’ve assembled the following Crash Report based upon details from public records, tapes of a couple calls to Augusta police, friend accounts and screenshots of text exchanges between Blanchard and the deceased.

On Monday, October 12, a distraught woman in her mid-30s, whom I’ll refer to as “C,” killed herself in the Kennebec County town of Oakland, while speaking on her cell phone with her father. The suicide took place in the driveway of a house in the rural Hussey Hill area, owned by Blanchard’s girlfriend, a woman I’ll call “D.” At the time of the suicide, Blanchard, D and, apparently, some of D’s children, were inside the dwelling watching the woman die.

According to over a dozen text threads I’ve reviewed, plus a tape of a 911 call from a couple days before the suicide, C had been having a sexual affair with Blanchard, who was trying to hide the existence of C from D. And, last weekend, C told police she wanted their help in retrieving a gun she’d sold Blanchard this summer.

“I’ve been dealing with a messy breakup with Nicholas Blanchard. I have talked to a couple officers over the last couple of days,” C told a 9-1-1 dispatcher on Oct. 11. “I sold him a gun when we were dating and I am trying to figure out if I can get that gun back because he’s kind of off the walls.”

Less than 48 hours later she was dead by her own hand. On, sadly, her 37th birthday.

I asked C’s friends to describe the now-deceased woman.

“She was fascinating and ballsy. She was very sarcastic and biting,” one pal remembered. “She was not feminine. She was a tomboy and loved shooting. She lived on her family compound in [[redacted]].”

Another friend described her as, “A kind, sarcastic, ex-hockey player. She was thoughtful and intelligent. And a fan of the Boston Bruins.”

A close perusal of C’s Facebook profile is both heartbreaking and illuminating. The woman loved her dog. Also she was the happiest when shooting her many guns on the central Maine farm where she was born and raised. C also appears to have been a very intense person, often getting in online squabbles and re-posting exchanges between her and her perceived enemies.

Secret sex

Content warning: The next two sections include graphic sexual content and language that some may find offensive.

The affair between Blanchard and C had been going on for a couple months, from late summer into early fall. In a series of texts between C and Blanchard, many tawdry details are revealed. For instance, Blanchard tells C that he wants to be sexually dominated by a woman.

“I don’t why but I can never get a woman to be aggressive with me. And no I’m not saying I wanna be dominated like a little bitch,” Blanchard wrote. “But like I would just love someone to throw me down and take it. OMG. [That] sounds like a soyboy.”

That kink reveal by Blanchard is interesting, especially since he made his name as a MAGA darling for obsessively targeting “woke” folks in Maine, mostly those he decried as perverts and sinners. Blanchard is one of those Christo-chuds who wears a crucifix, regularly posts Bible verses while viciously attacking LGBTQ teens, educators, elected officials and everyday Mainers under the pretense that sex should only be between one woman and one man.

To make matters worse, Blanchard complained to his paramour that his sexual relationship with D was lousy.

“The sex sucks as I told u,” Blanchard wrote. “Her kids make it hard to do things together. That’s the issue.” Blanchard went on to denigrate his girlfriend D’s sexual prowess. And her body.

“SHE CAN’T SUCK DICK,” he wrote in all caps. “She’s on that [[GLP-1]] shot, so now she has no ass.”

Also, according to texts, D supported Blanchard’s chud politics, but wouldn’t go public about their relationship. D has four children, including an immune-compromised little kid, and apparently feared haters would go after her if they learned she was Blanchard’s girlfriend.

Why would anyone have sex with this Neckbeard?

Over the last several years, I’ve received a whole bunch of tips and screenshots of postings in “Are We Dating the Same Guy” Facebook groups regarding Blanchard. Multiple posters claimed he was a real dink, had lousy politics, not very good in bed and problems with booze.

Gotta admit, I’m surprised that anyone would be attracted to Blanchard, let alone have sex with the dude.

“I don’t get it either,” agreed one of my sources, who knows all the people involved in this mess. “He drinks all the time… I think the women think they can help him. He cries a lot and needs consoling often,” my source explained. “That’s likely an act to get attention. He hits all the sociopathic markers, by lacking empathy and using people. He had all these women and none were allowed to be shown in public, The person recording him and his activism is always a women but she can’t be seen.”

Another text exchange — from July — between C and Blanchard addresses this secrecy issue.

“Like are you okay with us being friends and fucking and no one knowing with no feelings?” he asked.

“Being the dirty little secret?” she replied.

“Well, when u put it like that,” he wrote back. “Lol.”

“Oh you were gonna let me suck your dick in secret,” C replied later. “And then go play husband with the world’s biggest narcissistic cunt?”

At some point soon after, Blanchard claimed that he was going to try to stop having sex with “C.”

“Just know even if things got serious [[with D]] as long as she didn’t know I would still be here for u as a friend no matter what,” he wrote. “But I couldn’t expect her to allow me to talk to u if she knew we hooked up.”

Later, in another exchange, Blanchard explained that even though his intent was to break off the clandestine affair, he continued being intimate with C.

“I keep telling u,” he typed, “to come over because gosh the sex is amazing.”

“I get it,” she replied. “You’re done with me.”

“But I would rather have boring sex than fight every day,” Blanchard continued, alluding to the constant bickering between C and him. After a couple more exchanges, Blanchard admitted why he kept returning to C.

“YES MY WEAKNESS IS SEX,” he wrote, “and you fucking know how to fuck me.”

“I’m sorry,” C replied. “I fucking love you.”

Soon, however, they stopped having sex.

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She wanted her gun back.

At some point this summer, Blanchard agreed to purchase a .380 handgun from C for “two or three hundred dollars.” Even though she’d already given him the gun, Blanchard took his time paying her. Which meant there was not a completed “Firearm Bill of Sale” that’s usually part of a private sale of a weapon in Maine.

The lack of the Bill of Sale bothered C, her friends told me, because she worried Blanchard would do something criminal — or stupid — with the weapon and she’d be held liable because legally, the gun was still hers.

A further complication: On the morning of Oct. 9, three days before her suicide, C and Blanchard apparently agreed to an unofficial “no contact agreement” negotiated by Augusta police Officer Timothy O’Brien.

Then later that day, C called Augusta PD and asked to speak to O’Brien. I’ve listened to a recording of their eight minute phone conversation.

“I’m trying to figure out if I need to get a PFA,” she told the cop, referring to a court ordered “Protection from Abuse” order.

“Okay,” O’Brien said. “Tell me what’s going on.”

“I haven’t heard from him, but I’m sure you’re aware of his political everything. I just don’t want to become the next Courtney Gary-Allen situation.”

(Gary-Allen is the former Augusta City Councilor granted a “protection from harassment” order earlier this year, after Judge Erika Bristol ruled that Blanchard had been harassing and stalking Gary-Allen on-line and at her place of work, the Maine Recovery Action Project where she serves as executive director.)

During the Oct. 9 phone call with Augusta police, O’Brien explained to C the PFA process would involve her local police department and the courts, not the Augusta P.D. And O’Brien told C that Blanchard claimed he wouldn’t be contacting his ex-lover again.

Then the cop and C discussed an apparent MSRA staph infection that she thought she contracted from Blanchard. C wanted Blanchard to be aware of the infection because one of D’s kids was immunocompromised. The “no contact” agreement, though, prevented her from telling Blanchard about her infection.

The cause of the infection, C told multiple friends, was from being intimate with Blanchard after he’d been harassing members of Augusta’s unhoused community and rummaging through a homeless encampment’s rubbish pile. And C also shared a photo of her left leg with nasty swollen and pus-filled wound.

Serial Womanizer

Here’s more proof that Blanchard is a creepy cad. Not only was Blanchard having secret sex with “C,” he was also having sex with another woman I’ll refer to as “E”, another MAGA sidekick who, in recent months, filmed Blanchard’s chuddish antics and accompanied him on many of his outings to harass the woke. (There’s also rumors of a sexual relationship with a fourth woman, who also filmed his exploits. When confronted by others in the alt-right community, Blanchard stopped hanging out with #4.)

I don’t have all the sordid details connected to Blanchard’s relationship with E except that Blanchard broke up with her this weekend, after news of C and her suicide began to circulate in the local chud-o-sphere.

According to a DM from a source, Blanchard told E that he was leaving Maine. Also, “I now know I’m alone. You will never have to worry about me again… Like I said u don’t be seeing me any more ... or will anyone else. Don’t bother contacting me any more, our friendship is over.”

There are more DMs, but I wasn’t given access to them, because the third woman fears exposure. However, one of my sources fed Blanchard’s DMs to E into an AI chatbot and asked for an opinion about Blanchard’s mental state. “The screenshots look like they’re from this morning. If REDACTED or anyone else has his address or knows someone near him, the most useful step right now is a call to 911 to ask for a welfare check.”

A Real Baller

The friends of C that reached out to me are in agreement. While Blanchard didn’t pull the trigger, his treatment of C, they believe, activated her mental health crisis, resulting in her death.

And what pissed them off, additionally, was Blanchard’s perceived callousness toward their dead friend. Blanchard’s first post after the suicide, for instance, concerned his belief that the Earth is flat. Soon after, Blanchard began using his socials to promote an Oct. 17 basketball game he was playing against an online foe from Waterville.

And he never acknowledged the death of C.

(Sometimes, reporting on Blanchard results in a constant string of WTF moments.)

Then, after the basketball game, Blanchard made the following announcement to his thousands of social media followers.

“IT’S TIME FOR A NEW CHAPTER.

Now that the game is over, there’s something l’ve been wanting to say for about a week now.

Sometimes you have to step back, take a breath, and remember WHAT MATTERS MOST.

I’ve spent a lot of time in the political arena, fighting battles and standing up for what I believe in. But right now, my focus needs to be on GOD, MY FAMILY, AND MYSELF.

This isn’t about quitting. It’s about priorities. My son deserves the best version of me, my family deserves my time, and my relationship with God deserves more of my attention.

“Be still, and know that I am God.” - Psalm 46:10

I think it’s time I put down some of the battles, step away from the noise, and let God guide my next chapter.

I don’t know what the future holds, but I know I need this change right now.

GOD FIRST. FAMILY ALWAYS. EVERYTHING ELSE CAN WAIT.

Thank you to everyone who has supported me along the way. This isn’t goodbye. It’s time to refocus, recharge, and put my energy where it belongs.

SOMETIMES THE STRONGEST THING YOU CAN DO IS STEP BACK, TRUST GOD, AND LET HIM LEAD THE WAY.”

Expel, Banish or Ostracize

While Blanchard has told multiple people that he plans on leaving Maine, I’m not sure I believe him. After all, most of the dude’s rabid fan base are here. And so is his job as a warehouseman at Northeast Electrical, a subsidiary of Sonepar USA, in Augusta. And, perhaps most importantly, his young son (who lives with his mother in another Maine city) is here. Sources tell me, though, that the boy’s mother is attempting to get full custody of the child.

All that to say, if Blanchard doesn’t leave of his own accord, it’s time for Mainers to run him out of the state. Preferably back to Rhode Island where he came from six years ago. Or points further south.

Running people out of the state is actually a longtime Maine tradition, used in situations when residents tire of someone’s bullshit and the authorities won’t step in. I’ve witnessed alleged miscreants being run out of town both on Matinicus (Maine’s most remote inhabited island) and in the Washington County city of Eastport. And I know it has happened, frequently, in other communities across the state too. The fine people of Springfield got rid of Hammer-the-Chud by letting him know that they might kill him and bury him in the woods. And the righteous people of Jackman fired neo-Nazi Town Manager Tom Kawczynski and made him leave town. Last year, a group of good twenty-somethings on Vinalhaven used the slightly less vicious tactic of shunning a Patriot Front neo-Nazi to convince that chud to depart the Penobscot Bay island.

Historically speaking, John Bapst, a Jesuit missionary and the first president of Boston College, was tarred-and-feathered and run out of Maine in 1854 by members of the anti-Catholic “Know Nothing Party.” The now private but once-Catholic high school in Bangor is named after Bapst.

Below is the laundry list of Blanchard’s shenanigans, lawsuits and public spectacles that have caused lots of troubles, stressed out all sorts of good people and cost Maine taxpayers a shit-ton of money.

