21 Jan 05
Literary Growing Pains
‘There is no satisfactory explanation of style, no infallible guide to good writing, no assurance that a person who thinks clearly will be able to write clearly, no key that unlocks the door, no inflexible rule by which the young writer may shape his course. He will often find himself steering by stars that are disturbingly in motion’ (Source: E.B. White, The Elements of Style by William Strunk Jr & E.B. White, Chpt. 5)
I recently received some books that caused me to think about my writing. Maybe I should have added studying English literature and language to my New Year’s Resolutions, as there seems to be plenty of room for improvement.
This self-assessment began when I started to read Remembrance of Things Past (3294 pages) by Marcel Proust. The three-volume set was thoughtfully sent as a Christmas gift by one of my sister’s colleagues, Jill Shiel. My first impression of Volume 1 was negative, the pace seemed to be too slow. I wondered why Jill had chosen Proust, but after reading over 100 pages I began to suspect that Jill wanted me to read a style of writing par excellence.
Despite my initial doubts I quickly began to enjoy the genius of Marcel Proust. I found myself in awe of his figurative language and I began to reread the sentences that mesmerised me the most. Here are some descriptions I enjoyed.
"…the heat of the day was falling and settling, as though in a vase along the sides of which the transparent, dusky jelly of the air seemed of such consistency that a tall rose-tree, fastened against the dim wall which it veined with pink, looked like the arborescence that one sees at the heart of an onyx."
"…the churches of Criquebec which, in the distance, surrounded by water on every side because you saw them without seeing the town, in a powdery haze of sunlight and crumbling waves, seemed to be emerging from the waters, blown in alabaster or in sea-foam, and, enclosed in the band a variegated rainbow, to form an ethereal, mystical tableau."
After reading Volume 1 of Remembrance of Things Past, I started F. Scott Fitzgerald’s, Tender is the Night.
I am envious of the talents of Proust and Fitzgerald. I have now set about improving my
English.
Unlike my sister, Karen, who has studied English her entire adult life, I have not studied English since high school.
Despite my shortcomings, I am endeavouring to use all of the resources at my disposal to improve my abilities. My father kindly sent me The Oxford American Writer’s Thesaurus for Christmas and I am seeking approval from the prison’s education department to do some correspondence courses with www.riosalado.edu/ci who provide non-Internet courses for prisoners.
ENG213: Introduction to the Study of Language, would be beneficial. It is described as the Study of language as code: phonetics, phonology, morphology, syntax, semantics, language acquisition; historical and socio-linguistics.
ENH275: Modern Fiction, also interest me. It is described as including "novels and short stories for modern writers which reflect significant themes of our time."
20 Jan 05
Under Pressure To Pee
The following conversation took place between thirteen inmates in a small holding cell at Medical. Six of us sat cramped on a concrete ledge on one side of the room, facing another six on the opposite ledge. A thirteenth inmate was in a wheelchair in the middle of the cell. A dozen of us had seen the doctor and we were ready to leave. The only inmate waiting to be seen was a baby-faced Chicano who stood less than five-and-a-half-feet tall. He had a plastic urinalysis container, but he was unable to pee. The inmates thought that none of us would be transported back to our units until the Chicano had performed.
“Can you pee yet?” asked the African American guard stood in the hallway.
“Nah.”
“Tsk-tsk. I must o’ asked you ten times by now. Alright, let me know when you’re ready, and I’ll take you to the restroom.”
“Why do they want your pee?” asked an inmate.
"'Cause my backs been hurtin’. They think it's my kidneys.”
“You’d better take a whiz soon 'cause you're holdin’ us up. We won’t get a transportation bus until you’re done.”
“Yeah, hurry up and pee.”
“I can’t!”
“If you don’t take a leak soon, they’ll strap you down and shove a catheter into your prick and then you’ll wish you had peed earlier."
“Yeah, they did that to me at Florence and it fuckin’ hurt like hell. It was sore for seven days. I ain’t ever lettin’ 'em pull that shit again. They shoved it in and worked it right up to my kidneys. It’ll bring the pee right out of you.”
