Maybe you could send money for his books at the Oklahoma State Department of Corrections as he is now serving 15 years for putting a gun to his own 4 year old sons head as well as drugging and holding hostage another young woman. I'm sure he will pay you back. The following news link is updated with the current information.

http://kfor.com/2014/11/17/in-your-corner-whats-happening-to-your-donation-dollars/

We here at  http://www.liberalfaith.com/ are worried about the unstable woman who continues to blog, stalk, and fantasize about Dean. Our hope that this woman, Sherry Frazier Baker, gets the medical help those who know her well in Nashville, Tennessee said they have tried to get her for years.

Sherry Baker has long been known to Dean, as for years he's tolerated her going through his trash, at times threatening both him and his girlfriend unless he meets with her, and once attempted to blackmail him with nude photos of Dean and his girlfriend she claimed to have. This last act Dean filed as a Complaint with the police department in Hendersonville TN, along with harassment charges against her. The final act by Ms Baker of actually sending a family member to invade the home he was staying in, prompted Dean to begin to take her threats seriously, as he moved away from Tennessee that week, permanently. That marked the day Sherry Baker began a campaign of making litterally hundreds of fantastic and false claims about Dean on multiple web sites on the internet. The motivation here[ like many other stunts she's attempted]; was to force his return, or if not, punish him by attempting to ruin his reputation . He will never return to Tennesee.

Doctors say when an obsessed person or stalker like Sherry Baker finally realizes they will never attract the affection of their prey, they often go to any length to try and destroy that person. Her latest phase of creating posts accusing him of any and everything that comes to her warped mind, has signaled that point has been reached.

We do feel bad for this woman, though police have cautioned Dean she is both "a career criminal", and her obsession for Dean in their words is: "both great and worrisome". Metro Nashville Police also report Sherry Frazier Baker as a convicted felon out of Florida, an alcoholic with multiple DUI arrests in TN, and has identity theft and check fraud in her background in KY. {all of this can be confirmed by doing a background check}

Sadly, there is nothing we can do legally to stopping a disturbed person from posting any delusion or hateful thing they dream up, as such is life in a world with the Internet.

PEOPLE TEND TO HAVE IT EASIER IN LIFE IF THEY MIND THEIR OWN BUSINESS UNLESS OF COURSE A CHILD OR OLD PERSON OR ANIMAL IS BEING ABUSED--- OR A CRIME IS BEING COMMITTED IN FRONT OF THEM --AND THEN THEY SHOULD CALL 911 IF THEY AREN'T TRAINED TO DEAL WITH IT.

I DON'T CARE WHAT THEY DO AS LONG AS THEY DON'T INVOLVE CHILDREN, ANIMALS AND UNWILLING ADULTS.

THIS IS PLENTY TAME STUFF WHERE I LIVE.

h*o HUM.

Once a Bird Brain...

Former Eagles mascot Dean Schoenewald is still crazy after all these years.

by Jon Hart

part 1 | part 2

Ex-Eagles mascot Dean Schoenewald was the most famous person to don a mascot costume on the planet. He was interviewed by Good Morning America, profiled in People magazine, The Wall Street Journal and Biography magazine, among others, and he started the first-ever mascot school. During more than 15 years of performing, Schoenewald captivated stadiums with his death-defying stunts, wacky skits and overall ingenuity and chutzpah. When he suited up, he made the game an intermission for his act and the nation took notice. He earned four CNN plays of the day.

The 40-year-old who used to parade around the Vet as Bird Brain is no longer mascoting. Instead, Schoenewald serves as commissioner of a new womens football league.

But who knows for how long. Because during his long strange trip through professional sports, he has always managed to live up to his nom de plume.

Dean Schoenewald was much more than a dynamic performer in a silly suit. Hes a Horatio Alger epic in the flesh, a Peter Pan who used Balboa-esque perseverance to rise above his poverty-stricken childhood to earn six-figure contracts and entertain millions. With televangelist fervor, Schoenewald spoke to hundreds of mascot wannabes and preached that if they became mascots, they too could become famous and make big money. Schoenewald, however, was anything but warm and fuzzy. A fast-talking, chain-smoking character right out of a David Mamet play, the 6-foot-tall, strapping Schoenewald, who looked more athlete than clown, levied lawsuits, cursed like a sailor and ruffled feathers with impunity. Parades of parents begged for him to be banned, womens groups picketed his risque antics, and others just desperately wanted him locked up. "To be honest, he should be on the ten most-wanted program, not CBS Sunday Morning," said baseball-souvenir shop owner Art Miller, who says he did business with the man once beloved by thousands at Veterans Stadium.