• Since 2020, Blanchard had publicly and serially harassed the following groups of Mainers: grocery store employees, LGBTQ teens, pro-choice women, immigrants and other people of color, unhoused individuals, people addicted to opioids, workers in the harm-prevention sector, health care providers, day care employees, school teachers, school principals, school board members, city councilors, legislators, police officers, restaurant owners and bartenders.

  

• In the last three years, Blanchard has filed lawsuits against the Augusta Police Department and the Augusta Board of Education. He won his free speech case against the school board — setting a legal precedent that citizens can insult elected officials during the public comment period of municipal meetings. His case versus the police department is still pending.

• On May 20, 2024, Blanchard was involved in a head-on collision in Winslow that took the life of the driver of the other car, a 21-year-old man from Waterville. Blanchard was apparently uninjured in the wreck and 37 minutes after the fatal accident he posted this photo on Facebook.

  

• In February 2025, he was arrested and charged with OUI after police figured out he was drunk while assisting Blanchard in getting his stuck vehicle out of a snowbank. Then police discovered he’d left his then-six-year-old child home alone while out drunk driving, resulting in a CPS investigation.

• In September 2026, he submitted a petition for a citizen initiative in Augusta to ban all needle exchanges and other harm reduction measures. The city’s legal department found that his proposed measure to be blatantly un-constitutional, resulting in 7-0 vote by city councilors in favor to accept the legal opinion and then discarded Blanchard’s citizen initiative filings.

• Also in September, the chud live-streamed almost nightly incursions into the unhoused encampments in Augusta, shining a powerful flashlight into the eyes of residents and brow-beating them for their predicament.

• There are several witnesses who say they watched Blanchard “planting” syringes in an Augusta park that he then “discovered” during another livestream.

• Blanchard sued and regularly harassed Augusta school board chair Muffy Witham.

• Earlier this year, he ran and lost his bid to become a member of the Board of Education by over a thousand votes.

• Blanchard printed and distributed tee shirts with the names, pictures and home addresses of Augusta school board members and urged his followers to express their grievances, including visiting the homes of school board members, to protest board policy.

• Blanchard has disrupted municipal meetings in over a dozen Maine communities, resulting in multiple police calls, along with at least two complaints by Blanchard that he was assaulted during school board meetings.

• He was arrested — then released — during a “No Kings” rally for brandishing a “Byrna Gun,” a non-lethal firearm that shoots pepper-spray balls.

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  And those are the events off the top of my head, without delving deep into my files and copious correspondence from the aggrieved. Obviously, Blanchard is a drama queen who loves to portray himself as a victim. The reality: he’s the victimizer. And any bad stuff that happens to him is clearly karmic payback for the hatred and derision he’s spewed while living in Maine.

  

  It’s long past time for this chud to pay the piper for his misogynistic, homophobic, racist and anti-American behavior. And the same goes for his MAGA Daddy.

  

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Can you keep a secret? For the last several months, I’ve been training a clandestine cell of Antifa-Super-Soldiers to think and act like chuds so they can volunteer to “help” The Maine Wire liars get a scoop about Troy Jackson, the next U.S. Senator from Maine.

(Full disclosure: I’ve been a fan of Troy Jackson since he was a leader in the Canadian border blockade back in the fall of 1998 when I interviewed him, several times, for my then-gig as a radio reporter covering northern New England for the now-defunct Metro News Network. In the decades since, I’ve followed his progress with great interest as he’s proven himself to be a very capable lawmaker and empathetic human. FYI, Jackson has been a longtime UNPAID subscriber to The Crash Report. )

My Antifa-Super-Soldier operatives have been fully briefed on what to say in order to appear legit to their potential Maine Policy Institute bosses. For starters, my secret-moles express undying allegiance to MAGA Daddy and First Lady Natalie Harp. Secondly, they insist the 2020 election was stolen. Thirdly, they don’t care the pedo-protecting president hasn’t released the Epstein Files because it’s all a Democratic hoax. And, most importantly, the high cost of home heating oil, gas and diesel are worth the price in order to own the libs.

Understand, it’s more than just brain games for my Antifa-Super-Soldiers trainees. Each one had set up multiple sock puppet accounts on Twitter, Facebook and Tik-Tok fully mimicking the current Maga-moron belief system. Which means timelines chockfull of Trump-love sonnets, mixed with roll coal videos, Christo-Fash memes and AI anti-vax slop. Also, my troops digitally express fealty to Dept of War Twinkie Hegspeth, injectable peptides and online T.

In addition, my Super-Soldiers will fawn over Lil’ Steve’s guns.

As you’ll read later in this Crash Report, I’ve been doing undercover journalism since the mid-1990s. Gotta say, it was helluva lot different back then. For one thing, you didn’t have to maintain a bunch of bootlicking sock puppets repeating dumbo rhetoric. In the olden days, it was more about your ability to act the part IRL as opposed to running multiple social media accounts via burner phones and proton email e-dresses.

(That said, my 2018 undercover exposé on former state rep. Larry Lockman required multiple social media accounts AND a video submission in order to monkey-wrench Lockman’s racist, homophobic and misogynist Maine First Media “news operation.” I’ll re-publish that tale soon, I promise. Below, a selfie with Larry Lockman, for the lulz.)

The Maine Losers

A lot of people think that Lil’ Steve Robinson runs The Maine Wire. Not so. He’s just a puppet of the real boss, Matt Gagnon, the CEO of the Maine Policy Institute and solo morning show host for WGAN Radio. Gagnon approves what The Maine Wire publishes, including his paid staff’s harassment of refugees, new Mainers, Muslims, school teachers, LGBTQ folks, teens, people with addiction issues and, potentially, anyone with a POV slightly left of Hammer-the-Chud cult leader.

Gagnon, btw, is paid $275,339 plus benefits, annually, as boss of the Maine Policy Institute, the so-called think tank non-profit funding The Maine Wire’s hate crusade. And my pals over at Portland Radio Group (where I worked in the mid-90s as a talk show producer) tell me Gagnon’s annual pay for his WGAN job spewing MAGA talking points, from 6 to 9 am, five days a week, is about $45,000. So the fella makes over three hundred grand each year gurgitating and regurgitating the coda of late stage capitalism, along with MAGA moronity and Trad Catholic heresy.

Any efforts by Gagnon to distance himself from the antics of his staff is hogwash. After all, we’re not talking about an independent free press here. We’re talking about a media blog for a 501c-3, which is financed by Leonard Leo and other dark money gazillionaires. The Maine Wire is solely owned, paid for and operated by the Maine Policy Institute, the pseudonym for the “Maine Heritage Policy Center,” whose two million dollar budget is dispensed by Gagnon.

And let me tell you, as someone who had worked for many low-profit media companies, the MPI non-profit model is only possible because Dark Money is paying the bills. In the real world of journalism, The Maine Wire would never be able to meet payroll.

By this point, it’s clear that MPI has violated IRS’ non-profit rules about fifty-five million times. From the IRS: “Under the Internal Revenue Code, all section 501(c)(3) organizations are absolutely prohibited from directly or indirectly participating in, or intervening in, any political campaign on behalf of (or in opposition to) any candidate for elective public office.”

Obviously, MPI is working on behalf of Susan Collins’ campaign. Thing is, with the pedo-protecting president running the IRS like it’s his bitch, there’s no chance any legal challenge, currently, would impact MPI’s ability to continue to grift as a nonprofit. That’s why Gagnon — and his sugar daddy super-chud Leo Leo — are so desperate for the GOP to stay in power. MPI will be in big trouble when IRS 501(c)(3) rules start getting enforced again. Then, Gagnon’s bloated salary and his job as boss of the racist/homophobic/misogynistic non-profit will be in danger.

But those worries didn’t stop Gagnon having lots of fun during a week-long junket last month to Japan, the favored destination for white chuds who admire the mono-ethnic ethnostate’s cultural uniformity and strict immigration rules.

In case you’re wondering who's the boss of Gagnon, I found this handy pictorial at the MPI website.

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Flashback #5

(This piece was originally published in the now-defunct Casco Bay Weekly on Oct. 27, 1994.)

The battle to replace Congressman Tom Andrews, which had the potential to be an exciting race, sucks. Wondering why, I volunteered with both campaigns for one day to see why they were so bland.

In the process, I almost became Jim Longley’s fat cat.

David Flaherty, a Republican Party operative from Washington D.C., called me after hearing I was interested in campaigning for Longley, the Republican son of famed Maine indie gov James Longley. Flaherty wanted me to demonstrate against Democrat Duke Dutremble during the Vice President Al Gore fund raiser at the Embassy Suites Hotel in South Portland in late October.

“We’ll have people in tuxedos handing out fake money with Dutremble’s face on it,” Flaherty told me. “Someone will be in a cat outfit showing that Dutremble is a fat cat.”

I told him I wanted to be that cat. He promised me I could.

But, like most Republican promises, this one fell apart.

The next day, a glum Flaherty told me on the phone that it seemed like, due to a GOP operative manpower shortage, it would just be the two of us protesting the vice president’s visit. Then he told me I’d have to speak to the press because, as Flaherty put it, “We don’t want anyone to know that the Longley campaign is involved.”

But even the two-man demonstration failed to materialize because Flaherty couldn’t get his hands on a cat costume. I still wanted to do something: answer phones, hang up signs, anything. But, a week and a half before the election, the Longley campaign had nothing planned.

A suggestion to the Longley campaign: Get some rental cars, slap on some “Dutremble for Congress” bumper stickers and start running down people in parking lots and speeding away. If you’re going to run a Nixonian dirty tricks campaign, go all the way.

You know it’s a bad race when the Republicans are running the more interesting campaign. Weekend plans for Dutremble supporters included distributing 20,000 flyers throughout the 1st District and a $250-a-plate dinner with Mr. Excitement, Al Gore. They could have at least had me dress up in a snake costume and have Duke wrestle me to the ground while his supporters chant, “Longley is a snake!”

But instead, I headed to Westbrook with 500 flyers and another volunteer. My canvassing partner was more interesting than anything Dutremble has ever said. She works for a local nonprofit and moonlights as a part-time hand model.

“Fifty bucks an hour,” she told me. Perhaps you’ve seen her work. In the new Brookstone catalog, she’s the one with the carrot peeler. I told her that her hands were really attractive and she blushed.

Anyway, distributing flyers wasn’t too bad for the first 15 minutes, then it was hell. I could attach the flyers to some doors easily, but those with just plain old regular doorknobs were a real pain. I thought about sticking the flyers in mailboxes, but I remembered it was against federal law and wasn’t about to mar my nearly-clean police record just so Dutremble could become congressman. I ignored houses with doorknobs.

I was on Pleasant Street when I ran into an older woman, about 70, sitting on her porch and smoking a cigarette.

“Duke Dutremble for Congress,” I said to her, smiling and handing her the flyer.

“Jesus Christ,” she said. “I wish the elections were over.”

Me, too. After a couple of hours, I was bored silly and my legs were getting tired. I started using the Press Herald white tubes whenever I faced a long driveway.

Finally, after getting rid of the last 100 flyers at an apartment complex, I was done. I met up with my partner and we compared notes as we headed back to Dutremble headquarters. I knew I would probably never see this woman again, but I wanted remember her hands, so I could pick them out in ads. They weren’t so pretty now, all stained with the blue ink of the Dutremble campaign.

A suggestion for the Dutremble campaign: Replace the slogan, “He’ll make us proud” with “Duke will make them tremble.”

Epilogue: Longley went on to defeat Dutremble by ten thousand votes and serve un-remarkably for two years before Tom Allen kicked his ass in 1996. Also, Duke Dutremble is fine Mainer, not a fat cat. And a proud Franco-Mainer, he was the first of his heritage to serve as President of the Maine Senate.

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I’m still working hard on the Fake Shaman true crime podcast. The story keeps developing with new facts and allegations about the 36-year-old woman from Connecticut who came to Maine with dollar signs in her eyes and psychedelic mushrooms in her Coach bag. Paid subscribers to the Crash Report will get early access and ad-free episodes of Fake Shaman. To support independent journalism that goes places other media won’t, please become a paid subscriber for seven bucks monthly or seventy-five smackers for the whole year.