“It ain’t that bad now. They’ve got a pump – it’s a bag they squeeze. They shove in the catheter and squeeze the bag, and your penis spits the pee right out. Still, you’d better pee before they strap you down.”
“I’ll try right now,” the Chicano said, nervously shoving the plastic cup down his orange pants.
“The catheter wouldn’t hurt so bad if the goddam end of the tube that they stick in ya wasn’t made so wide, like the flat end on one of those slurpee straws.”
“You can’t pee in here! What’re you doin'! The guard'll think that one of us peed for you and he’ll make you start all over again.”
“Don’t pee in here, dawg!”
“If he can’t pee, then he needs to drink some water.”
“They ain’t gonna let him go back to his house either.”
“That’s right. They’re gonna strap him down and catheter his shit.”
“I had a catheter once. I was hopin’ that it would make my dick bigger, but all it did was make it sore – real sore.”
“I’ll make you pee real quick. Let me hold yer dick and I’ll aim it at your neighbour, Boxer, right there.”
“You ain’t goin' nowhere near my dick! I’m never gonna pee!”
“When they put the catheter in, they make you hold yer dick. It wouldn’t be so bad if they held it for you.”
“We’ve all seen the doctor apart from you. You’re holdin’ us up. The sooner you pee, the sooner we’ll be goin’ back to our houses.”
The cell door slid open. “Whoever’s seen the doctor, lets go!” the guard said.
We all departed except for the Chicano. I am still wondering about his fate.
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
Under Pressure To Pee
The following conversation took place between thirteen inmates in a small holding cell at Medical. Six of us sat cramped on a concrete ledge on one side of the room, facing another six on the opposite ledge. A thirteenth inmate was in a wheelchair in the middle of the cell. A dozen of us had seen the doctor and we were ready to leave. The only inmate waiting to be seen was a baby-faced Chicano who stood less than five-and-a-half-feet tall. He had a plastic urinalysis container, but he was unable to pee. The inmates thought that none of us would be transported back to our units until the Chicano had performed.
“Can you pee yet?” asked the African American guard stood in the hallway.
“Nah.”
“Tsk-tsk. I must o’ asked you ten times by now. Alright, let me know when you’re ready, and I’ll take you to the restroom.”
“Why do they want your pee?” asked an inmate.
"'Cause my backs been hurtin’. They think it's my kidneys.”
“You’d better take a whiz soon 'cause you're holdin’ us up. We won’t get a transportation bus until you’re done.”
“Yeah, hurry up and pee.”
“I can’t!”
“If you don’t take a leak soon, they’ll strap you down and shove a catheter into your prick and then you’ll wish you had peed earlier."
“Yeah, they did that to me at Florence and it fuckin’ hurt like hell. It was sore for seven days. I ain’t ever lettin’ 'em pull that shit again. They shoved it in and worked it right up to my kidneys. It’ll bring the pee right out of you.”
“It ain’t that bad now. They’ve got a pump – it’s a bag they squeeze. They shove in the catheter and squeeze the bag, and your penis spits the pee right out. Still, you’d better pee before they strap you down.”
“I’ll try right now,” the Chicano said, nervously shoving the plastic cup down his orange pants.
“The catheter wouldn’t hurt so bad if the goddam end of the tube that they stick in ya wasn’t made so wide, like the flat end on one of those slurpee straws.”
“You can’t pee in here! What’re you doin'! The guard'll think that one of us peed for you and he’ll make you start all over again.”
“Don’t pee in here, dawg!”
“If he can’t pee, then he needs to drink some water.”
“They ain’t gonna let him go back to his house either.”
“That’s right. They’re gonna strap him down and catheter his shit.”
“I had a catheter once. I was hopin’ that it would make my dick bigger, but all it did was make it sore – real sore.”
“I’ll make you pee real quick. Let me hold yer dick and I’ll aim it at your neighbour, Boxer, right there.”
“You ain’t goin' nowhere near my dick! I’m never gonna pee!”
“When they put the catheter in, they make you hold yer dick. It wouldn’t be so bad if they held it for you.”
“We’ve all seen the doctor apart from you. You’re holdin’ us up. The sooner you pee, the sooner we’ll be goin’ back to our houses.”
The cell door slid open. “Whoever’s seen the doctor, lets go!” the guard said.
