Jeff Death- Jeff-Isms

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Here it comes… right now!”

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

“I like knockers.”

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

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

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

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

This was a reference to a young lady we knew with a very odd deformity, which caused her face to be twisted up and jaw set at an odd angle, where the teeth grated together. The rest of her body was actually very nice and well proportioned. She hung out with us for awhile, and several of us began discussing her attributes and obvious schizophrenia issues, upon which Jeff makes the classic statement above. None of us could disagree.
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Jeff Death- Dr. Jeff and the Women

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or that he never passed up an opportunity to make an unbelievably obscene remark. For example, we watched on the Oprah show once a pair of female Siamese twins, who were simply two heads on one body (a very rare thing). Jeff’s insight into their medical condition? “Imagine the kind of blow jobs they could give in porno films.”

Now there were many first impressions with Jeff. One friends comment was, “His biceps are as big as my head.” Everyone else seemed to steer clear of him. Certainly no one made comments to me.

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

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

To understand the powerful sleep that Jeff was under, I must state that Rob’s personal hygiene was horrific. It wasn’t a bed or smell that invited a person. Jeff curled up on Rob’s scratchy sheets and passed out. I entered my girlfriend’s room and waited for her to show up.

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

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

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

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

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

“Can I wake him up?”

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

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

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Jeff Death- A Trip to the Farm

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

          “What the Hell is that Jeff?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

             This is part three of a six part series on this remarkable man.

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Jeff Death- Odd Habits

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

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

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

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

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

This is part two of a six part series on this remarkable man.

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Jeff Death: First Meeting



Show where Jeff first recited Ode to Knockers

This entry is dedicated to a particular great friend, on the fifth anniversary of his death. Jeff Death. Mr. Scary, with biceps as big as a man’s head, blue piercing eyes, and a leering grinning mouth, that said, “I could make your body into a really great sideboard.” He was strong enough to punch a hole into a windshield and not hurt himself. A good old farm boy with a lecherous mind, and a tongue for filthy slogans. Many were scared of him, but trust me, Jeff’ was a really great guy.

                   

                        First Meeting

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

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

My first conversation was very odd. It was dark, and we were driving down one of those under lit Buffalo side streets. The radio was on, and suddenly Jeff leaned over and snapped it off. He glanced at me, leering and licking his lips.

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

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

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

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

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

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

    This is the first of six entries on this remarkable man. Stay tuned.

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The Madison-Felix Awards: The Ways of the Madisons

The Madison-Felix Awards was an awards show in Buffalo New York, which ran from 1995-2005. It was put together by my friend Big Brian and I. In reality it was a parody of an awards show mixed with an open bar drinking contest. Still it was fun and irreverent and some of the best parties I've ever had. But like all good times, they eventually drifted off to the land of nostalgia. The next several blogs are dedicated to their memory.
 

Unfortunately we have come to an end in our reflections of the great show. There's not much more to tell, we scoured every nook and cranny , but I couldn't leave without one final word. A person may ask, as I sometimes am, what set the Madison-Felix’s apart? True it wasn’t a “real” awards show. Legally speaking it was a private party. Everyone who came was specially invited- except for one year when a series of old people kept blundering in asking if we were showing Metropolis.

Our first difference is not giving awards to films which had been released that year. We felt we had 90 years of films to catch up on, so our nominees ran the gambit from the recent to the cinematic stone age of silent films (BTW everyone should take another look at the old pre-Hays code silent. There was plenty of discussion of drug use, alcoholism, homosexuality and heterosexuality. On par with modern films). Our initial intent with the Madison-Felix’s was to show only good films and opening the range allowed us to display as many as we wanted. But as with all things that Big Brian and I tried it degenerated quickly.

A little anecdote here- Big Brian and I had tried something similar before. Four of us, Myself, Big Brian, Jeff Death (RIP), and Dr. I (a madman of a different stripe) had all left the cast of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. We then founded the Dashwood Society and vowed that we would, instead of Rocky Horror, on Friday nights, watch the greatest films of all time like the sophisticated individuals that we were.

That lasted two weeks. From there we quickly descended into series of low grade slashed flicks (where we discovered the glory that is The Love Butcher- The Citizen Kane of Crap), then pornography, then oddball subsects of porn such as bestiality and coprophagia clips- which was damn difficult to find in the pre-internet days.