Schoenewald claims the only thing he is guilty of is being a misunderstood artist and creating d**n good entertainment. "There has been controversy everywhere Ive been," asserts Schoenewald, who, in the 80s and 90s suited up for 18 teams in leagues ranging from the North American Soccer League to the USFL. "But there has also been consistency and quality. I dont mean to be arrogant, but Ive created more popular mascots than anyone on the planet."

Growing up with his seven brothers and sisters in Ocean City, N.J., Schoenewald just wanted to get three square meals a day. "We were the poorest people in Ocean City by far," recalls Schoenewald. "We got creative to survive." To scrape by, his family gathered red potatoes and lima beans in unguarded fields after the harvester went through. "There was a lot left," says Schoenewald. While Schoenewald dined on a steady, meatless diet of veggies and rice, his imagination feasted on dreams of becoming a big-time jock. Schoenewald fondly recalls lining the field for Ocean City High School football games. "I got the hot chocolate and hot dogs for the officials at halftime. I put the cones out. I did whatever it took. I got to sit in the press box and watched the announcers call the games. I knew then that I wanted a career in sports." He recalls his mother, Lois, who worked as baby-sitter for Phillies wives, hitting pop-ups to him on the front lawn and giving him a dime for every ball that he fielded cleanly in little league. "She taught me baseball," says Schoenewald. On the ball field, Schoenewald dove face first a la Pete Rose and wasnt afraid to sully his uniform. And as much as Schoenewald worshipped Rose, he detested Mike Schmidts clean uniform and cute coif. "He was so smooth," fumes Schoenewald. "Thats not Philly. Thats not blue collar." In the field, Schoenewald was nearly flawless. His father, however, was not nearly as smooth.

"He didnt hit us or anything. He was trying to feed the family when he got in the trouble. He didnt rob anyone," says Schoenewald. "I dont have any problem with that if youre trying to feed your family." Convicted of counterfeiting, Schoenewalds father, Lester, did two years in Lewisburg state prison, says Schoenewald. "I thought everybodys dad was in prison," he recalls with a solemn laugh.

At Ocean City High, Schoenewald never got his shot at pigskin glory. "I got injured in gym class," he laments. Schoenewald figured that ice hockey was his ticket to the big time, anyway. In the meantime, Schoenewald cultivated his other love, acting, performing in a number of summer stock productions. Still, Schoenewald yearned for athletics. Upon graduating in 1979, he planned on attending college at North Dakota State University, where he hoped to walk onto the schools hockey team. At that point, a mascot career was not an option. Then, mascots were relegated almost exclusively to the collegiate ranks and the minor leagues, where Max Patkin, whos featured in the movie Bull Durham, and Al Schacht had done their vaudevillian routines for decades. In the 70s, though, everything changed for furry costumed creatures. In 1974, Ted Giannoulas debuted as the San Diego Chicken, and in 1978, Phillies management enlisted summer intern Dave Raymond to suit up as the Phillie Phanatic. Soon, the Phanatic was winning over fans with his antics, which included running over Tommy Lasordas jersey with his ATV or doing a ridiculous aerobics routine in front of Jane Fonda. Meanwhile, Schoenewalds mind was doing somersaults, and he was starting to rethink his North Dakota exodus. A day before he was supposed to enroll, Schoenewald opted to forgo Fargo. "I called them up and told them I was going to be a mascot in the NFL," recalls Schoenewald. "I wanted to combine acting and sports. The only job in sports is the mascot." Schoenewald took his college savings of $1,200, bought costume materials and made his debut at a coffee shop before thirty friends. Emboldened, Schoenewald offered his services to Eagles management. "They said no thanks, but they also said we cant stop you," recalls Schoenewald. Undeterred, Schoenewald showed up at Veterans Stadium as the 7-foot-tall Bird Brain and was quickly embraced. "I never missed a game," he recalls. A true die-hard, Schoenewald also showed up at the stadium on off days. When the Eagles threatened to move the team to Phoenix, Schoenewald placed tombstones and lay down in full costume in front of the Vet. "It was at night," recalls mother Lois. "There was nobody there. I think it made the front page [of the newspaper], though." Schoenewalds finest moment came during a Monday Night Football game in Dallas when an inebriated Cowboys fan lit Schoenewalds left wing on fire with a Bic lighter. "I pushed [the guy] down the stairs. I was just defending myself," recalls Schoenewald. "The Cowboys must have seen it happen because they pulled me out of the stands right away. It was obvious they were worried for my safety."