We all departed except for the Chicano. I am still wondering about his fate.
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
16 Jan 05
The impact of Blogs
Matthew, who is doing a dissertation "on the impact of blogs on wider society" asked for my view of what I am doing and how I feel about blogging.
I will answer with a recap. Jon's Jail Journal came about as a method of disseminating information about life inside the Madison Street jail to my family and friends, who were
increasingly interested in what was going on. As I had limited access to stationary and postage, by blogging, I was able to conserve resources whilst getting the message out.
It was after I was sentenced and moved from the jail system that the Guardian newspaper published some of my blogs and interest in the blog increased further. Since then, I have received encouragement from various readers of my blog, so, I am happy about what I am doing and I feel that blogging is worthwhile. The feedback is helping me better deal with my punishment, and I now feel as if I have an obligation to write about things that otherwise would remain untold. I have been contacted by some prisoners'-rights organisations who urged me to continue blogging in the hope that the public will become more aware of prison conditions. In general, thanks to blogging and the Internet, some people who would have remained oblivious to prisoner issues are now more aware of what is going on.
Prisoners' voices are seldom heard but the Internet has challenged the mechanisms that control information flows. I am taking advantage of this opportunity and I hope that the Internet continues to be a forum where alternative viewpoints and discussions freely occur.
I am out of touch with how blogging has progressed since my arrest. I used to read a blog authored by a female friend of mine named Susan prior to May 2002, and whilst incarcerated I read Salam Pax’s blog about living through the war in Iraq, which has been published as a book.
When I am released I will scour the Internet for interesting blogs, but in the meantime, I have no Internet access. I send the hand-written blogs to my parents in the UK and they type them up and post them. The prison allows me to receive computer printouts, so, if any readers who write blogs want to take the trouble of mailing me their own or any other blog entries, I would be glad to read them.
I hope that my answer addressed your question, Matthew.
Cheers! Jon
The impact of Blogs
Matthew, who is doing a dissertation "on the impact of blogs on wider society" asked for my view of what I am doing and how I feel about blogging.
I will answer with a recap. Jon's Jail Journal came about as a method of disseminating information about life inside the Madison Street jail to my family and friends, who were
increasingly interested in what was going on. As I had limited access to stationary and postage, by blogging, I was able to conserve resources whilst getting the message out.
It was after I was sentenced and moved from the jail system that the Guardian newspaper published some of my blogs and interest in the blog increased further. Since then, I have received encouragement from various readers of my blog, so, I am happy about what I am doing and I feel that blogging is worthwhile. The feedback is helping me better deal with my punishment, and I now feel as if I have an obligation to write about things that otherwise would remain untold. I have been contacted by some prisoners'-rights organisations who urged me to continue blogging in the hope that the public will become more aware of prison conditions. In general, thanks to blogging and the Internet, some people who would have remained oblivious to prisoner issues are now more aware of what is going on.
Prisoners' voices are seldom heard but the Internet has challenged the mechanisms that control information flows. I am taking advantage of this opportunity and I hope that the Internet continues to be a forum where alternative viewpoints and discussions freely occur.
I am out of touch with how blogging has progressed since my arrest. I used to read a blog authored by a female friend of mine named Susan prior to May 2002, and whilst incarcerated I read Salam Pax’s blog about living through the war in Iraq, which has been published as a book.
When I am released I will scour the Internet for interesting blogs, but in the meantime, I have no Internet access. I send the hand-written blogs to my parents in the UK and they type them up and post them. The prison allows me to receive computer printouts, so, if any readers who write blogs want to take the trouble of mailing me their own or any other blog entries, I would be glad to read them.
I hope that my answer addressed your question, Matthew.
Cheers! Jon
15 Jan 05
Prison Book Program
Today, I received a letter from Pam, a Prison Book Program volunteer. Her organisation has been sending donated books to US inmates for over 30 years. More information is available at:
http://www.prisonbookprogram.org/
Inmates can write to them directly at:
Prison Book Program,
C/o Lucy Parsons Bookstore,
1306 Hancock Street, Suite 100,
Quincy, MA 02169.