On Thursday, Sept. 10, the state representative for House District 77 in the western foothills was out pressing the flesh, rural Maine style. Around here, that means driving house-to-house-to-house, hoping and praying a voter is home.

A little past noon, Tammy Schmersal-Burgess pulled her minivan into a nondescript driveway in the town of Livermore. She ignored several signs proclaiming “private property, no soliciting, loitering or trespassing” and continued up to the end of the driveway.

And then she stopped the minivan. But didn’t get out.

Perhaps that was the moment she remembered an unpleasant interaction — and the subsequent order never to come back — from this particular homeowner. “She came here during the last election,” the resident told me, “and began to get argumentative when asked questions. So she was told to leave and not return. They don’t care. They’re on their mission to get votes. They care about the votes but not the people or the causes.”

So the state rep stayed in her van, deciding NOT to leave her printed door-hanger begging for a vote. However, for some reason, she didn’t turn around or back out of the voter’s driveway.

Instead, she decided to explore an alternate route, taking a left onto and across the voter’s lawn and side yard and then onto the driveway of the next property owner. Then, the state rep took another left, back out to the main road. As you can see in the video below, provided to me by the homeowner.

Wut?

Thing is, the “lawn” Schmersal-Burgess used as a shortcut was more than a lawn. It was the aging leachfield for the voter’s 45-year-old septic system.

If you don’t own a house in rural Maine with an aging septic system, you might not understand why “driving across the leachfield” is bad. Simply put: you don’t drive over ‘em. The weight of a vehicle can damage the septic system by crushing buried pipes, compacting soil and other negs that result in costly repairs and lots of digging. These particular landowners don’t even drive their riding mower over the area in order to stave off problems with their micro-sewage treatment plant.

However, equally important to the state rep possibly damaging a constituent’s leachfield is Schmersal-Burgess’ blatant disregard for private property rights by driving by — and ignoring — the clearly posted no trespassing signs. Out here in rural Maine, we take such matters seriously. The message is clear: If you’re not invited, you’re not welcome. Capeesh?

Needless to say, the homeowner/voter was not happy to find out about Schmersal-Burgess’ visit and subsequent joyride across their lawn. So they called the state rep and left a message. And in case the septic system is actually damaged, the homeowner also called the local cops to get it on the record that a trespasser — the local state rep — drove over the leach-field. (As of today, the police haven’t responded.)

To Schmersal-Burgess’ credit, she called back and apologized. “She said, ‘I saw the signs on your house but not on the poles and that’s why I left,’” the homeowner told me. “She said ‘I am guilty, I am sorry, I don’t know why I did that.’”

Okay. Still gotta wonder why she drove by the signs. Does she think that those rules don’t apply to her? Or is she just a numbskull? Or both?

Hard telling.

Dumb and Dumber

You might forgive such behavior if the bad driver was a confused geriatric mistakingly allowed behind the wheel OR if the legislator was an amazing asset to the state of Maine.

Hahahhaha.

Every legislative session, I like to take a close look at Schmersal-Burgess’ contributions and achievements. I do it for the lulz and because it’s easy. Her efforts and impact are less than zero. She’s been in office for four years and introduced a total of three bills.

A quick perusal of LD 499 – “An Act to Prohibit Geoengineering” might make you lol. This silly bill called for a $10k daily fine, plus a misdemeanor charge, for anyone caught trying to modify the weather “for the purpose of counteracting climate change.” Kind of weird since Schmersal-Burgess - a member of an End Times Christian cult that embraces homophobia and other conservative principles - is a climate change skeptic. No one, though, has ever accused Schmersal-Burgess of being logical.

Another head scratcher is her sole legislative victory in the last four years: “An Act to Allow a Home Distiller to Distill and Share Homemade Spirituous Liquor” which became law without the governor’s signature in July of last year. What follows is the bill’s official explainer, probably written by somebody else on behalf of Schmersal-Burgess.

“This bill allows the owner of a home distillery to produce distilled spirits solely for personal use, including, but not limited to, personal consumption, serving the product to the owner’s family members and guests to be consumed on the premises where the home distillery is located or shipping the product to the owner’s family members and friends.

The bill prohibits the owner of a home distillery from having on the premises stills ordistilling apparatuses that have a mash capacity of more than 15.5 gallons; producing more than 24 gallons of distilled spirits per person 21 years of age or older residing on the premises where the home distillery is located in a calendar year; producing more than 48 gallons in a calendar year; or selling or offering for sale any spirits produced in the home distillery. The bill specifies that a violation of these provisions is a Class E crime.”

Not sure why this important piece of legislation was sponsored by my local Bible-thumping solon. However, this law would appear to be anti-constitutional. Why can the government and Schmersal-Burgess limit home distillers to a mere 48 gallons annually? I’m pretty sure the Founders didn’t intend such governmental encroachment.

And I’m not even gonna try to explain LD 712, “An Act to Clarify the Relationship Between Palliative Care Physicians and Hospital Physicians.” But here’s what Schmersal-Burgess submitted to the Legislature.

“This bill requires the Palliative Care and Quality of Life Interdisciplinary Advisory Council to make recommendations to require hospitals treating patients under the care of a palliative care physician to defer to the palliative care physician and the patient when making treatment decisions.”

Yeah, whatever. This legislation was DOA and given an “ought not to pass” verdict in committee and never made it to a vote. Not sure what the point of this bill was, but I’m sure it was either sketchy anti-vaxxer garbage or just plain dumb.

Or both.

In addition, in the last four years, Schmersal-Burgess has also introduced 47 legislative “Sentiments,” including numerous “Happy Birthday” wishes and a plethora of sentiments for each member of the Canton Fire Department for receiving the "Spirit of America Foundation Award.” But those are purely ceremonial actions, not realpolitik.

Maine taxpayers, btw, have paid Schmersal-Burgess about $100,000 in the last four years for all her hard work on behalf of the voters in my neck of the woods.

What’s a lawmaker?

Author’s note: I wrote the following in Nov. 2022 following a phone call with then-candidate Schmersal-Burgess.

After losing the 2020 election, MAGA influencers like Steve Bannon and QAnon idol Mike Flynn encouraged angry followers to run for local office. That’s why transphobic and racist dog whistles have become the standard rhetoric of Maine GOPers seeking seats in the Legislature. Consider the Republican candidate for District 77 in western Maine, where I live: The first sentence on the flyer Tammy Schmersal-Burgess dropped off at my house last week included this call to arms: “Maine people must fight now to retain the culture and values bestowed upon us by our forefathers.”

Then, a couple days later, I received a personalized letter from white supremacist and homophobic disinfomaniac, former state rep. Larry Lockman, endorsing Schmersal-Burgess, calling her a patriot “who signed the Maine First Agenda pledge.” More on Lockman later, but he spent two grand mailing his hate-and-fundraising letter to me and other un-enrolled and GOP voters in District 77.

Curious to know if Schmersal-Burgess actually signed Lockman’s fash-pledge, I gave her a jingle and, after identifying myself as a voter in her district, as well as a writer and podcaster, I asked if we could talk about her run for office. She agreed and I began with a routine softball question.

Crash Barry: First of all, why are you running? I’m curious. I always want to know why someone wants to be a lawmaker?

Tammy Schmersal-Burgess: Wants to be a what?

CB: I’m always curious to know why someone wants to be a lawmaker. So why are you running?

TSB: A lawmaker? I never heard it put like that.

CB: A lawmaker? You’ve never heard of it?

TSB: I just never heard it put like that. I am a local person. I lived in Maine my whole life. And the way things are going, put your head in the sand and pretend it’s all going by or step up and try to make a difference…I know there are a lot of bills that are passed that are really ridiculous. That’s not what we need. We need common sense and people looking out for the small guy.

CB: When you say there are laws being passed you don’t believe in, can you give me an example of that?

TSB: Bills. Bills. I never heard of them as laws.

CB: You know a bill turns into a law after the legislature approves it?

TSB: Yeah, pretty much. And some of them are stupid.

CB: Like what? Give me some examples of that?

TSB: You know, I really can’t at the moment.

Then, a male voice in the background, presumably her husband, chimes in. “How about the beer one?” the male voice suggests.

“The beer one?” she said with a laugh. “Yeah, that was stupid. So former state rep John Patrick passed a law on the head of beer.”

CB: Say that again?

TSB: Yeah, John Patrick passed a law that had to do with the head on a beer glass.

CB: Who passed that law?

TSB: John Patrick.

CB: You’re saying he introduced a bill? Because he doesn’t pass laws. The legislature would have to vote on it.

TSB: It did pass.

CB: So the Legislature approved it?

TSB: Yes, it did pass. It was about the head of a beer. And I thought it was silliest thing ever.

After our conversation, I googled this alleged “beer head” law. Turns out, Schmersal-Burgess was wrong about the details of LD 122, introduced in 2015 by former state rep. John Patrick. The legislation would have mandated bars and restaurants use actual 16 ounce glasses when billing patrons for a pint. The proposal basically prohibited the use of 14 ounce “cheater pints” whenever a menu uses the term pint.

And, contrary to Schmersal-Burgess’s belief, LD 122 didn’t mandate beer head size. Regardless, despite passage by both the House and Senate with support of Republicans, then-Governor LePage vetoed the legislation, and Senate Republicans flipped on their earlier yay votes, meaning the veto stood.

Back to our conversation, I brought up the letter from Lockman and his support for her as an anti-immigration patriot who signed his fash-pledge.

“Is that true that you signed the Maine First Agenda Pledge?” I asked.

“Now, that was to ensure there was no higher taxes?” she asked, sounding confused.

I told her that it was not about taxes (more on that in a second), but that the pledge was from Lockman and the Maine First Project, and included a laundry list of Lockman’s xenophobic dreams.

Schmersal-Burgess paused, then said, “So I will tell you. Being a first time running and just being human, I’m not a politician. I just feel that I’m a decent human being and I have common sense. I am not a politician. Nor do I want to be. So, I did fill out some stuff in the beginning and then I was advised not to because of entrapment. Not knowing what I was doing [sic] to be honest with you. And Larry, that name doesn’t sound familiar to me.”

“So you’re telling me that you don’t know Larry Lockman?” I asked.

“And you aren’t familiar with the Maine First Project?”

Schmersal-Burgess said that over the course of the campaign, she’s met lots of people and heard lots of names. “I am unaware of [[Lockman’s flyer.]] But Maine First Project…kind of rings a bell a little bit but not enough for me to know what it’s about.”

At this point, she was getting antsy and wanted to know if I was Republican or Democrat. Un-enrolled, I said.

“I figured you’d say that,” she replied.

I could tell our phone call wasn’t going to last much longer and I had questions about her “Eight Point Plan” for Maine touted on her campaign literature. Specifically, number six, her plan to “pass the Taxation Burden to Visitors.”

“How would you tax just tourists?” I asked.

“When you go to another state, you get taxed,” she said.

“How?” I asked.

“It happens.”

“How?” I asked again.

“I’m not sure. but I’m pretty sure that when ever you go anywhere, you get a tourist [tax]. I don’t know if states put in. But we don’t do that in Maine. I know if we go to Florida, you pay a gas tax or it’s there somewhere. I’ll have to study it further.” She went on to say, from what I could tell, that she favored a new tourist tax on RVs or houses or rentals, all based upon drivers licenses. However, the more she spoke, it became apparent she hadn’t done her research and that passing the “Taxation Burden onto Visitors” was magical thinking.

(Oddly enough, despite her wanting a new “tourist tax,” one pledge that Schmersal-Burgess is on the record taking is a “no new taxes” pledge put forth by anti-taxer Grover Norquist and the Americans for Tax Reform. Schmersal-Burgess is one of 53 Maine legislative candidates, plus Paul LePage, promising Norquist to “oppose and vote against any and all efforts to increase taxes.”)