While Schoenewald was embraced by fans, he was still never formally recognized by the Eagles organization. However, Schoenewald was able to make a few bucks doing appearances, mostly speaking out against drugs to kids. Schoenewald, however, thought that his message needed a broader audience.

In 1985, a 25-year-old Schoenewald took his act out of the stadium and into the streets, announcing his candidacy for mayor of Ocean City. In suit and tie, Schoenewald stood for hours in front of supermarkets shaking hands and holding babies. During televised debates, Schoenewald released his great oratory ability. "He called the other candidates all kinds of names," remembers Lois, who was one of her sons few volunteers. "He rolled over the other two candidates." Meanwhile, Schoenewalds steady stream of press releases managed to keep his name in the news as well. But after months of knocking on doors and other tough campaign work, it was just not enough. "People thought he was too young and that he wasnt going to stick with it," says Lois. A week before the election, Schoenewald bowed out of the contest. "People still voted for him," says Lois.

Meanwhile, Schoenewald had still not managed to win the support of Eagles management, which still refused to grant its "unofficial mascot" free admission to games. Lois remembers waiting on line at the Vet to buy those pricey tickets. "It was hard for us to buy those tickets," she says. With the Eagles not cooperating, Schoenewald got creative and talked his way into a gig as a local television weatherman. "Whats the difference between partly sunny and partly cloudy," laughs Schoenewald. But the sun set on Schoenewalds career as a weatherman when he transformed himself into a different breed of costumed eagle, an American Eagle. At the Los Angeles Olympics, Schoenewald tried to generate his countrys spirit with his American Eagle getup, but a Japanese TV crew seemed the most interested. "He wasnt the official mascot," recalls Lois. "He was just himself trying to be the mascot."

Perhaps the frustration was setting in. After ten years of fluttering his wings as the Eagles unofficial mascot, Schoenewald wanted to fly elsewhere, somewhere he would be more appreciated. "The Eagles wanted me to die in a car crash on the way to the stadium every year," recalls Schoenewald. "There was no love lost."

After ten years of fluttering his wings at the Vet, Schoenewald wanted to fly elsewhere. When he heard that a new NHL franchise called the San Jose Sharks were starting up, Schoenewald saw an opening. "Once he has a chance, thats all he needs," says Lois. Schoenewald spent $25,000 creating a shark costume and went west in a Ford van, which he painted with land sharks. "He thought hed get publicity on his cross-country trip," Lois remembers. Whatever attention generated, it was not nearly enough. When Schoenewald arrived in San Jose, he was not greeted with open arms. Although it was only their first season, Sharks games were already selling out nightly and the team had plans on introducing a mascot in their second season. Now, however, they had an unexpected interloper circling their offices. "Theres something out in the reception area, and youre not going to like it," an associate told Sharkie VP Matt Levine at the time. Schoenewald, a man who could probably sell moonshine to Mormons, made his impassioned pitch, dancing like MC Hammer, putting Levines head in his mouth and making Levine burst out in laughter. Levine was swayed but not sold. "He crossed his arms, put one hand to his mouth and said, Our mascot will never look like that," says Schoenewald. Despite their reservations, the Sharks gave Schoenewald a tryout with an asterisk. "They issued a press release in case I bombed." After a two-game tryout, it was official: Schoenewald was a swimming success, and he was hired as the NHLs first official mascot.