They also provide a National Prisoner Resource List which contains numerous contact addresses for free-book programs, educational and legal publications, prisoners'-rights organisations, prisoner-support groups, prisoner family and friend support groups, pen-pal services and religious organisations.
Inmates can request books twice per year. Requests should include any prison-imposed book restrictions.
Keep up the good work, Pam!
Appreciatively yours, Jon
Prison Book Program
Today, I received a letter from Pam, a Prison Book Program volunteer. Her organisation has been sending donated books to US inmates for over 30 years. More information is available at:
http://www.prisonbookprogram.org/
Inmates can write to them directly at:
Prison Book Program,
C/o Lucy Parsons Bookstore,
1306 Hancock Street, Suite 100,
Quincy, MA 02169.
They also provide a National Prisoner Resource List which contains numerous contact addresses for free-book programs, educational and legal publications, prisoners'-rights organisations, prisoner-support groups, prisoner family and friend support groups, pen-pal services and religious organisations.
Inmates can request books twice per year. Requests should include any prison-imposed book restrictions.
Keep up the good work, Pam!
Appreciatively yours, Jon
11 Jan 05
Question Time
A lot of readers have asked about chow. Deanna asked if being a vegetarian was sufficient grounds to receive veggie chow. There are two methods of obtaining special diets that I am aware of: the first is for religious reasons, and must be approved by the chaplain; the second is for medical reasons, and must be approved by the Health Unit. Vegetarianism itself does not qualify an inmate for a special diet. My advice to anyone who becomes detained is to provide a vegetarian religious preference when you are initially booked. This will avoid problems getting your diet later on. The inmates say the best diet is the Jewish one. There have been lots of conversions. You even have Aryan Brotherhood Jews, Mexican Mafia Jews, and Italian Mafia Jews such as Junior Bull.
Tolstoy wrote: "A vegetarian diet is the acid test of humanitarianism."
Another question about chow was posed by Jonathan: how much does the diet affect the health, outlook and behaviour of my fellow inmates and myself? Tying in with Jonathan’s question, an anonymous e-mailer asked whether I thought veggie diets would dampen aggression and reduce smashings. (see ‘Sweat, suicide and death’ 13/0704) Hunger does cause fights. At the Madison Street jail men scavenged and fought over mouldy bread and rotten fruit (see blog ‘April Fools Day’ 04/04/04) their behaviour was the result of the lack of food provided. Some inmates would gang up on other inmates possessing store, and extort them into giving up some food. Fights were sometimes orchestrated under false pretences, so that inmates could steal a target person’s store items.
I am not sure if serving all veggie meals would dampen aggression. Perhaps Scott Clouder at the Vegetarian Society could help answer that. I can only speak about my own experience, that yoga and vegetarianism have changed my outlook on life.
Mr. Greg asked if I would be so kind as to arrange a bare-knuckle fight between him and Barbarian. Gladly, Mr. Greg, I was thinking of a Las Vegas venue – MGM Grand perhaps? I can offer you a package deal, fighting Barbarian, and also Frankie. Frankie wanted me to tell you that he is not only a chess champion, but also a boxing champion. You may want to bring a shank with you, because Frankie, referring to his sexual organ as his weapon of choice, wants a "sword" fight. He’s demanding the usual prize: taking you from behind.
Some of you have been complimentary about my writing, but I also want you to know that I am open to receiving guidance and constructive criticism. Writing is new to me and I am sure that I am inadvertently making plenty of mistakes.
Some of you have asked about what I am reading. Recently read: Leviathan by Thomas Hobbes, The Confessions by Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Maxims and Reflections by Francois Duc de La RocheFoucauld, and George Orwell and the Origins of 1984 by William Steinhoff. On the lighter side, I read Homer’s Iliad and have just finished Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes, which is the most enjoyable work of fiction that I have ever read. It displaces Orwell’s Animal Farm as my favourite fiction book. I am half way through Marcel Proust’s Remembrance of things Past and am in awe of his literary skills. Last month I read Gustav Herling’s A World Apart. His account of life as a political prisoner in Russia during World War II makes my stay here seem like a holiday. All of the aforementioned books are well worth a read. I’d like to thank all of you who have sent books. Cheers! Jon.