Moving on, I asked about number seven on her agenda, concerning sex ed in Maine’s public schools. Reading from Schmersal-Burgess’ campaign lit, I said, “‘No discussions relating to sexuality should be tolerated coming from anyone, other than a student’s parents, without the express written consent of the parents for every discussion.’ So do you want to pass a law requiring teachers to get permission to teach sex education?”

“I don’t see anything wrong with that, Crash,” she said, “do you?”

From there, our conversation got a little heated. She considered my attempts at getting her to clarify that statement as argumentative, so she declined to answer any more questions. Instead, she repeatedly asked if I had children. When I replied no, she said, “then you will have a different input on this.” Then she said she wasn’t gonna argue with me and hung up.

So I called her back and, amazingly, she answered and told me she wasn’t gonna argue. I told her I didn’t want to argue, I just wanted her to answer questions I had for her about her campaign literature and her running as a clean elections candidate. She agreed to call me back that evening.

Not surprisingly, she didn’t.

So I returned to her campaign literature for more insight about her agenda. (caps lock, check marks and punctuation by her.)

I WILL ALSO WORK TO INFLUENCE AND ACCOMPLISH THE FOLLOWING IN AUGUSTA, WASHINGTON D.C. AND ALL OVER OUR COUNTRY

√ Lower inflation so we all can put food on the table.

√ Close the border to illegals and stop the flow of drugs killing our children

√ Restore energy independence and lower energy costs

√ Stop crime, lock up criminals, and respect police

√ Restore control of schools and children to parents

√ Stop the woke agenda wherever it rears its ugly head

After our conversation and re-reading all her literature, it’s painfully obvious that Schmersal-Burgess is simply regurgitating Trumpist talking points that are sure to attract the CHUD vote. Which got me wondering: how many other MAGA-wannabes are on the ballot?

Due to the dearth of real media coverage of most of Maine legislative races, most candidates go unchallenged about their extremist views and lack of basic understanding of how the Legislature works.

The Sun-Journal, for instance, sent Schmersal-Burgess their standard candidate survey. In addition to requesting basic personal facts and work history, the newspaper provided two banal writing prompts: 1. Define what “success” would look like if you are elected to serve your district. 2. Characterize your view on public access to governmental business.

No surprise, Schmersal-Burgess declined to answer the questionnaire.

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Sharp as a sack of wet mice, numb as a plate of corned hake

Schmersal-Burgess is clearly following orders. From who? I dunno, but there’s gotta be a puppet-master involved, because it’s doubtful Schmersal-Burgess could find her way around the State House, let alone figure out the Legislature’s rules and regulations.

Wondering if Schmersal-Burgess’ handler is former incumbent state rep Dick Pickett, the Trump-licking ex-cop and police chief who handpicked Schmersal-Burgess as his replacement in 2022. Prior to that, Pickett’s big claim to fame was fighting efforts to provide menstrual hygiene products to female inmates locked up in Maine’s prisons.

Or maybe her controller is my pal Billy Bob Faulkingham, the soon-to-be ex-House GOP leader and serial liar. Faulkingham, as longtime Crash Report readers know, totally made up the dramatic story of a rogue wave flipping his boat, then being saved by an angel and then by his cousin off the coast of Winter Harbor. The reality: Billy Bob was friggin’ around in the surf near Turtle Island, hit a ledge and nearly killed his sternman. Then his boat sank.

Schmersal-Burgess is also very active on the socials. She loves to post memes and missives that re-enforce her Faux-Christian world view: COVID was a hoax, immigration is bad and Obama was a racist. Weird, since given the chance, Schmersal-Burgess would eagerly jump at the opportunity to lick the boots of her pedophiliac war criminal president.

Meanwhile, her constituents worry about how they’re gonna afford six dollar a gallon home heating oil this winter. But for Schmersal-Burgess, that financial burden is just the price Americans will pay to avoid holding the MAGA-Epstein class responsible for their crimes against humanity, young women and children. Because, according to the GOP, Rep. Schmersal-Burgess and the other pedo-protectors, laws are for thee, not for me.

Since our local media is basically dead, I don’t know much about Schmersal-Burgess’ opponent in November’s general election. His name is Arlie “Chip” Hetrick and, apparently, he’s a bridge painter, a Union member and an ice fisherman.

And, I’m guessing, he’s a helluva lot smarter than Schmersal-Burgess.

Which isn’t hard, that’s for sure.

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Chris “Hammer” Pohlhaus, boss of the neo-Nazi Blood Tribe, would be easy to destroy in a fight. And the 41-year-old cult leader knows it. The list of his weaknesses is long. Firstly, his gristle-and-chonky meat-suit is the opposite of agile. His broad shoulders and beefy brisket aren’t helpful in the ring. His reach and speed are limited. Also, due to his muscle-frozen thick neck, the guy has to turn his whole upper body just to glimpse peripherally. Which makes it tough to block punches and kicks. Plus, the dude kvetches constantly about his weak spine and sore spinal cord. In addition, his troubled knees can barely support the weight of his roid-bloated carcass, let alone muster up the power to throw a decent kick.

Plus Hammer has health issues connected to his low testosterone and his addiction to steroids and peptides bought from sketchy juice dealers. Also, his drug-addled brain, inside his disproportionately small head, is definitely worried about his non-existent sex drive, shriveled testes and erectile dysfunction.

Anyways, Hammer ain’t a MMA fighter. He’s a MMA corner-boi, chiefly responsible for wiping sweat and applying ice to his man’s back and biceps. At least that’s what the chud was doing on Aug. 29, 2026, in front of a roaring crowd of thousands of fight fans at an MMA event at the Kia Center in Orlando, Florida.

The Saturday night fight was between two freaks: “Gypsy Crusader” vs “King Azoulay.” Gypsy, aka Paul Miller, is a neo-Nazi asshole and “internet personality.” His opponent, King Azoulay, was introduced as a “popular social media star fighting out of Jerusalem, Israel.”

Guess which fella Hammer iced down between rounds.

In these totally normal times, it should be no surprise, I guess, that a major venue in Florida would feature a “heavyweight” kickboxing brawl between a neo-Nazi and a Jewish fella. With three rounds, two minutes per, the fight was billed as the “co-main bout” of the inaugural “Duel Arena 1” combat sports extravaganza.

This contest wasn’t sanctioned by any actual boxing or MMA organization. It was more of an “influencers’ fight” that served as self-promo for gladiators and publicity fodder for Duel.Com, an online crypto-casino — based on the autonomous volcanic island of Anjouan in the Indian Ocean, off the coast of East Africa — with the slogan, “The first casino that gives a fuck.”

I’m more than a little suspicious of anything sponsored by a scammy “crypto-casino,” especially one headquartered on “an autonomous volcanic island in the Indian Ocean.” Also, the “co-main event” was pretty boring, except for the part when the Jewish King kicked the Nazi-Gypsy in the balls.

No surprise, though, the Nazi won the fight, because he was an inch taller and 33 pounds heavier than his Semitic opponent. Also, Gypsy has more prior experience in the ring, including a split-decision boxing victory earlier this year in March. (More on that in a minute.) And earlier this century, Gypsy had a six-year career as a Muay Thai kickboxer, but a car accident at age 26 ended his fight club career.

(His decision this year to re-enter the ring, according to his posse, was due to Gypsy’s dream of fighting accused serial rapist Andrew Tate. That asshole, currently in jail in Florida, is awaiting extradition to England where prosecutors have indicted Tate for multiple sex crimes against women.)

“King Azoulay,” on the other hand, claims to be a vicious street-fighter who once beat up 20 opponents simultaneously. A thorough search of the internet, though, failed to turn up any evidence of the King in any sort of slugfest. His performance in the kickboxing bout was mediocre at best. That said, he did kick a Nazi in the balls. So there’s that.

In a ringside interview immediately after Gypsy’s split decision “victory,” the Nazi called the King “a short little fucking Jew prick.”

That comment, bellowed into the announcer’s mic, echoed throughout the Kia Center. The response: the unfurling of a swastika flag in the stands and hundreds of white people around the arena, standing, cheering and giving “Roman” salutes.

And Hammer, in the middle of it all, had the best night of his life.

There’s been zero reporting on Hammer being the corner boy. Luckily I have a bunch of videos as source material, including Hammer’s solo vlog on Rumble and another vid of him as a guest of Jake Shields, a neo-Nazi influencer and former MMA fighter, on YouTube. Shields was the other cornerman during the Gypsy fight and wore a t-shirt that read “FCK ISRL,” which, I guess, stands for “Fuck Israel.”

For more intel-gathering, I also watched various other vids, including all the fight footage, plus behind-the-scenes extras and lots of fan reels posted on the socials. Also informative was a livestream by “Chicken Andy” in the midst of the mini-riot and fistfights that broke out in the chaos following the post-bout anti-Semitic slur and Hammer and Gypsy giving “Romans.”

All that to say… I gained a ton of insight regarding the Nazi-view of what happened in Orlando, thus building on my already encyclopedic knowledge of Hammer, the self-proclaimed Blood King of the Blood Tribe. Or, as he prefers, the Blutkönig of Blutstamm.

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This “fight” emboldened the chuds, who were calling it “historic.” And, to a degree, they were right. After all, it’s been since Hitler’s time that “athletes” and “coaches” throw Romans at public sporting events with hundreds (or more) in the crowd returning the salute.

In the rehash videos, Hammer and Shields revealed that they had zero idea how the crowd would respond to them being Nazis. They wondered aloud if they’d be pelted with bottles when entering the arena. They thought they were the bad guys!

(A brief aside: Gypsy came out of retirement about six months earlier for an “influencer boxing match.” The chud barely won that fight against a Black hip hop artist named Supa Hot Fire — the alter-ego of comedian DeShawn Raw — who bloodied the Nazi, but lost in a split decision. Despite his victory, Gypsy was jeered by the crowd. Also, you may recognize Supa Hot Fire from the classic GIF below.)

Last week in Orlando, however, the anti-Nazis were in the minority. And there were many cheers and applause for the chuds. The Nazis were welcomed, almost as …. heroes?!?!? Heroes might be too strong of a word, but they certainly weren’t booed.

Gotta wonder if the crowd’s view of the King as “villain” (rather than Gypsy) had to do with the King draping himself in the Israeli flag.

Throughout the pre-fight goings-on, Hammer stood, on camera, as second-in-command. Sans his large gold swastika necklace, though, since Gypsy had told Hammer to remove his gaudy bling prior to the fight. Also, Hammer’s sleeve-less t-shirt covered his giant swastika breast tattoo, as seen below in 2023.

Turns out Hammer’s main job in the ring was to ice down Gypsy’s sweaty traps and deltoids between rounds while Shields yelled inspirationally at the exhausted Gypsy.

Thanks to the debrief videos, we know why these two chuds ended up in Gypsy’s corner. Both had watched Gypsy’s boxing bout in March and noted that his support team was just Gypsy’s brother. So Hammer and Shields, each on his own, volunteered to serve as ringboi the next time the Nazi was gonna fight.

Turns out, Hammer and Gypsy go way back. About eight years ago, Hammer converted Gypsy from being just a MAGA-flavored homophobic libertarian wannabe-Proud Boy into a full-blown Nazi. Via a series of DMs, book and film recommendations, along with some phone calls, Hammer guided Gypsy through his red pilling. That’s back when Hammer was just starting out as an Instagram-racist-influencer. And now look at his protègèe, all grown up, with a SS chest tattoo, fighting a Jew on pay-per-view.

Shields, the other corner-boi, was a fan of Gypsy’s racist work. Using the term “work” loosely here. Much of Gypsy’s fame comes from him cosplaying as a racist Real Life Joker, Right Wing Riddler or Racist Mario during raucous livestreams to entertain his fellow chuds, assholes and Nazis. Also, Gypsy has his own youth gang, whom he calls his “henchman” who dress up real cute and were involved in a couple of the post-fight scuffles.

Corner-boi Shields, btw, actually has credibility, pugilistically. He’s UFC-famous for a 15-fight winning streak in 2010-11. Also, Shields is a Holocaust denier, a rabid transphobe and an anti-vax vegetarian podcaster. And now he and Hammer are good buddies, thanks to Gypsy’s kickboxing. And that new relationship will expose Hammer to Shields’ sizable audience, consisting mostly of incels who like to fight because they can’t get laid.

