Subscribers: As my writing has grown, so has the time it takes to produce it, and I don't post as much as I'd like. I'm using a few tools to free up more writing time. For some shorter pieces, you'll hear an AI voice narrator. For the longer work, you'll still hear me.
When you hear that a false accusation can ruin someone’s life, most people think of the obvious losses — career, reputation, income. What they don’t account for is what happens to the people closest to you. Accusation triggers something tribal. Some friends step forward into the fire, picking sides, rewriting history, emerging covered in war paint. Some disappear. And a few, a few, publicly stand with you. My good friend Scotty Roberts was quite vociferous in his support and said he didn’t care what the agitators had to say about me, about him, about his tiny manhood. Yes. Glass blower Steve Weagel was ardently out with his outrage, knowing me since I was a young’n. Penn and Teller made sure I would attend their 50th Anniversary show at the Minnesota Renaissance Festival, any complainers be damned.
What drives most people from not speaking up isn’t that they lack conviction. It’s the real fear of being associated with the stain of the accused, and having their own lives attacked. I don’t blame anyone for protecting themselves and I understand it.
One of the ugliest parts about being accused of a crime, well, of a sex crime, is how deadly the reaction is to the charges. I can’t overstate how agitated and threatening that crowd was. In a matter of hours, I went from being an esteemed member of the cast, a long time manager and performer, to an outcast, a demon that had to be expelled, or for some, bloodied and broken.
A former close friend of ours, who lived with us for a couple of years when she needed a place to crash, and who was in the room when my mother was dying, seemed to take special joy in the media beating. I was told she didn’t believe I raped anyone, but she was happy to see me burn. She wrote “I’m so here for this!” Several years ago I asked her to take a step back from her work as my production assistant at the festival because it was clear she was struggling with some mental health issues. I would have done almost anything for her, but somehow she decided I did it for other reasons. I didn’t share in the animosity and had always hoped we would talk again. She passed away not long ago. Death makes final any hope of renewal.
After I was arrested, the prosecution planned to present Spreigl Evidence, a legal procedure in the State of Minnesota that allows the prosecution to introduce allegations of prior bad acts, not to prove the charged offense, but to tell the jury there is a pattern to the allegedly bad behavior. The reality is that it imports your entire alleged life history into a trial that was supposed to be about one thing.
The list of people subpoenaed to testify for the Spreigl was a rogues gallery of former friends, each with some complaint about my behavior. I told my attorney when I read some of the statements given to the prosecutors, “These people are not just full of shit, they’re suffering from brain damage.” I won’t go into the details — the motion was dropped. Some of the people on the list never responded to their subpoena. Others didn’t want to be part of it anymore. Maybe the thought of cross examination was a bit too much for these charlatans.
One of the women included in the Spreigl was a high-profile performer at the Festival, someone we welcomed into our home for months at a time. She was a traveling performer who wanted to live with us when she was in town. She had her own wing, a bedroom and shower, and regularly had her boyfriend over. Depending on which article you read, she either had to show me her breasts, or have sex with me, in lieu of rent. Neither version is based in reality.
She was just one of several women, each with their own saddle to ride, riding one after the other, bound and determined to take the stand and mule kick the shit out of my reputation. And in all the news stories it sounded like there were all these women, when in fact it was really only three who were given out of court settlements.
When I thought the Spreigl was going to happen, and saw the small group set to testify, I wondered what had I missed, what hadn’t I seen? I was a fool. How did I get it so wrong?
Or maybe I hadn’t.
I’m not responsible for their accusations, nor am I accountable for their animosity. I didn’t hurt anyone, either deliberately or unintentionally. I loved and cared for these people because I did. I’m not responsible for what was done to me.
A couple years ago, I posted an image from one of the parties we held at the Big House. Everyone is happy, smiling, having a great time, some of the same people who were going to torch me in court. The caption read “I love everyone in this image.” I meant it then. I mean it now. It was never past tense.
AI Voicing / Eleven Labs