Jon’s address:
Shaun Attwood ADC#187160,
ASPC-Lewis, Morey 2-D-2,
P.O. Box 3300, Buckeye,
AZ 85326, USA
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
Question Time
A lot of readers have asked about chow. Deanna asked if being a vegetarian was sufficient grounds to receive veggie chow. There are two methods of obtaining special diets that I am aware of: the first is for religious reasons, and must be approved by the chaplain; the second is for medical reasons, and must be approved by the Health Unit. Vegetarianism itself does not qualify an inmate for a special diet. My advice to anyone who becomes detained is to provide a vegetarian religious preference when you are initially booked. This will avoid problems getting your diet later on. The inmates say the best diet is the Jewish one. There have been lots of conversions. You even have Aryan Brotherhood Jews, Mexican Mafia Jews, and Italian Mafia Jews such as Junior Bull.
Tolstoy wrote: "A vegetarian diet is the acid test of humanitarianism."
Another question about chow was posed by Jonathan: how much does the diet affect the health, outlook and behaviour of my fellow inmates and myself? Tying in with Jonathan’s question, an anonymous e-mailer asked whether I thought veggie diets would dampen aggression and reduce smashings. (see ‘Sweat, suicide and death’ 13/0704) Hunger does cause fights. At the Madison Street jail men scavenged and fought over mouldy bread and rotten fruit (see blog ‘April Fools Day’ 04/04/04) their behaviour was the result of the lack of food provided. Some inmates would gang up on other inmates possessing store, and extort them into giving up some food. Fights were sometimes orchestrated under false pretences, so that inmates could steal a target person’s store items.
I am not sure if serving all veggie meals would dampen aggression. Perhaps Scott Clouder at the Vegetarian Society could help answer that. I can only speak about my own experience, that yoga and vegetarianism have changed my outlook on life.
Mr. Greg asked if I would be so kind as to arrange a bare-knuckle fight between him and Barbarian. Gladly, Mr. Greg, I was thinking of a Las Vegas venue – MGM Grand perhaps? I can offer you a package deal, fighting Barbarian, and also Frankie. Frankie wanted me to tell you that he is not only a chess champion, but also a boxing champion. You may want to bring a shank with you, because Frankie, referring to his sexual organ as his weapon of choice, wants a "sword" fight. He’s demanding the usual prize: taking you from behind.
Some of you have been complimentary about my writing, but I also want you to know that I am open to receiving guidance and constructive criticism. Writing is new to me and I am sure that I am inadvertently making plenty of mistakes.
Some of you have asked about what I am reading. Recently read: Leviathan by Thomas Hobbes, The Confessions by Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Maxims and Reflections by Francois Duc de La RocheFoucauld, and George Orwell and the Origins of 1984 by William Steinhoff. On the lighter side, I read Homer’s Iliad and have just finished Don Quixote by Miguel de Cervantes, which is the most enjoyable work of fiction that I have ever read. It displaces Orwell’s Animal Farm as my favourite fiction book. I am half way through Marcel Proust’s Remembrance of things Past and am in awe of his literary skills. Last month I read Gustav Herling’s A World Apart. His account of life as a political prisoner in Russia during World War II makes my stay here seem like a holiday. All of the aforementioned books are well worth a read. I’d like to thank all of you who have sent books. Cheers! Jon.
Jon’s address:
Shaun Attwood ADC#187160,
ASPC-Lewis, Morey 2-D-2,
P.O. Box 3300, Buckeye,
AZ 85326, USA
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
9 Jan 05
Odds & Ends
George is the homosexual who requested I read him some Harry Potter. For a couple of dollars a week he does house cleaning. Gravano and a couple of others recommended him, so I've hired him. He now calls me "governor" and sings "Rule Brittania" to me. He scrubs the toilet, sink and floor. He washes and folds laundry. He’s chuffed with me for giving him my Christmas dinner. George is also a masseur but I have been warned to sit on a stool and to watch his wandering hands if I get a back massage off him.
Duke (see Duke 29/04/04) resides across the day room in cell 12. He remembered me from his sentencing hearing. He was shot in the head during the Vietnam War and he has been in touch with a veterans organisation who are helping him seek a sentence reduction.