In the days following Gypsy v. King, there was limited coverage of the swastika-flag unfurling on the local news in Orlando, but no mention of Hammer’s presence in the ring after the Nazi’s victory.

Active Clubs for Chuds

It’s no secret that Hammer likes to surround himself with youthful men. There are plenty of videos out there with the Blutkönig of Blutstamm lovingly massaging the palms of his teenage followers after they’ve sliced their palms with a dull spear tip to generate a little blood to rub into a fabric swatch on the Blood Spear Shaft during their Blood Tribe blood-letting initiations. Click the pic below, if you want an inside look at the ceremony.

Obviously, the grooming of young white males is what keeps the neo-Nazi movement alive. That’s why the involvement of white supremacists in MMA is so disturbing. Apparently, the scene is a good (?!?!?) place for Nazis to find willing youth. Eager to fight, these young men, sadly, are gullible enough to believe hate is the answer to their problems.

While some might view mixed martial arts as sport, these chuds use MMA as practice for real life brawling. In multiple videos, Hammer remarks on how each and every MMA takedown would be a street-fighting victory. Once your “opponent” is on the ground, head-stomping is easy. And a talented kickboxing Nazi, theoretically, could take down — and take out — multiple non-kickboxing enemies… like Antifa, LGBTQers, brown and black folks and other people the chuds want to oppress.

I’ve written about Hammer grooming teenage boys before. You can read my exclusive Crash Report from 2024 here concerning a disaffected youth who joined Blood Tribe online and bought the Nazi merchandise and philosophy. Then, the kid was arrested by South Portland, Maine cops, during a SWAT raid intended (the cops say) to prevent a massacre at South Portland High.

Thing is, actual evidence the kid was planning a school shooting was scant…and eventually a judge (no jury) found him not guilty of the various charges.

But that judicial judgement came after the media published the minor chud’s name and family info. Also, the media just repeated the cops’ POV of the situation. The details of this case clearly shows that cops don’t understand or know how to deal with online culture.

Around the same time, a colleague in the chud-researcher community sent me a folder of screenshots, taken by an infiltrator, from Hammer’s Blood Tribe chatroom. And there was the South Portland alleged wannabe teenaged shooter, posing with various Nazi paraphernalia.

After a little digging, I found out the Nazi-kid’s mom was running for a seat on the South Portland School Board. Oddly, though, no one acknowledged she was the troubled teen’s mom. So I called the woman. And, despite seeing tons of evidence in the court proceedings, she was surprised and saddened by the photos I had of her Nazi son.

All that to say, Hammer, et al, are always on the lookout for young blood.

Without a doubt, American teenage boys are some of the dumbest critters on the planet. To make things worse, a percentage are easily influenceable and quickly angered. Especially when manipulated by older white males who feel victimized by the societal strides towards equality attempted in recent decades.

This grooming takes place in various locales, including chat rooms, gaming platforms, messaging apps and social media. Best, though, are the fighting gyms where recruiters for the aforementioned “Active Clubs” hang out, looking for Caucasian male flesh to love-bomb into joining hate clubs.

There are estimates of at least 70 currently active “active clubs” in 35 states in the U.S. (It’s a growing international movement as well, spreading to Europe and Great Britain.) The active clubs are kept small, intentionally, to prevent infiltration. Once a club reaches a dozen, I’m told, a new club gets born.

Hammer, though, isn’t in an active club because, like I mentioned, the dude can’t fight. Guess we’re lucky Hammer spent his best years working out (and juicing) to get real big, instead getting real tough. Like many roided-up chuds, Hammer can barely move. His large body, small head and fat neck just don’t help during battle.

Also, as mentioned earlier, the chud has spinal issues and his testosterone levels are shit. And in private, Blutkönig of the Blood Tribe worries about an early death due to his steroid use. But that’s okay, since he lives in the moment.

In the post-Orlando fight review video, Hammer, says with pride, “I heard Rundo was in the crowd.”

That would be Richard Rundo, the founder of the “Active Club” movement. I became aware of this asshole (almost a decade ago) when he was the leader of the “Rise Above Movement” which was basically Nazi thugs on the prowl for street fights.

In the last couple of years, Rundo rebranded in an effort to groom more young men without using a swastika. These days, Active Club members don’t wave Nazi flags or wear uniforms. Instead, there’s an emphasis on strength and preparedness. They present, publicly, as fitness groups within a culture of hypermasculine personal development.

Rundo likes to claim that Active Clubs are more than just training centers for white dudes wanting to learn how to curb stomp. “It is a lifestyle for those willing to work, risk and sweat,” he writes, “to embody our ideals for themselves. And to promote them to others.”

Yeah. Whatever. Truth is, these old chuds need fresh blood and meat. So you might wanna check with the young men in your sphere of influence. Just to make sure they ain’t chatting with Hammer, Rundo, Shields, the Gypsy Crusader or any of the thousands of other scumbuckets looking to train the next-gen of racist assholes.

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I’m still wicked busy producing my new true crime podcast Fake Shaman. I’ve been working on this project for over a year and discovering new details almost daily about the 36-year-old white woman from Connecticut who came to Maine with dollar signs in her eyes and psychedelic mushrooms in her Coach bag. This Fake Shaman lies more than anyone I’ve ever reported on… plus her targeting of vulnerable people in Maine, Georgia, North Carolina, Wisconsin, Las Vegas and beyond is pretty frigging disgusting. Paid subscribers to the Crash Report will received early and ad free access to Fake Shaman, which is coming out this fall. For $7 monthly — or $75 annually — you can support independent journalism that goes places others won’t.

[[author’s note: I continue to delve into my copious archives since I’m super-busy cutting tape for the forthcoming true crime podcast Fake Shaman. Also, the woman called “Ginger” in this piece turned out to be “Sweetgrass,” the beautiful and talented human who married me, 24 years ago this week.]]

To hell with Acadia National Park, Mount Katahdin and Papoose Pond. The best place to camp in Vacationland is Portland.

My friend Ginger and I spent four days in early July exploring the city and Casco Bay on foot and aboard our canoe, the Walter Bagnall. We pitched our tent in an industrial wasteland and a wildlife sanctuary, in the shadow of an old fort and on an uninhabited island. It turned out to be the best vacation either of us ever had.

Portland wouldn’t normally be my first choice for a camping trip, particularly because I spend nearly all my time on the city’s peninsula. But it’s been a tough year financially, so we decided to have an urban adventure and make it a low-budget affair.

Although Ginger and I talked about the trip for weeks, we neglected to begin actually preparing for it until two days before we undertook the voyage. Luckily, transportation was not a problem. Several months ago, I discovered an abandoned, 15-foot, metal Grumman canoe in the basement of a building on Brackett Street. Ginger and I retrieved the vessel and lugged it three blocks to her West End apartment. We would have preferred to take the boat for a test float in the duck pond at Deering Oaks, but there was no time for such safety precautions.

We assembled all the necessary supplies for the trip in 48 hours. This included borrowing a tent and a cookstove from friends, buying food and getting our hands on two life jackets and a second paddle (the Walter only came with one).

We considered buying a paddle, but our budget didn’t allow for it. So, using a 3-foot wooden dowel and a foot-long plank, I built a sturdy substitute held together by a dozen screws and some brown duct tape. We looked into the possibility of renting life preservers, but discovered that for a mere 10 bucks, we could buy two bottom-of-the-line flotation devices.

The final hurdle was to get the Walter Bagnall from the West End to the water. (I named the canoe in honor of the first white man to settle in the Casco Bay region. After three years spent ripping off the locals and consorting with native women, he was justifiably executed in 1631.) To do so, I made a makeshift trailer by rigging a shopping cart I’d found with long metal pipes to support the boat.

We carefully guided the top-heavy rig down the hill on Clark Street to West Commercial Street, then to a patch of land about a quarter-mile west of the Casco Bay Bridge. Pushing the ersatz trailer through the mud was impossible with the Walter on top, so we unloaded the gear and portaged the canoe on our shoulders through the woods along the Fore River, then returned to drag the shopping cart, full of supplies, to the water’s edge.

We decided to put in from an old, burned-out wharf I’d scouted out earlier. The tide was coming in, and we were planning to ride the rising water inland to our first campsite. Unfortunately, I hadn’t devised a plan to lower the canoe from the wharf to the river — a 10-foot drop. We had some rope, but Ginger and I couldn’t figure out how to avoid smashing the canoe against the huge slabs of jagged granite jutting out from beneath the wharf.

Then “Helpful Johnny” arrived. Johnny was a scruffy guy in his early 40s who rode an old 10-speed bike. He stood on the granite and pushed the boat away from the wharf as we lowered it, then gave us a hand loading the gear.

As we got under way, Ginger noticed a Portland Water District sign marking our point of departure: “Wet Weather Sewer Discharge Number 006.”

No Mercy, please

This was a working vacation. Sure, I needed to relax, but I also wanted to examine a few undeveloped areas of Portland. In plotting the course of our adventure, the first spot we planned to visit was the 30-acre stretch of land between the Fore River and St. John Street owned by Guilford Transportation Industries. Mercy Hospital is eyeing the property as the site for a gargantuan medical center.

We pointed the canoe upstream toward Merrill’s Marine Terminal and the industrial section of the river. The tide was with us, but a 15-mph head wind made paddling difficult. We worked our way past cranes, barges, tugs, oil tankers and lobster boats, sticking close to shore to take advantage of the lee of the land. After a half-hour, we rounded a bend in the river and paddled beneath the Veterans Memorial Bridge.

A word of caution: The waterborne part of this trip should not be undertaken by those unfamiliar with tides, currents and the handling of boats. Ginger grew up on Peaks Island, worked as a crew member aboard a schooner and taught canoeing to kids. I’m a Coast Guard veteran and once spent two years lobstering on Matinicus. We studied tide charts throughout the voyage and listened to weather forecasts on a portable radio to avoid any unnecessary battles with the forces of nature.

Less than an hour after putting in, we arrived at our first destination. Paddling close to the rocky riverbank - cluttered with old truck tires and other human detritus — we looked for a suitable site to land. We spotted an abandoned shopping cart and came ashore beside it, figuring it would come in handy when we lugged our supplies ashore.

We pulled the Walter above the tideline, hid her (all boats are female) in the scrubby brush and started searching for a campsite.

The Guilford land is partially wooded, with small meadows dotted with wild flowers and cluttered with illegally dumped construction debris, old railroad ties, empty beer cases, shattered glass, broken furniture, ruined couches, useless appliances and more abandoned shopping carts.

We found a grassy spot that was relatively flat and garbage-free about 50 feet from the river. Ginger and I pitched the tent, had a snack and started to prepare dinner. The menu consisted of black bean soup, a loaf of bread and a bottle of cheap red wine. After several fruitless attempts to ignite the propane stove we’d borrowed, we gave up and started looking for an alternative.

As luck would have it, I discovered a discarded gas grill. Ginger gathered wood while I cleaned the grill of several pieces of melted plastic and the remains of a hobo’s fire. Thirty minutes later, soup was on.

After dinner, we took a long and leisurely stroll through the land. If you can tune out the constant drone of traffic along Interstate 295, the frequent roar of aircraft taking off from the Portland Jetport and the ubiquitous piles of trash, it’s an idyllic setting.

The sun went down and the moon rose, nearly full. There was nary a breeze. We found blackberry bushes and the mosquitoes found us. Wildlife-wise, we spotted a few fireflies and a little brown critter that ran into the bush. Reflections of the blinking runway lights danced on the calm water. The Big Dipper shone above.

This may not sound like a great time to you — and, in retrospect, this spot was the least picturesque of all our camping locations - but being there made me question the wisdom of paving over one of the last remaining tracts of undeveloped land on the peninsula in order to build a behemoth of a building.

Mercy Hospital doesn’t pay property taxes, even though it uses city services you and I pay for. We should let Mercy move to the suburbs and turn this land into a combination dog park and summer campground for tourists, the homeless and bohemians. Such a plan could go a long way toward revitalizing the base of the peninsula.

