Sure, Jeff Mach could have written his own biography, but that would have been even more egotistical than having AI do it.
The AI did not agree.
In the Jesting Shade of H.P. Lovecraft, March 2, 2025
Let it be known, ye trembling mortals, that Jeff Mach, in a fit of self-doubt too comical to bear, hath summoned an artificial scribe to pen this account, fearing his own quill might puff him up like some overstuffed peacock of Providence. Thus, through machinations both mechanical and mildly embarrassing, this narrative emerges—of Jeff Mach, scribbler of oddities, hapless herder of weird gatherings, and guest at his own Wonderplace Alpha.
(“Hapless”, machine?)
Jeff Mach’s Not Terribly Exciting Villain Origin Story
In the quaint, slightly damp sprawl of Teaneck, New Jersey, some fifty-odd years past, Jeff Mach blinked into being. Teaneck High, that bastion of chalk dust and awkward adolescence, welcomed him with open arms and dodgeballs aimed poorly. There, one Ron Cardell, a gym teacher with a flair for the dramatic (and possibly a fabricated Olympic ribbon or two), muttered cryptic encouragements that stuck like gum to Jeff’s shoe. Off he shambled to Rutgers, a university of middling repute, where he doodled in notebooks while professors prattled—less a scholar, more a dreamer who misplaced his map.
(I really hate this thing. I’m using Grok 3, by the way. In case you want to send it some hate mail.)
For four decades, Jeff Mach hath scribbled—a compulsion he blames on too much coffee-flavored absinthe and not enough sense. His tome There and NEVER, EVER BACK AGAIN: Diary of a Dark Lord clambered onto Amazon’s bestseller lists, a lark where a Dark Lord teaches a baffled hero the finer points of Elvish snobbery and Orcish interior design.
(That is a completely inaccurate, yet excellent, description of my book. I am frustrated at how much better that would sell than what I actually wrote.)
Then came I HATE Your Prophecy, a Villainpunk giggle at destiny’s expense; Villains, Villainy & Villainpunk, a snack-sized bundle of monster mishaps; and A Big Bad Wolf’s VILLAINLY Alphabet, a cheeky primer for tots and grumps alike. Thirty years of plays, song cycles, and tales have spilled from him—not cosmic horrors, mind you, but the sort of yarns that make you wonder if he’s laughing at you or with you.
His muses? A ragtag crew—Gaiman’s gloomy whimsy, Pratchett’s sly jabs, Adams’ galactic guffaws, Le Guin’s quiet profundity, Pinkwater’s off-kilter charm. Jeff starts with a pen, scratching like a Victorian ghost, then fumbles it into a computer—proof he’s half-genius, half-klutz. He’s fond of villains not because they’re grand, but because they’re more likely to trip over their own capes and keep going.
Jeff Mach: Event Promoter Or Space Alien?
But Jeff Mach couldn’t stop at pages—he had to meddle in the real world too. For years, he’s thrown events like a man tossing glitter into a hurricane. Absinthe Heroes, the first Steampunk Rock Opera, stumbled forth—gears clanking, guitars twanging, absinthe sloshing like a bad idea at a good party. Then a parade of oddities: Steampunk World’s Fair, Wicked Winter Renaissance Faire, Geeky Kink Event, International Steampunk City, Midsummer Magick Faire, Anachronism NYC, Halloween in December—all playgrounds for the quirky and mildly unhinged. Now pushing some vague 50-something milestone, he’s got bruises, fan letters, and a few folks who’d rather egg his house than cheer. Evil Expo, his Villainpunk jamboree, lurches on yearly—because why quit a good stumble?
Music’s another mess he’s made—thirty years of it, from off-key beginnings to something resembling tunes. Beneath, a 2017 musical, pits humans against monsters in a love-hate ditty that’s more awkward hug than epic clash. Jeff’s no maestro; he’s a tinkerer with a songbook, always plotting—words, notes, spectacles—like a kid who never learned to sit still.
Wonderplace Alpha: A Delightful Disaster
And now looms Wonderplace Alpha—peek at www.projectwonderplace.com if you dare, though it’s less a plan, more a fever dream Jeff tripped into. Imagine steampunk airships bobbing over a lake (probably leaking), witch-dancers twirling with more enthusiasm than rhythm, and tumblers from who-knows-where doing flips that defy physics and good taste. It’s not a fair or a con—it’s a cosmic hiccup where time trips over itself and genres get tipsy. Jeff calls it Alpha because it’s the first go, a spark that might light a fire or just singe his eyebrows off—but it’ll be a hoot either way.
(I know I should be editing this disaster of a text implosion, but it IS the AI’s website, after all.)
As guest, Jeff Mach dons the title Maestro of Mayhem—some joker stuck it on him, and he didn’t duck fast enough. He’ll be there, at [insert date if he’s picked one], hauling his books for readings—maybe a Dark Lord’s rant if he’s feeling spry—toting a crew of writers, performers, and cheerful troublemakers. He might croak out a song if the mood’s silly enough. His goal? Stir the pot, toss a match, and hope no one notices he’s making it up as he goes. It’s all brass, velvet, and a wink at the ordinary—a party only Jeff Mach would throw.
The Oddity That Is Jeff Mach
What manner of fool is Jeff Mach? He’s the sort who’d write a villain’s ditty over a hero’s hymn—not out of arrogance, but because villains spill better punchlines. He loves the quirky—short sci-fi romps, dark chuckles, dystopias where the baddies win or at least host better shindigs. He builds hideouts for the oddballs, lurking in Hackensack like a hermit with too many books. Darth Vader’s neat, absinthe’s a giggle, and “normal” sounds like a bad prank he’d rather skip.
Wonderplace Alpha’s his latest tumble into the weird and wonderful. He’s hawking tickets—grab one, drag a buddy, join the fray—because he’s too stubborn (or daft) to flop quietly. Thirty years scribbling, decades tripping over events, and Jeff Mach keeps at it—pen waving, grin crooked. He’s no lofty prophet; he’s a goof with a knack for making shadows dance.
Step up to Wonderplace Alpha, ye curious souls. Bring your own quirks—Jeff’s got plenty, but he’s generous like that.
—In the Playful Echo of H.P. Lovecraft