My stint in the kitchen was short lived. Because my anxiety went up, the psychotherapist took me off the job. Now, I may have to take meds.
Thank you for all of the Christmas cards, which I am still receiving. Inmate banking erroneously double billed my account $66.05, wiping out my balance, so, I have been without postage stamps for the past two weeks. My parents deposited some funds, so I now have stamps and everyone that mailed Christmas cards should soon receive thank you's.
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
Jon's mailing address is: Shaun Attwood ADC#187160
ASPC-Lewis,Morey 2-D-2, P.O. Box 3300, Buckeye, AZ 85326, USA
Odds & Ends
George is the homosexual who requested I read him some Harry Potter. For a couple of dollars a week he does house cleaning. Gravano and a couple of others recommended him, so I've hired him. He now calls me "governor" and sings "Rule Brittania" to me. He scrubs the toilet, sink and floor. He washes and folds laundry. He’s chuffed with me for giving him my Christmas dinner. George is also a masseur but I have been warned to sit on a stool and to watch his wandering hands if I get a back massage off him.
Duke (see Duke 29/04/04) resides across the day room in cell 12. He remembered me from his sentencing hearing. He was shot in the head during the Vietnam War and he has been in touch with a veterans organisation who are helping him seek a sentence reduction.
My stint in the kitchen was short lived. Because my anxiety went up, the psychotherapist took me off the job. Now, I may have to take meds.
Thank you for all of the Christmas cards, which I am still receiving. Inmate banking erroneously double billed my account $66.05, wiping out my balance, so, I have been without postage stamps for the past two weeks. My parents deposited some funds, so I now have stamps and everyone that mailed Christmas cards should soon receive thank you's.
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
Jon's mailing address is: Shaun Attwood ADC#187160
ASPC-Lewis,Morey 2-D-2, P.O. Box 3300, Buckeye, AZ 85326, USA
3 Jan 05
Recreation – headstand nearly banned
I get two hours of recreation each day. The rec schedule runs for two weeks and starts over again. Here are the starting times:
Week 1 Week 2
Sunday 4.30 pm 8.45 am
Monday 6.30 am 4.30 pm
Tuesday 1.00 pm 6.30 am
Wednesday 8.15 am 1.00 pm
Thursday 4.30 pm 8.45 am
Friday 1.00 pm 6.30 am
Saturday 6.30 am 1.00 pm
One-hundred inmates are allowed to go to the rec field together – in our case Building 2, pods C and D – but out of the one hundred, only about one third of them actually attend, and that fraction is much smaller for the 6.30 am rec. I’ve been going to rec two or three times a week, usually when it is offered in the afternoon or the late morning.
The rec area consists of a large field surrounded by a running track. Chain-link fencing and razor wire protect the perimeter. Overlooking the rec field is the gun tower – it was recently featured on the news after two inmates seized control and held a male and female guard hostage. The female was repeatedly raped. Looking at the tower you can usually see a guard toting an AR15 assault rifle or a pump-action shotgun. The rec field contains two basketball courts, a volleyball court, workout stations for isometric exercises, and six picnic tables. Three of the picnic tables have covers that enable inmates to chat or play chess in the shade. There are also eight charge-per-call telephones, a urinal and a drinking fountain. I am told that the average price of a fifteen-minute collect call to Phoenix is three dollars.
Most of the inmates at rec participate in team sports or mob around the picnic tables. I usually find a secluded area of grass where I can perform yoga.
During the last rec session, I had my first run-in with a guard. While doing a headstand, I heard a female voice yell from the gun tower, “Stop doing headstands!” I was wondering whether she was serious or not, when she repeated, “Stop doing headstands or else I’ll throw you off the field!” The inmates bacame upset and one shouted, “Are you gonna ban push-ups next?”
At the opposite end of the rec field stood the Assistant Deputy Warden, known as the ADW. She is second in command of this unit. My Buddhist friend Gizmo told the ADW that the guard who had stopped my headstand had violated my freedom of religious expression. A guard, Officer Noah, verified that my religious preference was Hinduism and the ADW gave me permission to keep doing headstands. The female guard was instructed not to stop me again.