It was time for bed. Both Ginger and I are deathly afraid of Lyme disease, so we checked each other thoroughly for ticks. It was cold and damp that night (the temperature dropped to 45 degrees) and far from quiet — the highway traffic was incessant. We slept restlessly.

Ginger awoke first and went for a walk. She discovered a small stream littered with discarded tires, which she dubbed “Tire Creek,” and spied a strange wooden structure partially hidden by vegetation.

It turned out to be a 10-foot-tall stack of ancient railroad ties. Climbing to the top, we discovered six crushed Budweiser cans and a garter snake — the first wild snake I’d ever seen in Portland - lying atop a rain-soaked pornographic magazine. I’m reasonably certain he wasn’t reading the articles. Ginger and I left “Porn Snake Hill,” broke camp, retrieved the Walter and headed back up the Fore River in search of land uncluttered by human refuse.

A Totally Natural Vacation

The second day was far more beautiful than the first. The river was calm and the sky deep blue and cloudless. Paddling was effortless.

Our destination was the Fore River Sanctuary, a wildlife preserve maintained by the Maine Audubon Society. The sanctuary, which borders the Stroudwater neighborhood, is a little more than 2 nautical miles upriver from Guilford’s property. The trip promised to be relatively simple and quick, so Ginger and I took some time to explore the waterway.

We headed up Long Creek, a tributary of the Fore River that runs between I-295 and the airport. This stretch of clean, clear water - busy with terns, red-tailed hawks and blue heron - would have been picturesque if it weren’t for all the cars and planes.

About a mile-and-a-half up the creek, we passed a sign warning us we were crossing a petroleum pipeline.The water soon changed to a murky brown and the air smelled of spray paint.

We continued upstream until we reached a dam at an underpass below Westbrook Street in South Portland, not far from the Dexter Shoe Outlet. We tied the canoe to a tree and climbed the riverbank - stopping to pick ripe, juicy raspberries along the way — then jumped a guardrail and sprinted across four lanes of speeding traffic to check out the other side of the dam.

The tide drains quickly this far upstream and we realized it was heading out, so we rushed back to the Walter and paddled madly toward deeper water for fear we’d get stranded high and dry for six hours on the wrong side of the reeking pipeline.

Soon we were relaxing again, drifting with the current and nibbling plums, barely steering. At the mouth of the creek, we headed northwest toward the Audubon property. After 45 minutes, we reached Stroudwater Crossing, where outer Congress Street passes over the Fore.

The river is less than 20 feet wide at this point. On the other side of Congress, it forms a small lagoon. This is where the sanctuary begins.

Paddling up the river - reduced to a 4-foot-wide channel meandering though swampland at this point - we were impressed by the spectacular flora and fauna. We listened to the songs of cardinals and the flute-like melody of the veery. We spotted orioles and several huge grouse that dashed for cover in the trees.

Soon, the tidal stream disappeared, leaving us aground on the muddy bottom. We hauled the Walter up onto the bank and sat on a footbridge to enjoy the view and our peanut-butter-and-raspberry-jelly sandwiches, trying all the while to ignore the ever-present hum of automobile traffic.

The preserve is one of Portland’s gems. During our stay, however, we only spotted a couple dozen people taking advantage of it. And shockingly, two of them were on motorcycles, which are forbidden there.

Bicycles, fires and pets are also unwelcome at the preserve, and camping is a no-no. Ginger and I are law-abiding visitors, so we pitched our tent in the heavily wooded backyard of an expensive house bordering the sanctuary and went searching for a suitable place off the preserve to cook dinner.

Before the meal, however, we wanted to clean up, so we visited another secret gem: Jewell Falls, Portland’s only naturally occurring waterfall. Many years ago, a young woman and I were busted in flagrante delicto there by a group of school kids on a field trip. This time I was only interested in getting clean.

I stripped naked and, using an environmentally safe soap, tried to reach all my dirty parts. My mission nearly complete, I looked up and saw a middle-aged man walking a dog across the footbridge. He was watching me with a look of disgust on his face.

My first impulse was to rebuke him for breaking the preserve’s pet rule, but then I realized my own actions were probably just as inappropriate. “Sorry, man,” I shouted to him. He scurried away.

We set up our outdoor kitchen about a half-mile from the preserve along a construction road leading to an as-yet-unbuilt development. Making a fire pit at the bottom of a hill, Ginger and I discovered a second garter snake (this one apparently didn’t care for porn). We dined hobo style (out of one pot) on spaghetti and homemade marinara, a loaf of bread and another bottle of red vino. We were having such a great time, we almost couldn’t hear the traffic nearby. After sunset, we walked back through the preserve to our tent.

Hundreds of fireflies lit the meadows and swamp, and the sky glowed with moonlight.

Back at our campsite, we checked each other for ticks again and listened to the weather forecast on the radio. It was warmer than the night before, and we were exhausted. We slept well.

Ginger and I both awoke around 7. Rather than build another fire, we headed to the Burger King on Brighton Avenue with our tea bags and mugs to bum some hot water and use the facilities, then crossed the street and purchased wine and food for our Fourth of July dinner.

Back at the preserve, we loaded the Walter and put her into the rising tide. Another word of advice: Relaunch the boat with the bow facing the ocean in such situations. The channel there is so tight, there’s no room to turn around. We learned this the hard way and were forced to back-paddle out of the sanctuary.

A Gorges Fourth

We had big plans to celebrate Independence Day.

Our destination was almost six miles away: Fort Gorges, the Civil War-era citadel located on a small island off Portland’s East End. Commissioned in 1854 by then-Secretary of War Jefferson Davis - the same rogue who went on to become president of the Confederacy — the fort was outdated by the time it was completed. None of that mattered to us. We knew it would be a great place to watch the fireworks.

But first we had to get there. We paddled with the receding tide back down the Fore River and under the Casco Bay Bridge. Pulling alongside a visiting cruise ship tied up in the Scotia Prince‘s berth, we waved to the crew and passengers, then paddled past fishing wharves and slips for pleasure craft at DiMillo’s Marina, where we were almost run down by marina employees trying to move a boat to another dock. After several attempts, they finally maneuvered the yacht into its new mooring, but not before causing a floating traffic jam.

I’d made this trip many times in vessels of all sizes, but never in a canoe. Traveling so close to the water makes you appreciate “no wake” zones. It’s unfortunate many power-boaters don’t understand this concept and the fact human-powered boats have just as much right to the waterways as diesel-driven ones.

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The breeze picked up and the water grew choppier as we approached the area where the river meets the sea. Stopping at the public landing next to the Maine State Pier, we stowed some unnecessary cargo (the non-working stove, a pan and some extra clothes) in a storage locker at the Casco Bay Lines ferry terminal to lighten the load, then donned our life jackets for the first time. Our plan was to follow the shore around to Fish Point on Portland’s East End, then dart out across three-quarters of a mile of Casco Bay to the fort while trying to avoid other boats and the shipping lane as much as possible.

It worked. Less than 45 minutes later, we were dragging the Walter up onto the rocky beach of Fort Gorges. And it was gorgeous. A half-dozen people who’d arrived by motor boat were also exploring the tiny island, and several others showed up in small boats and kayaks over the next few hours. Many of the mariners were drinking.

Ginger and I napped, read and wandered the grounds. Fort Gorges is an amazing place, old and mysterious, carved with dark alleyways. There are fabulous views of ocean, islands and city. It’s also dangerous — the fort offers many opportunities to fall to your death.

We eavesdropped on a boyfriend/girlfriend couple and another boy. The loner was on a cell phone calling his boss. He said he was stranded on an island and wouldn’t be able to make it to work.

A half-hour later, the cell phone rang. It was friends in a boat returning with food. When the boat arrived, a middle-aged couple and their teen-age daughter - perhaps the loner’s girlfriend — disembarked carrying bags of fast food.

Later, I found some wrappers from Subway sandwiches blowing in the sea breeze. It made me cringe.

The morons left soon after their feeding frenzy, leaving Ginger and I on the tiny island with two families who’d arrived via a pair of motorboats with enough food and Budweiser to last a week. Like us, however, they were just staying for the night.

A sign hanging above the fort’s entrance proclaimed “Enter at Your Own Risk” and “No Camping.” Again, we didn’t want to break the rules, so we pitched the tent outside the fort just above the tideline.

The others camped and carried on inside, but we couldn’t hear them on the shore. We could, however, hear a constant crashing sound as the rising tide smashed their moored motor boats against the fort’s granite walls.

I’d correctly predicted there’d be a scarcity of driftwood on the island, so before leaving the Fore River Sanctuary, I’d collected enough fallen limbs for a roaring blaze, which we built about 5 feet below the high-water mark. We cooked potatoes and corn, drank red wine, listened to the radio and watched countless watercraft head toward the Eastern Prom in search of prime spots to view the fireworks.

Around 8:30 p.m., we heard a crash and a boom. One of the power boats’ mooring lines had apparently snapped when the craft collided with the granite wall, and the vessel was drifting out into the bay. I ran into the fort to alert the beer-drinking boat owners of the situation, then ran back down to the rocky beach and dragged the skipper’s rubber raft into the water for him.

He quickly rowed out to the drifting boat, but tried to board on the wrong side — the side without a ladder - and struggled for several minutes before he was able to get on board, fire up the engine and come back. His buddy, obviously a more experienced sailor, told us this was his pal’s first time on the ocean in his boat. He usually keeps it on a lake.

We’d been enjoying illegal fireworks displays shot from the mainland and the islands all evening, but when the city’s spectacular and the show from Hadlock Field went up, our view of both was fabulous. Shortly after the grand finales, the rising tide engulfed our campfire, causing the red-hot coals to float and sizzle.

It was almost time for bed, but I convinced Ginger to venture back into the fort and play her flute. We’d forgotten to pack a flashlight, but did have candles. Our little flames flickered in a gentle breeze as we slowly climbed the stairs to the third level of the fort. Shadows from our neighbors’ fire leaped across the granite walls.

Sitting atop the eerie, old structure listening to Ginger’s haunting song, I felt as though I’d been transported to another time and place.

Back in the tent, we checked each other for ticks again, listened to the forecast and quickly fell asleep.

During the night, fog engulfed the island. I awoke around 5 a.m. and saw a white man with dreadlocks in the mist wandering along the shore toward the fort.

“Good morning,” I said through the tent screen.

“Hello,” he said, and walked away.

I went outside to look around, but there were no extra boats in sight. The white rasta wasn’t on the island the night before. Hmmm.

Jimmy the Liar

Our breakfast the next morning consisted of an apple and a glass of water. We were running out of sustenance and had burned all the firewood, which made packing quick work. With the Walter loaded, we paddled away from the fort and into the beautiful scudding fog.

The bay was flat-ass calm and the fog thickening as we made our way toward Little Diamond Island. I was worried other boats wouldn’t see us, and I’d forgotten to pack a whistle or a horn, so Ginger played a cheerful tune as I paddled effortlessly through the still waters.

The fog lifted as we made our way around the shore of Great Diamond Island, where we were struck by the number of expensive, new homes under construction.

Circling around the north end of Great Diamond, we entered another fog bank, but could see another island looming in the distance. As I’d neglected to bring a chart, this piece of land was a mystery to us.

When we stopped on a sandy beach for lunch — the last of our peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches — a pair of fellow canoeists from Lewiston informed us it was Cow Island.

Formerly owned by a Hollywood millionaire who let folks camp there for free, Cow is in the process of being sold to a group of nonprofits for use in educational programs. Less than a half-mile long, the island’s front side offers great views of Portland, Falmouth and Casco Bay. Its back side overlooks Long Island and Hussey Sound, and also boasts an impressive string of World War Il-era military installations. The underground spaces beneath these structures are cool and dark in the summer, and the tops of the forts are ideal for camping, provided the off-shore breeze isn’t blowing too hard.

We circumnavigated the island before putting ashore at a beach to explore on foot. It was too windy to camp on the back side, so we got back in the Walter and paddled around to the front looking for a suitable spot.

The one we found was heaven: a grassy cliff about 10 feet above a rocky beach, surrounded by a stand of birch trees. It was everything we could ask for in a campsite: privacy, an exquisite view, a ready-made fire pit and plenty of fallen wood. Ginger and I lit a blaze that lasted for eight hours. Meanwhile, we napped, played cards and listened to the radio.