Promptly, Schoenewald persuaded his brother Tom and his college roommate, Matt Noel, to leave then-Glassboro State College and help set up shop. While the dropouts set up personal appearances, Schoenewald worked the San Jose faithful into a frenzy. Before games, the Shark-clad Schoenewald warmed up the tailgaters by whipping around in his ATV in the parking lot. During games, Schoenewald pretended to fight with a Flyers fan, tossed popcorn on people and pounded his chest like an ape in heat when he took a liking to a lady. "He had the crowd eating out of his hand," commented Levine. But Schoenewald did not stop there. He wanted to bring the house down and he did. In between periods, Schoenewald exited the mouth of a CO2-spewing Zamboni and bungee jumped headfirst from the arenas rafters.

For his efforts, Schoenewald garnered four CNN plays of the day. "I came in unannounced, uninvited and stole the show," boasts Schoenewald. "You cant do much better than I did in San Jose. And Im talking Chicken, Phanatic level stuff. They never went the places the Shark went as far as holding the crowd in their hand."

San Francisco Examiner columnist Rob Morse agreed, writing: "[Schoenewald] is to the Sharks what Bobby Orr used to be to the Boston Bruins. The star of the show." Even Lois made the trip out to San Jose to applaud her son. So enthused by his performance, she got a vanity plate for her car that says "MASCOT." "I felt like I should get it," says Lois, "since I was there from the beginning."

As kids attendance during Shark weeknight games soared, trouble lurked in the Shark den. "You gotta imagine that it irked some people," recalls Schoenewald. "After [theyve] worked for months, 15-hour days, this clown comes in from New Jersey and steals the show in a goofy furry costume." As Schoenewald sucked up the spotlight, some in Sharks management felt slighted. When a Sharks female executive, a former accomplished figure skater, groused that Schoenewalds skating was not up to snuff, the tension reached a boiling point. Schoenewald was infuriated. Game after game, he fired up the bloodthirsty Bay Area fans with his antics. Now, some Nancy Kerrigan wannabe was interfering with his routine. Despite Schoenewalds vehement protests, an ice skating rink was rented, and Schoenewald was forced to showcase his grace, he says. "She wanted me to skate like a swan!" shrieks Schoenewald. "She said do this and she did a swan thing. Im working in front of an NHL crowd that goes wild over fights. They do not want a swan Kiss my royal a*s." Levine contends that there was a much larger problem at hand besides Schoenewalds refusal to skate like a swan. "[Dean] finds it very difficult working for people within any systematic framework," said Levine.

Schoenewald skated right out of San Jose to Ottawa, where the NHLs Senators played. However, the Canadian government had other plans. Schoenewald claims the Senators management inexplicably failed to obtain work visas for its employees. To make things click from the outset, Schoenewald knew that missing opening night was not an option. Once again, Schoenewald was desperate. Once again, Schoenewald got creative. To make the game, Schoenewald says that he rented a pedal boat and pedaled across the St. Lawrence River, using a hockey stick as a rudder. In Ontario, brother Joe was waiting with a car to drive him to the stadium.

On opening night, Schoenewald, sat atop the arena in a draped box unbeknownst to the players or crowd. Inside, Schoenewald sat in his Lions costume on a four-wheel all-terrain vehicle scared out of his mind. "It was terrifying. I couldnt move. There was nothing holding the four-wheeler. The sides of the box were made of cloth," recalls Schoenewald. "Ive done a lot of crazy s**t during my career, but Im not a brave person." In fact, Schoenewald refuses to step into a plane and his head-first bungee stunt was actually performed by someone else wearing his shark suit. Despite his phobia, Schoenewald, managed to keep his cool for three anxiety-filled hours as the box swung and shook before being lowered to the floor at the end of the first period. "The crowd loved it," remembers Schoenewald. However, many hated Schoenewalds shtick. Womens groups were infuriated by Schoenewalds Michael Jackson routine in which he mimicked the gloved one (with his lions head on) and invited a horde of scantily clad waitresses to tear off his pull-away costume to reveal Schoenewald in a flesh body suit. When Schoenewald made a bonfire out of the ice rink, a fire marshal was waiting for him in the locker room. Schoenewald survived those brouhahas, but was released when the teams owner, Bruce Firestone, was dismissed by the league, he says. "My contract was voided," says Schoenewald. For his exit, Schoenewald let out a final roar, suing the Senators for $350,000 for wrongful dismissal. Schoenewald claimed $125,000 in lost wages, $25,000 for mental distress, $100,000 for damage to his reputation and "$5,000 for the Stanley Cup ring he might have been able to win."