The Madison-Felix’s went the same way. By the third year we wanted to show off as much weird, disgusting, offbeat material as we could lay our hands on. Now, we were never sure who would win as we did have people vote on it. Yes it was legitimate, but Big Brain and I were the ones who chose the nominees and often we would “guide” the voters to a specific choice by padding the nominations with items that they would dislike. Sometimes that worked, others time it didn't.
      The Madison-Felixs' were a cheap joke that bloomed into the best party of the year. For all of us involved, it was never about the show by itself. It was a party. It was about showing off. It was about reconnecting with people you might never see again. It gave everyone a chance to perform and be the center of attention.
      In a strange way The Madison-Felix's were a show without an audience, because everyone was involved with the performance. Whether it was a speech or skit before giving away an award, reciting a bit of poetry or a story, or just general cat calling, everyone played a part in the show. Everyone added to everyone else's enjoyment. Everyone made it special. Big Brian and I mad have stuck the match, but everyone lit a torch from it, spreading the flame wide.
     The show was cheap and grungy at times, but that added to its charm. Will it be remembered by people beyond this generation? No. It will be lost the mash of history along with the other awards and festivals that recorded history has abandoned. But it is still alive in our hearts and memories for decades to come. It was our show. Done for us, by us. And that's something we will never lose. For everyone who came, for everyone who said their piece, The Madison-Felixs' were as much your show as it was mine.  Thank you, relax and enjoy. We all made it great and we all deserve applause. Free beer!

... And llama fucking!

The Madison-Felix Awards- Guest Commentary

 The Madison-Felix Awards was an awards show in Buffalo New York, which ran from 1995-2005. It was put together by my friend Big Brian and I. In reality it was a parody of an awards show mixed with an open bar drinking contest. Still it was fun and irreverent and some of the best parties I've ever had. But like all good times, they eventually drifted off to the land of nostalgia. The next several blogs are dedicated to their memory.

    These next two weeks are given over to the reflections of others who have attended the Madison-Felixs' in the past.  Special thanks to Rose Mooney, Michelle Wolf, Kevin Cygan, and Lisa Rae for their contributions.

 Going to the Show

      “I feel just like I did the first day he went to school”, I said turning to look at Joe, Rex’s father. We were sitting at a rear table in The Screening Room watching fellow attendees stroll in. Girls with long dresses and gloves up to their elbows, some fellows with a version of a tux. Some just in regular streetwear. Although this was not the first year of the Madisons, this was the Madison’s entry into the big time, tables with chairs, a full screen, sound and “free beer”. No more having to strain to see on the small screen which movies had been chosen for a prestigious award. Guests came from far away places; Rex’s father came from Albany and Brian’s mother came from Orchard Park.

     And then the program began. A hush, no more time for jitters. Rex and Brian set the tone for the evening with their initial patter. It was all so seamlessly choreographed, award flowing after award and at the end would be the ultimate, the award of the Madison itself, a gloriously gold encrusted videotape somehow attached to a plastic base. (editor’s note: the Madison was so highly valued it was in later years stolen and held for ransom).

     The idea, I believe, was to be more real than the Oscars. There was no political maneuvering here. Only merit applied. Who cared if no one had ever heard of the nominee before. We were taken on a magic ride of discovery when we saw South Park before it was on tv. We went on the road of political incorrectness with old Disney cartoons and Helen Keller quips. We were an involved audience and talented guests were invited to share their brilliance with the rest of us. Mesmerizing. And throughout the evening, chants of “free beer” filled the room.

     But as engrossing as the evening was, at the back of everyone’s mind was the question, “Who would receive the Lifetime Achievement Award and would they actually show up to receive it?” There were too many recipients to name here (actually I can’t remember them) but I do recall hearing that Charles Bronson responded that he would attend but unfortunately died before making the trip.

     The finale of the evening was the awarding of the door prizes. These were graciously given out by Rex and there were many of them. Books, a shoe, videos, a shoe; I think everyone felt they had a memento of the evening. And alas the evening did have to end. We slowly filed out, almost overcome by the hugeness of the event, our lives forever changed. How could this ever be surpassed and what a long wait until the next Madisons.

      - Rose Mooney

Editing the awards videos

     After the first year of the Madison-Felix awards the guys decided to increase the budget by $1.27. I offered to use my computer to better produce the winners video. This was back in the time of video capture cards and I was looking to learn some video capture and editing. I already had the equipment I just needed a project to work on. The final product was rather simple. A title screen with the award name followed by a title screen with the winning movie followed by the video clip picked out by the experts. It was just a matter of getting all of the videos digitized and putting them in the correct order. I was buried in old VHS tapes that people had in their collections and often a dozen or move VHS tapes from Blockbuster or Hollywood video. The video capture card worked for most of these VHS tapes but eventually companies started adding protections that scrambled the videos. Luckily most of the movies that won were old favorites and trashy B movies from 3rd rate companies. Their content provided the most laughs. DVDs eventually tricked into the pile in later years. For the most part they were easier to digitize.
     The real challenge was the lifetime achievement awards which required far more edits then the entire winners video in the span of 3-4 minutes and syncing it up to music. The two winners of this award that I remember were Monkey Head and Alan Hale Jr. The Monkey Head video contained a lot of National Geographic like video of monkeys that someone recorded from some nature channel. The real masterpiece was the Alan Hale Jr. video. It synced up perfectly with the audio track and at the end of the video we used a clip of him splitting his pants. Nothing says quality video awards show like Alan Hale Jr's underpants, except maybe a woman masturbating with a severed arm.