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
Recreation – headstand nearly banned
I get two hours of recreation each day. The rec schedule runs for two weeks and starts over again. Here are the starting times:
Week 1 Week 2
Sunday 4.30 pm 8.45 am
Monday 6.30 am 4.30 pm
Tuesday 1.00 pm 6.30 am
Wednesday 8.15 am 1.00 pm
Thursday 4.30 pm 8.45 am
Friday 1.00 pm 6.30 am
Saturday 6.30 am 1.00 pm
One-hundred inmates are allowed to go to the rec field together – in our case Building 2, pods C and D – but out of the one hundred, only about one third of them actually attend, and that fraction is much smaller for the 6.30 am rec. I’ve been going to rec two or three times a week, usually when it is offered in the afternoon or the late morning.
The rec area consists of a large field surrounded by a running track. Chain-link fencing and razor wire protect the perimeter. Overlooking the rec field is the gun tower – it was recently featured on the news after two inmates seized control and held a male and female guard hostage. The female was repeatedly raped. Looking at the tower you can usually see a guard toting an AR15 assault rifle or a pump-action shotgun. The rec field contains two basketball courts, a volleyball court, workout stations for isometric exercises, and six picnic tables. Three of the picnic tables have covers that enable inmates to chat or play chess in the shade. There are also eight charge-per-call telephones, a urinal and a drinking fountain. I am told that the average price of a fifteen-minute collect call to Phoenix is three dollars.
Most of the inmates at rec participate in team sports or mob around the picnic tables. I usually find a secluded area of grass where I can perform yoga.
During the last rec session, I had my first run-in with a guard. While doing a headstand, I heard a female voice yell from the gun tower, “Stop doing headstands!” I was wondering whether she was serious or not, when she repeated, “Stop doing headstands or else I’ll throw you off the field!” The inmates bacame upset and one shouted, “Are you gonna ban push-ups next?”
At the opposite end of the rec field stood the Assistant Deputy Warden, known as the ADW. She is second in command of this unit. My Buddhist friend Gizmo told the ADW that the guard who had stopped my headstand had violated my freedom of religious expression. A guard, Officer Noah, verified that my religious preference was Hinduism and the ADW gave me permission to keep doing headstands. The female guard was instructed not to stop me again.
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
WakeUp - Inmate Newsletter sent the following:
Thank you for sending Jon's most recent blog to us. I will include the “Farewell Mum and Dad” article in our next WakeUp newsletter. I expect it will touch the hearts of many inmates and assist them in turning around their lives as Jon will do. We thought we had enough money to publish the newsletter in mid February but didn’t expect having to pay about $600 in taxes. A lot of money for a non profit organization that is always low on funds wouldn’t you say. Now we have to raise that money again. Do you know of any person or organization who may be interested in contributing? We will publish as soon as we have the funds after mid February.
I appreciate Jon’s talents and am grateful for your sharing his writings with us.
Carill Ina Nicoll
AzCEG Executive Director, Arizona Coalition for Effective Government, VM - 602.234.9004
www.azceg.org
Thank you for sending Jon's most recent blog to us. I will include the “Farewell Mum and Dad” article in our next WakeUp newsletter. I expect it will touch the hearts of many inmates and assist them in turning around their lives as Jon will do. We thought we had enough money to publish the newsletter in mid February but didn’t expect having to pay about $600 in taxes. A lot of money for a non profit organization that is always low on funds wouldn’t you say. Now we have to raise that money again. Do you know of any person or organization who may be interested in contributing? We will publish as soon as we have the funds after mid February.
I appreciate Jon’s talents and am grateful for your sharing his writings with us.