The very next season, Schoenewald felt like he won the job of career. He says he even managed to negotiate a six-figure salary for himself from New Jersey Devils General Manager Lou Lamoriello. Back on his home turf, Schoenewald was back to his unusual antics. He danced like James Brown with a nun (Schoenewalds then-girlfriend), placed ladies lingerie behind the opposing teams bench and shot three Disney dolls out of the rafters the first night The Mighty Ducks played the Devils. Even the Devils players got into the act. One of the players, Ken Daneyko, lent Schoenewald his hunting dog to take the Disney characters off the ice. After the games, the players told him that their kids loved his act and picked up his Houlihans dinner tab. "The players kids wanted to know if the players knew me," remembers Schoenewald. Kids werent the only ones who wanted the Devils time. Hockey groupies were also on the Houlihans menu, hints Schoenewald. "I wasnt Joe Namath," says Schoenewald. "But I met some interesting people."

However, something was awry in the Meadowlands swamp. Night after night, fans yelled derisive remarks like "Stay away from my wife!" Schoenewald was baffled. That is until his assistant informed him that the previous Devils mascot, Slapshot the Puck, a.k.a. Brad Patrick Ebben, was charged with improperly touching three women while in costume. Furious at Lamoriello for not informing him of his predecessors digressions, Schoenewald relentlessly needled the GM by wearing opposing teams jerseys into the office. "I went out and bought a Canadiens jersey, and I cant stand the Canadiens," shouts Schoenewald. Lamoriello, however, got last laugh, ordering Schoenewald to shoot promotional T-shirts into the crowd with a rubber band. Schoenewald vigorously protested the bush-league stunt. "Thats what mascots do that cant think of anything funny to do," fumes Schoenewald. Schoenewald thought of himself as a skilled performer, the game as an intermission for his act and that his act alone should be worth the price of admission. However, Schoenewald played the good soldier for once. After all, he only had to do this once. Grimacing every moment, he shot the T-shirts into the crowd. One of the shirts, though, sailed into the upper deck, where an overzealous fan grasped for it and nearly fell off the balcony. After the game, Schoenewald was summoned to Lamoriellos inner sanctum, where the rubber band was sitting on his desk like an official court document. Lamoriello, Schoenewald says, told him in no uncertain terms that upper-deck T-shirt shooting was out of bounds and promptly ordered Schoenewald to continue shooting T-shirts into the crowd, just not into the upper deck. A now-livid Schoenewald resisted. Once again, Schoenewald was overruled. This time, though, Schoenewald fought back with a vengeance. "Now they have a popular mascot that is bringing down the house every night, and I have got to use those stupid f**king rubber bands for only a couple of hundred bucks that theyre getting out of some goofy company," bristles Schoenewald, his voice rising. "And now Im not allowed to shoot into the upper deck? f**k you! The way I say f**k you is clean out my house and shoot all 12 of them in the upper deck. f**k you! One of them hit the top of the stadium."

No doubt, Lamoriello, who refused to return phone calls, was not amused by Schoenewalds antics. Neither was souvenir dealer Art Miller, who says he did business with Schoenewald during that mascots days with the Single-A Vermont Expos in the summer of 1994. Miller claims that Schoenewald misrepresented himself, persuaded him to send $4,000 worth of baseballs and then turned around and sold the very same baseballs to the Expos. Schoenewald flatly denies the allegations. He denies knowing an Art Miller and claims that his sister, Marge, handled merchandising.

Schoenewalds antics were not limited to the athletic arena. In February 1995, he was arrested by South Kingston, R.I., police for ripping a phone out of a wall in his mothers house and driving with a suspended license. Before he made bail, Schoenewald spent three days in jail. Schoenewald pleaded no contest to the charges and was sentenced to six months probation and ordered to pay restitution. "We made him pay for [the hole the wall]," says Lois. Following the run-in, Schoenewald and Lois did not speak for a year. "He does not apologize whatever he does," says Lois.