     - Kevin Cygan

Writing for the Madison-Felix's

     The literary contributions to the Madison-Felix Awards were always fun, and I’ve missed having a reason to write them. Interestingly, they didn’t evolve into what they were until the third year.

     At the first show, I merely told an anecdote. Both Rex Hurst and Big Brian had attended my wedding about four months earlier; the story I told has been disputed in its authenticity, but was enjoyed nevertheless. Toward the end of the reception, my brother-in-law claimed to have heard Rex and BB discussing my sister’s rack while in the restroom. Even though he said their analysis was favorable, both Rex and BB later declared the conversation never took place. No matter; the audience of the first Madison-Felixes thought it was pretty funny.

     At the second show, I didn’t decide to do a follow-up until that afternoon. I was into trashy historical romance novels at the time, and one of my recent ones involved a displaced British heiress in the pre-Revolutionary colonies with her wilderness guide. So I read an excerpt at the show where the main characters engaged in fellatio, and this is where “His Staff Sprang Free”originated. This phrase was raucously uttered at a few more shows, usually after the Free Beer had been tapped and passed around.

     Then the third show happened. “I Like Knockers” by the late great Jeff was already well-known by this time, so I expanded on it by inventing a backstory. It was basically about how Jeff met his smoking-hot wife through a mail-order bride service and all the equally-hot daughters they had. There was also a Jeff Jr., and they all ran a successful farm together (among other things).

     The story was a huge hit (though bear in mind the audience was quite drunk by the time I read it) and so the tradition came to be. Later installments featured The Ballad of MonkeyHead—BB’s younger brother, The Amazingly True Adventures of Tux the Masturbating Cat—complete with photos, and The Tao of Matt Schultz—see Rex’s earlier post referring to the restroom incident. My personal favorite was about BB, Rex, and the Redheaded whore. It was about how BB met the Redheaded Whore who resembled Wilma Flintstone, but then the Reverend Rex inadvertently stole her away by converting her to his Church of the Unconscious Revelation.

     One year, I tried my hand at literary porn. This was the only story that wasn’t specifically written about a regular attendee. However, as I read a particular phrase during the juicy part, BB laughed so hard he nearly fell out of his chair. And what did I say that was so damn funny? “Cock-gobbled.”

     That term alone inspired the next year’s story: Super-Rob Vs. the Cock-Goblin, where our superhero valiantly saved his city form the evil monster who went around dining on male genitalia. Regrettably, I cannot recall what or about whom I wrote for the final show. Maybe I had too much Free Beer that night.

     - Lisa Rae

Madison-Felix Awards- The Best of Times

It was the best of times, it was the blurst of times…? Rubbish!”

~Mr. Burns as spoken to a typing monkey

     When it occurs to me to remember them, I look back the days of the Felix-Madison awards with great regret. Not that they existed, or I deigned to acknowledge their existence, but that I was only able to attend a mere two shows separated by eight years.

     I’ll leave the recounting of the excruciating details to Mr. Hurst; he is far better suited insofar as he is speaking to the moments he managed to achieve drunken lucidity. Instead, I’ll speak to my personal experience of the lamented award show from the perspective of a fringe player and introverted recluse watching from the sidelines.

     My very first Felix Awards (as they were called at the time) was coincidentally, the very first show. It was a tumultuous time in my life, having contracted a powerful case of Roommate Infuryitis and already plotting my escape to what I mistook as a better life in the Air Force. Mr. Hurst had already withdrawn from our day-to-day life, ensconced in his cabal of chain-smoking, coffee drinking, penny-ante philosophers, dreamers, and affiliated ne’er-do-wells. I understood he was up to something, but chose to ignore it under the auspices that plausible deniability would be my best defense when inevitably deposed. The invitation came hand delivered to my apartment for the reasonable sum of three beers, the rest of my snack food, and last half dozen cigarettes. In truth, I had my doubts to his ability to pull it off as advertised.

     I caught a ride into North Tonawanda with my seething and directionally challenged roommate, and eventually found the place. It was what would be known in the south as a ‘honkey-tonk’ nestled in the armpit of Western New York. While it was advertised as a formal gathering, I eschewed my one pair of pleated slacks and button down for my daily uniform of nameless jeans and well scuffed white sneakers, allowing me to blend with the fearsome patrons far better than the dandies in the back room. It didn’t help; I still felt out of place everywhere, but understood enough to pretend otherwise.