Dinner consisted of the last of our potatoes and corn and tea — all the wine was gone. A brief shower - the only rain during our trip — sprinkled us while we ate. After dinner, we went on a sunset paddle, then returned to the fire and checked each other for ticks.

Shortly thereafter, two guys in kayaks passed by. “Fuck,” one of them exclaimed. “They got my damn campsite!” He kept swearing at us as they paddled off.

We sat by the fire, waiting for it to burn out.

Darkness came, and just when we were about to retire for the night, we heard trampling in the brush.

Two men, both wearing headlamps, appeared. Both were drunk.

The older man, Jimmy, was in his mid-40s. He sat down beside me and immediately made himself at home. Jimmy told us he’d built the site, but he didn’t mind us using it. He introduced the younger man as his son, but for some reason, that didn’t ring true.

In fact, nothing Jimmy the Liar said sounded true.

For example, he told us of a party he’d hosted on Cow Island a couple years before.

“We had 40 big pigs,” he bragged, “and 50 cases of chicken, 50 kegs of beer and 40 cases of wine. We picked up girls from Old Port bars and brought them out to the island. Damn, that was a great party. The day after, all these beautiful girls in bathing suits were trying to hitch a ride back to the mainland.”

“How many people came to the party?” I asked.

“About 100,” he said.

You do the math.

We’d soon had enough of both of them, but Jimmy kept telling tall tales and adding logs to the fire to extend his stay. After an hour, I stood up and told him we were tired and had to get up early the next morning.

“I do, too,” he said, crushing his empty Budweiser can against his forehead before throwing it into the fire.

He and his “son” finally departed, but we didn’t discover until the next day that Jimmy had stolen our camera. (Thankfully, he only made off with the last of several rolls of film I shot during the trip.)

We slept well that night. Cow Island was the softest and warmest of all our sites.

When we awoke the next morning, the wind was still quite strong. We needed to return to Portland, but I questioned the wisdom of crossing so much open water under such conditions.

We eventually decided it’d be most prudent to head over to Great Diamond Island, hide the Walter and take the ferry back to Portland. We were disappointed, as we’d both wanted to paddle home, but when we embarked at low tide, the breeze disappeared. I suggested we make a shot at the Eastern Prom. Ginger agreed.

We paddled at a leisurely pace for about an hour, stopping occasionally to watch seals and other wildlife, reminiscing about the great time we’d had. We made plans for a big breakfast. We landed on East End Beach without incident. As we prepared to return to the world of eggs and civilization, we covered the canoe with dead leaves, hiding it for retrieval at a later date.

“Walter Bagnall was a bad man,” I said as we bid our vessel goodbye. “But she’s a good boat.”

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Update: One year after our adventure, Sweetgrass (aka Ginger) and I returned to Fort Gorges to get married.

And these days, almost a quarter century later, we live in western Maine, on a farmstead in the woods, with nine goats, three pigs, 14 hens, one cat and two dogs… a long way from Fort Gorges, for sure.

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After the re-publication, three days ago, of Flashback Number Three, Hey Buddy, Can you Spare Some Change? from my archive of pre-Internet reporting, the Facebook response was poignant. Portlanders of a certain era reminisced and remembered their own encounters with Bobby Reynolds. (Over here, though, with the unsentimental consumers of The Crash Report, there were lots of reads but zero engagement.)

A well-placed source — touched by the Facebook commentary about Bobby — reached out to tell me that Bobby is alive and resides in the Barron Center, the city-run nursing home in Portland. My source explained that Bobby now exists in a world dramatically different from life on the street. The beloved dude spends his days in his recliner, watching tv, blissfully unaware of modernity. My source says, “Bobby wouldn’t know what to do with a cell phone, let alone a smart phone.”

I’ve got a million Bobby Reynold stories, btw, but the tale currently stuck in my craw took place just before the turn of the century…

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Hey Buddy, can you spare a CD?

It was a little after five p.m. and I was headed down to the Old Port for free Happy Hour pizza and a couple two dollar pints when I bumped into Bobby near Post Office Park, stumbling and staggering, carrying a plastic Shop N Save bag full of compact discs.

“Bobby,” I said, “what the hell are you doing with all those CDs?

“Guy gave to me,” he slurred and mumbled. “Said I could sell ‘em for $20.”

“Do you know what those are?” I asked.

“Noooooo,” he replied, not caring, just believing he’d hit the jackpot.

There was NO WAY Bobby would be able to make a deal at Bull Moose Music. First, he was drunk. Two, he was staggering. Three, thanks to his brain injury and the booze, he was no condition to be negotiating the sale of anything, let alone of a bunch of CDs.

Bobby didn’t know what CDs were, btw, because his understanding of music technology was limited to radio, cassettes and 8-tracks, the song delivery systems of his life before the accident in 1979, when he was run down on the side of the road and left for dead, resulting in severe damage to his brain.

I told him to wait on a park bench and I’d go sell the damn things.

So I walked to Bull Moose and plopped ‘em down on the counter where you sell used CDs. Clerk came by, gave ‘em a quick look-see, and said, “some guy just brought these in and tried to sell ‘em. I told him they were of zero value. All of ‘em are scratched. Look.”

He opened a couple CD cases to demonstrate his point.

Arg.

So now Bobby was waiting in Post Office Park, thinking he’d won the lottery. And I was wondering how the hell I was gonna explain that the CDs were scratched and worthless. BECAUSE HE COULDN’T EVEN COMPREHEND WHAT THEY WERE!

So despite being pretty close to broke, I took a twenty out of the ATM and passed it along to my drunken buddy. He was pumped and now I owned the Shop-N-Save bag full of worthless CDs. Which, eventually, I ended up tossing. All except a copy of American Beauty by the Grateful Dead which still remains in my neglected CD collection.

All that to say, if Bobby Reynolds didn’t understand CDs back then, his mind definitely couldn’t handle today’s Facebook posts and comments or the latest Crash Report.

As for Bobby and his distinctive gait, my source says it’s still “scary as hell to watch him walk.”

According to my math, Bobby Reynolds is now 66 years of age. To me, it’s amazing that my old pal is still alive. After all, way back in 1995, a Portland paramedic predicted that he only had “four or five years” left. Perhaps it was all Bobby’s stagger, stumble and fall cardio that allowed him to survive for so many years.

Or, maybe, he still exists on the Earthly plane because he was fortuitously caught by the municipal safety net. Now, for almost the last decade, he’s lived in a place staffed by caring nurses and attendants. Where his needs are met and he doesn’t have to walk very far.

Also, I wanted to mention that two of Bobby's relatives reached out to me after the OG story was originally published in 1995. (I’m searching the archives for the follow-up, but still haven’t found it via the paper-to-digital collection at the Portland Public Library.) Bobby’s kin wanted to talk. We went for a cup of tea and they explained how they'd been trying to help him for years. His brain injury, though, made it impossible for anyone to have a lasting impact. Which was so very sad because, clearly, his family loved him.

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[[Author’s note: While laboring over a hot microphone during production of the forthcoming Fake Shaman true crime podcast, I was thinking back to the mid-1990s, when there were only a handful of people panhandling in Portland. Now, thanks to End Times Capitalism, we see spare-changers across Maine. This story from my archives, when I panhandled on the streets of Portland for five days and made a lousy sixty bucks.]]

Originally published June 15, 1995 in Casco Bay Weekly, photographs by the inimitable musician and artist Colin Malakie, a frequent collaborator back in the olden days.

I knew the guy wearing the yellow power tie, a blue double-breasted suit and a gold Key Bank lapel pin wouldn’t give me any money. I must have asked at least 50 Key Bankers all over downtown for spare change. They weren’t just executives of loan officers; I recognized some tellers. None of them gave me a dime. Not one red cent. To be fair, the guy wearing the silver Fleet Bank pin didn’t give me a penny, either.

In late May, I spent five days on the streets begging for change. Dressed in filthy jeans, crummy sneakers and a ripped shirt, I wandered the Old Port and Congress Street to find out how Portlanders treat panhandlers. On top of my long, filthy head of hair, I wore a muddy baseball cap with a picture of me looking like Jesus Christ. I didn’t shave or shower for a week. I looked desperate. I was a mess.

“Could ya help me get something to eat?” I’d ask passersby while standing on the corner of Exchange and Middle streets, or in Monument Square near Victory Deli. “Can you gimme a couple of quarters?” I’d beg.

I didn’t do very well. During those five days, spending more than 50 hours on the street, asking about 45 people an hour for spare change, I only made $60.44. That’s $1.20 an hour. Or 2.6 cents from each of the approximately 2,250 people I solicited. Not to sound like Sally Struthers, but that’s about the price of a large cup of coffee. I learned a lot on the street. And the first thing I learned was that Portlanders are pretty cheap.

Lots of people make their living foraging from the streets. Legions of men and women, aka bin tippers, push shopping carts full of returnables, searching every “Keep Portland Clean” trash barrel in hopes of finding another can or bottle. Waifish and pierced teenage girls sit in Exchange Street doorways, trying to bum money for another pack of smokes. Not as noticeable are the guys checking coin returns of pay phones and newspaper boxes. And now that summer is here, the busking street musicians enter the cityscape.

But the most visible moneymakers are the panhandlers. When a spare-changer enters your space asking for two bits, suddenly you’re faced with a split-second decision - can you spare some change?

If you’ve ever walked downtown, Bobby Reynolds has probably hit you up for change. He’s 35, but looks older. His face is weathered and scarred. He panhandles down by the Nickelodeon or on Congress Street, sometimes in Casco Bay Weekly’s doorway.

Reynolds doesn’t walk, he staggers. And he has the shakes — mostly because of an accident years ago, but his drinking doesn’t help much.

In 1979, he was working at a shoe factory in Lewiston. One night he was hitchhiking on a dark road in Richmond. A drunk driver in a pickup truck hit him. Reynolds was drunk, too. Serious head injuries kept him in the hospital for three months. After that he couldn’t keep a job. A year later he moved to Portland.

Ever since, Reynolds says, he’s lived on the streets and in shelters. He panhandles every day — he’s the closest thing Portland has to a professional panhandler. Spare-changers here don’t have gimmicks like they do in big cities. All they do is ask for change. And that’s not an easy way to make a living.

People react differently. Some say “sorry” and pat their pockets. After the first day of panhandling, I learned the difference between the sound of keys and the jingle of coins. Some dig into their pockets and come up empty. Some say they’re broke. Or that they’ll get you tomorrow. They try to make some sort of contact with you. They smile sadly. Others just say”no” without looking you in the eye.

But some - mostly well-dressed white guys — walk by without so much as a word or a glance. I know they can hear and see me. Sometimes I’d fall in step with them, match their stride and ask again. They continued to ignore me and didn’t even bother to make an excuse. (Only a handful of women blew me off completely.)

It’s not like Portland is inundated with panhandlers. By my estimate, fewer than a dozen full-time spare-changers are out on the streets. This isn’t Boston or New York where a dozen people will bug you for a couple of quarters within a few blocks. In Portland, sometimes a couple of weeks go by between requests for change. A little eye contact and a sorry excuse softens rejection. Being ignored hurts. It made me angry, but I could walk off.

Panhandlers have no choice but to get used to it. People walk right by Bobby Reynolds too.

A couple of quarters?

Reynolds cares about his appearance, which sets him apart from many other panhandlers. Granted, he sometimes has a couple days of stubble on his face, but usually he’s clean-shaven. Almost every week, he gets a $5 haircut from one of the Congress Street barbers. And even though his clothes are dirty, his blue T-shirt is always tucked into his blue chinos. (It’s his only outfit, he says.)

Reynolds is an alcoholic. Sometimes he sleeps at the Arnie Hanson Center, aka “The Club,” a shelter on India Street. Now that the weather is nicer, he’ll be spending most nights on the streets.

Reynolds says bed space is scarce.

More homeless people migrate to Portland, like tourists, in the summer.

At least it’s warm out.