In the summer of 1996, Schoenewald resurfaced in Nashville, where he suited up for the minor-league baseball Sounds, where Michael Jordan had been expected to be on the roster but had unexpectedly retired to return to the NBA. "I was hired to pick up the entertainment void," explains Schoenewald. But things were not hunky-dory in Music City. First, Schoenewald pissed off an umpire who threatened to fine him $300 after he impersonated a blind person following a controversial call. Then, he riled up management. "Hes supposed to be dancing in the top of the third," groused Nashville Sounds then-spokesman Robby Bohren, "and he wouldnt be there. He wanted to do things his own way."

"Sour grapes," sneered Schoenewald. "Im the only one who got PR in this town."

After more than 15 years of entertaining millions, Schoenewald was considering leaving the mascot trade. Perhaps the roar of the crowd had lost its thrill. Perhaps no team was willing to put up with his shenanigans. Perhaps Schoenewald realized that playing a costumed character was stifling his creative juices and that his greatest talent was his oratory ability. Somewhat tragically, at least in Schoenewalds case, the fundamental rule of playing a character in costume is that you are not allowed to speak.

Uncertain of the future, Schoenewald once again got creative. In June, 1996, Schoenewald welcomed an inaugural class of eight to his newly formed mascot school. Ultimately, hundreds of Phillie Phanatic wannabes paid Schoenewald $795 to be taught the mascot trade. Before his disciples, Schoenewald stood with a Magic Marker in front of an easel. As his students took notes, he imparted his personal mantras: "Always burn your bridges because it means you will always go forward" and "Its easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission."

Schoenewald warned his students of the pitfalls that he knew all too well firsthand. In the 1981 Super Bowl, Schoenewald passed out from dehydration and spent the second half submerged in ice water in the Superdome infirmary. He spoke with religious fervor about the importance of a good costume, ignoring male fans at all costs and that Barney must be trampled to a pulp. "Barney must go down!" Schoenewald preached. Of course, students who skated like a swan faced expulsion. As his students went before him and performed their comedy skits, Schoenewald eyeballed them like a Broadway casting director, frenetically tapping a pencil against a desk while smoking a cigarette. Regardless of how strong his direction, some were clearly not major-league material. Schoenewald laughs fondly recalling a would-be donkey who requested that Schoenewald kick him in the a*s. To others with the knack for strengthening spirit, Schoenewald declared that wealth awaited. "Win their hearts and minds," Schoenewald told graduates, "and their wallets will follow." Ed McBride, the 30-year-old mascot who recently quit the Colorado Rockies, was sold. He says that Schoenewalds tutelage was priceless. "We had a really cohesive relationship," recalls McBride. "I cherish the fact that I went to the school."

Vanderbilt University was impressed as well with the high school graduate and invited Schoenewald to speak to its students three times. In an ill-fitting blue blazer, Schoenewald declared to the preppy aspiring entrepreneurs that he was the "craziest man in the sports business" before lecturing on why a mascot career is preferable to an MBA. "Hes always been a good speaker," says Lois. "He used to say that he wanted to be a speechwriter for the president." After class, students ran up to Schoenewald in the corridor and bombarded him with questions. "Hes one of the most dynamic speakers Ive ever seen," comments David Lucking-Reiley, the economics professor, now at University of Arizona, who invited Schoenewald to speak. "Its really good for the students to hear that you can create your own career."

Meanwhile, Schoenewald was shooting for his own sports franchise. With a group of investors, Schoenewald had plans of moving Oklahoma Citys CBA team to Savannah and renaming them the Bananas. Schoenewald said that the organization would focus its operations around mascots. But before the Bananas got off the ground, the Left Coast called. "How can you tell Hollywood you are too busy?" asks Schoenewald. "You gotta take your shot."

Schoenewald signed with the William Morris Agency, packed up and drove west. But the land of Malibu and meandering meetings that have a microscopic chance of actually meaning anything was no place for the mascot guru. "It wasnt a good fit. I got invited to cocktail parties and I told them I dont drink," says Schoenewald. "[William Morris] had no idea of what to do with me. They wanted to hang around until they figured out what to do. An artist cant sit on his hands. I wanted to go back to work. I said thanks but no thanks."