     My imagination had conjured five of so people overstuffed into a booth and Knaus’s miniature TV/VCR combination perched on the end with a collection of daisy-chained extension cords. The sight that greeted me, however, was stunning. The room was arranged into a U-shaped configuration of tables, with a large screen and projector present at one end. I hated this, as it allowed nearly everyone in the well-dressed crowd to see me, further reminding me that I was expected to present one of the nonsensical awards. I quickly retreated to the bar where in addition to my beer, I downed a double shot of something wicked. My anxiety abated, and I grudgingly returned.

     While I understand someone named ‘Saigon’ was involved, having never seen him I assume he was concocted to lessen any culpability on the part of Rex or Brian. The pair, dressed in the most resplendent finery they owned, kicked off the show with great flair. I always feel Mr. Hurst missed his calling as a media personality in his displays of showmanship, outspoken bravado, and complete lack of shame or conscientiousness. As he and Brian explained the origin and evolution of the event, my expectations grew, although this might be attributable to my fourth Heineken of the evening.

     The pace and timing were flawless. I think we all assumed the show would be punctuated by painful rewinds and fast-forwards to locate desired scenes, but the master tape they concocted managed to capture the salient elements of every scene. Although the award show was intended to honor the dregs of the film industry, non-essential personnel, and spectacularly terrible movies, the show managed to be funny. Better than funny. Hilarious! My sense of panic grew as the award I was presenting drew closer.

     While it’s now my stock and trade to attempt to inspire pants wetting laughter when I get in front of a crowd, I was not so very much myself at the time of the Felix’s. Attempting to follow the comedic duo of Rex and Brian was daunting, and in all honesty, there may have been some pants wetting on my part. Liquid courage allowed me rise and deliver my hastily scripted lines flatly, stuttering, and unmemorable, unless by contrast. I was relieved to sit, reestablish my anonymity, and take comfort in knowing I would never be asked again.

     I may be conflating similar events, but I recall the intermission to include a spectacular stunt of irresponsible magnitude on the part of Mr. Hurst. He ordered and had delivered over to him in the center of the room, a tray consisting of 21 shots of well-grade alcohol. In rapid succession he downed them, one after the other, until all were consumed in the space of six or seven minutes. “Well, something or someone was bound to kill him before he saw the dark side of 25 anyway”, was my thought. I was amazed when after a bathroom break he not only remained standing and coherent, but sparkling in wit and timing. I later found that he managed to regurgitate the majority of his consumption in a reprehensible exercise of alcohol abuse.

     The finale of the show included door prizes and gifts for the presenters. I can’t remember all it included, although most were Dollar Store items aside from inappropriate pornography, likely from Rex’s personal stash that I doubt had been so much as dented. Leaving, with my undesired gifts and in tow of my taciturn ride, I was able to admit that I had a surprisingly good time. Somehow, this collaboration that had been previously known for tainting food items with bodily fluids, pulled it off with both panache and flair.

     I exited stage left for a full four years, never able to make it back to the encores that had grown into a locally anticipated and celebrated institution. Even after my inglorious return, it took a few more years to attend, as I had taken a job requiring frequent unplanned travel. Finally at the eighth or ninth iteration I made my way to the Screening Room, appropriately dressed for the occasion.

     I won’t make the claim that I was any more comfortable in this new venue, especially as the majority of the attendants were either strangers, or had become so by virtue of time. It was, however, a much better show. It was clear that the format had been tweaked and honed, embracing and embellishing the many strengths and buffing out the miniscule flaws.

     There were a few highlights I recall. Dudley Moore, who had recently passed of brain cancer, was the punch line of a joke that drew considerable hissing. Jeff Death, in full hillbilly regalia, delivered a sincere and misanthropic poem about breasts that resulted in every woman attending making vain efforts to cover her décolletage. Rex made a grand announcement that he was disavowing himself from both his reverendship and doctorate, both procured from an institution with no business in dealing with either commodity. I dare say, he may have planted a seed that night in the maturity of dropping insincere affectations, though it would take some time to harvest.

     Overall, the Felix-Madisons were inarguable successes, with but one exception. Of the many films, shorts, documentaries, and other media honored, the event failed to pay homage to my favorite, only seen once. It was a short piece, maybe twenty minutes in length, and consisted of an interview with a man in a cassock and collar by a man off-screen. It began in typical fashion with pointed questioning and well thought out answers delivered with sparkling wit and philosophical insight. As the interview progressed, the man in the cassock poured and drank a shot of vodka every few minutes. Well-spoken erudite commentary devolved into outraged ranting, obscenity, and accusation delivered in an Irish whisper. By the conclusion, the man with is collar askew and hair disheveled, consisted of the frightening shouts of a madman. The whole piece was layered with depth, unsolicited candor, and social commentary not only in the answers, but the visual transformation of a respectable priest into a malodorous purveyor of Johnny Walker wisdom. It was brilliant, and only Rex Hurst could have pulled it off.

     - Michelle Wolf

https://michellelianna.wordpress.com/