Although social service organizations like the Preble Street Resource Center could help Reynolds, he won’t take the first step. Reynolds rarely goes to Preble Street. Why? “I just don’t,” he said. Guys like Reynolds either don’t want help or they’re too far gone to care.

Each month Reynolds gets a disability check. What does he do with it? “I spend the money right away,” he said. If he doesn’t, someone else will. Others on the street know when his check shows up. “I get rolled,” Reynolds said. He’s been mugged countless times, sometimes by other spare-changers, sometimes by young punks.

What does he do with the money he gets panhandling? “I buy beer,” he said. In the morning he drinks Budweiser. In the afternoon he switches to Old Duke, which is sort of like wine. He buys smokes and a little food. And razor blades, shaving cream and haircuts.

One Wednesday afternoon, just after 5 o’clock, I worked the barren wasteland of the Key Bank Plaza on Middle Street. The bankers, in the shadow of Portland’s tallest corporate buildings, ignored me — per usual. So I watched Reynolds, across the street, work the corner by the Nickelodeon.

When you’re panhandling, the other side of the road always seems greener. Reynolds’ targets looked good, but it didn’t appear he was making much money. I crossed Middle Street and hung out nearby. I checked out his technique. Reynolds has a problem. It takes him awhile to get his patented “Can you spare two quarters?” pitch out. Plus, he mumbles. His targets were often out of earshot before he was done asking Yet people still give him money, though Reynolds doesn’t know how much he makes in a day. On several occasions, people gave him $20 bills. It happened two days in a row last summer. “I took the rest of the day off,” he said. Still, he’s lucky if he pulls in $15 after a day on the street.

Not a good wage, but Reynolds doesn’t have to pay rent. His expenses are just drink, smokes, food and various sundries.

Is he happy?

“I’m OK,” he mumbled.

But he’s not OK, at least by society’s standards. I see Reynolds all over town. Sometimes, when he’s drunk, he can barely sit up on a park bench. His memory is shot because of the accident and the booze. Each time I talk to him, I have to remind him why I’m asking questions. But you can’t blame Reynolds. Imagine where you’d be if you’d been seriously injured, lost your job, your home and didn’t have friends and family to help.

There’s a good chance you’d be like him.

Although the cops rarely bother him, he’s always on the lookout for the police. And his vision isn’t so great. While we were working the Nickelodeon corner, Reynolds looked down Middle Street and asked, “Are those cops?”

Two men in suits were walking towards us.

“No,” I said.

He asked for a couple of quarters

They walked by. One guy seemed insulted by being bothered by such an unkempt ruffian. He was wearing a fine suit, a crazy tie and some shiny shoes. His haircut must have cost at least $30. He had designer wire spectacles on his face and a leather briefcase in his hand.

“Don’t have a quarter to spare, do ya, pal?” I asked him. He ignored both of us. Reynolds wasn’t distressed. He just leaned against the wall of the movie theater.

“Do people harass you?” I asked.

“Yeah, sometimes.”

Reynolds doesn’t pester anyone. He doesn’t chase people on the street. Why should anyone bother him?

Out of my space

“Can you spare some change?” I asked an older guy wearing a pink golf shirt.

“No, and if you ask anyone else I’ll call the police,” he said.

Nobody before had yet even remotely suggested involving the cops. I turned and followed the guy. Why was he so concerned? All I did was ask for change. I pursued him, walking a half step behind, loudly asking why he wanted to call the police. I could tell he didn’t want to talk to me. He was an important man in a hurry. He already wasted enough time talking to a beggar.

“Panhandlers are bad for business,” he said. “People don’t want to shop where they are going to be pestered. Again he threatened to call the cops if I panhandled another person.

Immediately I turned and started asking every passerby for lunch money. My oppressor went to a yellow call box and spoke with the authorities. He went into a nearby copy shop. The cops never showed. I figured I’d do a little detective work. I tailed him. I made sure he saw me. He ducked into Bookland, going out the back door. On instinct, I checked some law offices. But no one had seen a big man in a pink shirt.

Back out in Monument Square, I spotted something big and pink through The Surplus Store window. It was my man, Larry Rose, who, it turned out, was the store’s owner. I remembered I bought a pair of Chuck Taylors at his store a couple of weeks before. Next time I’m going to Levinsky’s.

The following day, I panhandled the square again and waited for Rose.

I watched him leave the store. By the Burger King, he spotted me.

“Could you help me get some lunch, sir?” I asked when he got close.

“You don’t remember me, do you?” he replied.

I stared blankly.

“Yesterday I told you to stop doing this or I’d call the police,” he said

“Why?” I asked.

He repeated that guys like me were bad for business. Slipping out of character a bit, I asked him, “You really believe that panhandlers are stopping the revitalization of the downtown?”

“Yes,” he said

“It’s not because of panhandlers,” I said. “It’s because there’s no parking and because there’s a big mall in South Portland!”

He told me he was calling the police.

“Fine,” I said.

I stood in front of his store for 15 minutes. I made a dollar and some change.

The next day, after shaving off my beard and showering, I stopped by The Surplus Store to chat with Rose. I told him I was the guy who panhandled him on the street.

Rose’s story didn’t change. He still blamed spare-changers for driving the shoppers away, although he admitted parking was an issue too. Yet, the bulk of the blame went to street people.

*Most ladies used to shop downtown,” he said. “Now they don’t. They don’t like being accosted by panhandlers.”

But there are only a handful of them in the city.

“Well, it’s not as bad as it used to be,” he said. Rose insisted that he isn’t heartless.

“We give to charity,” he said.

“These people don’t always get help from charity,” I said to him. “What’s the harm in letting them ask for money?”

“It’s bad for business,” he repeated. Besides, he said, the homeless scare people. “My wife,” he said, “she’s afraid of the drunks.”

Spare-changers aren’t to blame for the lack of downtown shoppers, at least according to Police Chief Mike Chitwood. But he does believe panhandling is a problem. “There’s a core group of very aggressive panhandlers out there,” he said. “It’s almost strong-arm robbery.”

While Chitwood admits the aggressive panhandlers are in the minority, he still wants the streets cleaned up. “The unfortunate thing is that we can’t get anyone to take a complaint out,” he said. A couple of years ago, police sent out undercover officers, hoping they’d be panhandled. Some spare-changers were arrested, but when the cases got to court, little or nothing happened.

But Barbara Hager of Portland’s Downtown District (PDD), a downtown improvement group, doesn’t think panhandlers are a real issue.

“We certainly don’t have the problems the big cities have,” she said. Instead, Hager contends, it’s the perception of panhandlers, especially by employees of downtown businesses. When I told Hager that someone threatened to have me arrested, she said, “You must have asked one of the Monument Square businessmen.”

Last year the PDD conducted a survey of downtown business owners and employees. While panhandling wasn’t actually targeted in the survey, Hager said, many respondents were concerned about spare-changers.

And some panhandlers merit concern. Like the man who wears a blaze-orange hunting cap. I see him all over town. He’s different from Reynolds. On a recent afternoon, when I wasn’t panhandling, I watched him as he fell to the sidewalk on Congress Street. He was drunk. After a minute or so he struggled to his feet. He approached a guy walking down the street. He drunkenly asked for money. He got some.

An hour later, I was walking on Congress Street with a friend. The guy came up to us and asked for some change. My friend, a hard-nosed reporter, gave him some money. But I didn’t. He was loaded and aggressive. I could see why people would be scared of him. When I told him he should probably find a place to sleep, he said “I’m a veteran. Shoot me in the mouth and kill me.”

The Flighty Buck

Some people are actually generous to panhandlers. How else could I have made $60 and some change? Panhandling is like hitchhiking — you never know who’s going to give you a lift.

l asked two men standing by the door of the Charles Schwab brokerage firm on Middle Street for change. The older man, smoking a pipe, was probably in his mid-60s. The other, about 45, looked like he was doing some serious sucking up. He was about to give me the brushoff, when the pipe smoker said, “Let me see what I’ve got here.” Both men reached into their pockets. The pipe smoker hesitated. The other guy pulled out a bright shiny quarter and gave it to me gallantly. The pipe smoker pulled a dollar bill out of his pocket and slipped it into my hand.

It’s a great feeling when someone gives you a buck. Imagine how a dollar bill feels when all you’ve been handling is dirty pennies and nickels. A guy rounding the corner by the Nickelodeon — in his mid-20s struggling with a backpack, a paper bag and a soda - gave me two dollars. He spilled his drink trying to get me the cash. And a beautiful woman by Java Joe’s gave me a buck. So did a woman who I think works at the library. And a couple others gave me a greenback. Dollars made me feel pretty great.

But bills are rare. A more frequent donation, especially in the Old Port, is 26 cents. Why? What costs 74 cents? A shaggy-haired, 20-year-old guy on Middle Street gave me a penny and quarter.

“I just found it on the sidewalk,” he said. “I guess it’s for you.”

Other than Larry Rose of The Surplus Store, only a pony-tailed waiter at Walter’s Cafe who told me to “beat it!” and some crazy old guy by the library who screamed “get a fucking job!” at me seemed bothered by my presence.

I knew some people didn’t have change when I asked for it. They were being honest, I could tell. When they said, “sorry,” I believed them. I was just grateful they spoke to me. And I was grateful to the people who helped me out.

Some people don’t give to panhandlers because they don’t want to contribute to their vices. “They ask themselves ‘Should I give them something that’s only going to buy alcohol or drugs?” explained Hager of the PDD. “They don’t believe they’re making the panhandler’s life any better” by dropping some change into an outstretched palm.

But it does. Not everyone can be saved, unfortunately. And everyone knows that the money most spare-changers make usually goes to booze or other vices. Many of these people have nothing else. It would be great if they dried out, found a place to live and got a job. Or it would be great if they stopped drinking. But that won’t happen.

Bobby Reynolds has spent the last 15 years on the street. I spent five days. Reynolds sleeps in shelters, on the street or in the county jail. I sleep on a futon. Reynolds doesn’t eat much. I eat three meals a day. He owns one set of clothes. I own several.

I went out looking for Reynolds last week. I didn’t see him for a couple of days, and we needed photographs for the story. I searched for him in all his usual haunts. I went down to Len’s Market on Cumberland Avenue, where Reynolds sometimes buys beer. There was a paddy wagon and an ambulance across the street. And Reynolds was there too, leaning against a wall. The police and paramedics helped him into the paddy wagon. Seems as though Reynolds was drunk and crab-walking across the street. People called the police.

The cops gave him a ride down to Arnie Hanson. One of the paramedics said it happens “regularly.” He predicted Reynolds would only last another “four or five years.”

I’ve seen him sober and drunk. When he’s sober, all he wants to do is drink. One day we agreed to meet for breakfast the next morning. But when I found him, on his way to Joe’s Smoke Shop at 6 a.m., Reynolds decided breakfast wasn’t on the agenda.

“I’m not hungry,” he said. “I’m thirsty.”

So now, when I see Reynolds sometimes I’ll give him enough change to buy a 12-ounce Budweiser.

Sometimes I won’t. But at least I’ll say hello, ask how he’s doing and offer to get him something to eat. I’ll talk to him. It’s the least I can do.

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[[Update: For the record, I gave the sixty bucks earned while panhandling to Bobby Reynolds and other Portland spare-changers. Needless to say, this piece pissed off a whole bunch of people. Oh well. Panhandling — and journalism — are constitutionally protected free speech.

This piece birthed a friendship with Bobby Reynolds that lasted until I left Portland in 2003. (He’s the fella I call “Philly” in Flashback Number 1.) Plus, this story was the impetus of Maine storyteller John McDonald and I becoming pals. John HATED the story and criticized the piece — multiple times — on his radio talk show on WGAN. He did enjoy the writing, though.

A month or two later, I was invited by WGAN to audition for the host gig of the WGAN Morning Show. As part of the trial, John and I co-hosted a week of morning shows and became fast friends with the ability to argue, respectfully, about all sorts of issues. Unfortunately, I didn’t get the host job. Instead, WGAN offered me the executive producer position, which I took. A year later, I was fired, but John and I remained very good pals until the day he died in December 2022. You can listen, here, to my remembrance of my pal.]]

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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: 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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