A Los Angeles talent manager familiar with the dealings says that Schoenewald did not help matters. "He wanted complete, utter control. William Morris is thinking if he knows it all, why does he need us?" says the manager who spoke on condition of anonymity. "He bit the hand that fed him."

Back in Nashville, Schoenewald once again switched gears and concentrated on helping his golfing buddy and country singer, Doug Stone. "There was some talk of helping him market his career," says Schoenewald, but Stones management team stepped in, claims Schoenewald. "They were not too fond of some goofball mascot calling the shots," he says. Regardless, the pair opened a cigar shop in a Nashville "because they needed a place to hang out after golf" and Schoenewald seemed as if he was ready to hang up his costume for good, have a few Cubans and finally settle down. When asked at the time if he was a mascot in exile, Schoenewald laughs. "What happened? I grew up. I dont have the need to be recognized like I used to," says Schoenewald. He adds that he holds no grudges against his former employers, particularly Lamoriello. "I miss a normal lifestyle. I miss not being on a softball team because Im not in a place long enough." Seemingly settled, Schoenewald still harbored hopes of making it in Hollywood. This time around, though, Los Angeles attorney Larry Strick commissioned Schoenewald to write a children's TV show pilot based on his mascot troupe Gorilla Warfare. "I think any intelligent television executive with a need for childrens television will jump at this and not look back," predicted Strick.

Strick predicted wrong. More than a year later, Strick did not return repeated phone calls to discuss the project. As for the cigar shop, it went up in smoke. "We never made any money on it," says Schoenewald. "We sold it after two months."

Instead, Schoenewald got sold again on his childhood love, football, specifically womens football. After a three-day, tumultuous stint as the commissioner of the Nashville Womens Football League, Schoenewald hit the road again.

Meanwhile, Lois says she lives an "ordinary life," working as a hospital housekeeper. She is resigned that her son will "never toe the line" and get a nine-to-five gig. "I guess hes just a vagabond," says Lois. But she stands by her son even if she does not see him for "months at a time" and does not know how he gets by "day to day." Although her sons costume days are done, every year she religiously writes out the check for her "Mascot" license plate. "I fight with my husband [Schoenewalds stepfather] every year to renew it," says Lois. "Its a lot of money."

Right now, Lois isnt interested in money. The Schoenewald matriarch, the woman who raised eight children single-handedly, just wants harmony between her children, several of whom do not speak to one another. "Theyre holding grudges for years over little things," she says sadly. Perhaps, Schoenewald and siblings will bury the hatchet. Lois notices that her son is much calmer. "He isnt as combative," says Lois. "He thinks more before he acts." Schoenewald does indeed seem calmer now, and he seems to be maintaining more bridges rather than burning them. He even says hes willing to apologize. He has dated the same woman for a few years and hes kept in touch with Wall Street Journal reporter Josh Prager. However, Schoenewalds days on the road do not appear to have an end in sight. "Im like a homeless person with potential," says Schoenewald with a laugh. "Ive had money. I havent had money. It does not matter to me either way." Now, Schoenewald has landed in Denver, where he is the commissioner of a new womens professional league, the United Womens Football League, one of some 58 womens pro pigskin leagues that has popped up around the country. To survive in this oversaturated market, Schoenewald is once again getting creative. He says that league has set up a plan with the Denver Public Schools and that kids will be admitted free to the games which will be played at Denvers Invesco Field. Schoenewald says the atmosphere of the games will be football, Willy Wonka-style. He promises, balloons, games, refreshments and, yes, mascots. "A League of Their Own had nothing," says Schoenewald as he drives down Interstate 25 alone in his car. "This is a winner."

I don't know these people and have no idea if any of this is true.  If it is, why is their sex life any of your business?  Just typical "Christian" meddling.  Mind your own business, not someone elses.

How would you know whether he and his girlfriend frequent bondage websites unless you do, too? Are you also cruising craigslist, alt.com and bdsm.com? I think so.

You sound to me like a rejected female who is trying to get revenge on someone in the worst possible way - by attacking their children. I'm guessing that you're a member of that website too, and you're looking to get even. I'll bet I'm right. And I'll bet he isn't the first person you've tried to do this to.