Carill Ina Nicoll
AzCEG Executive Director, Arizona Coalition for Effective Government, VM - 602.234.9004
www.azceg.org
2 Jan 05
Farewell Mum & Dad
It is 3.09 pm, fifteen minutes after the final visit with my parents. My angst began when I gave them goodbye hugs. During the final minutes with my parents, I felt miserable for breaking their hearts by putting myself behind bars; I felt guilty seeing my mother weep as she departed the visitation room; I felt ashamed for failing those who raised me and stood by me no matter what I have done: I considered myself blessed for having their support when so many of my neighbours receive no help from beyond the prison walls.I was most conscience-stricken by my mother’s tearful eyes; an unproud image now permanently carved into my subconscious. My father put on a brave face by bantering and jesting, but his body language betrayed his vocal masquerade; his smile was surrounded by quivering facial expressions, and those windows of truth, his eyes, shone with unconcealable sadness.It is stomach-turning to realise that my parents, my pillars of strength and support, are victims of my wrongdoing. If I could have shielded them from this hurt I would have moved mountains to do so.This year I shall try harder to make amends and to outdo all of my previous accomplishments. By channelling my passion and energy relentlessly from my cell, I hope to repel the lingering tempest troubling my heart. Years of bondage cannot contain the enormity of my love-inspired drive that knows no fetters or chains. I am hopeful that my achievements thus far are a mere fraction of what’s in store, and that my parents will be proud of their prodigal son’s turnaround.
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
Farewell Mum & Dad
It is 3.09 pm, fifteen minutes after the final visit with my parents. My angst began when I gave them goodbye hugs. During the final minutes with my parents, I felt miserable for breaking their hearts by putting myself behind bars; I felt guilty seeing my mother weep as she departed the visitation room; I felt ashamed for failing those who raised me and stood by me no matter what I have done: I considered myself blessed for having their support when so many of my neighbours receive no help from beyond the prison walls.I was most conscience-stricken by my mother’s tearful eyes; an unproud image now permanently carved into my subconscious. My father put on a brave face by bantering and jesting, but his body language betrayed his vocal masquerade; his smile was surrounded by quivering facial expressions, and those windows of truth, his eyes, shone with unconcealable sadness.It is stomach-turning to realise that my parents, my pillars of strength and support, are victims of my wrongdoing. If I could have shielded them from this hurt I would have moved mountains to do so.This year I shall try harder to make amends and to outdo all of my previous accomplishments. By channelling my passion and energy relentlessly from my cell, I hope to repel the lingering tempest troubling my heart. Years of bondage cannot contain the enormity of my love-inspired drive that knows no fetters or chains. I am hopeful that my achievements thus far are a mere fraction of what’s in store, and that my parents will be proud of their prodigal son’s turnaround.
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
New Years Day
Interview with a Murderer
It’s New Years Day and the world is hung over. Today seems like a good day to interview an inmate convicted of murder.
J How old are you Brian?
B Thirty-four
J How old were you when you were arrested?
B Nineteen. I can remember bein' on the bus goin' to prison. I was cryin' and some old-timer told me not to worry because I’d be lookin’ back on this day and thinkin’ it was all just a bad dream.
J You killed someone?
B Yeah.
J How?
B I shot him.
J Why?
B He was gonna stab my friend.
J Can you explain what happened?
B We were at a club called , and my friend – a big Mexican dude – got into an argument with a guy who he’d bought an ounce of crystal from. My friend was showin’ off in front of a bunch of women, and he hit the dude. The dude acted all cool at first, he backed off and said that everything was okay. Then he returned with a huge, buck knife and went for my friend, so I shot him.
J Were you drunk or on drugs?
B I was buzzed from drinkin’ a fifth of Jack Daniels. I wasn’t on drugs.
J What happened next?
B It was like...a…lucky shot. I used a .357 Magnum. A .357 Magnum makes a hole the size of a grapefruit if it hits someone. (Brian makes a fist.)
J What did you think when you looked at him and saw him dead with a massive head wound?
B I told myself that I had really fucked up. I regretted it immediately.
J How does it feel to kill a man?
B I had nightmares for months.
J In your dreams could you see him, his dead body, the hole in his head?
B As well as the nightmares, I couldn’t stop thinking about it for months. I replayed it over and over again.
J Are you still having nightmares?
B No.
J So you shot him in the club?
B Yeah.
J In front of how many witnesses?
B Maybe forty.
J You killed someone in front of forty witnesses, in the State of Arizona and you didn’t get the death penalty, how come?
B I come from a good family. I was in college. I played football. The victim was a biker – a member of the Hell's Angels. He was a known drug dealer and always in trouble. He even had a one-hundred-thousand-dollar contract out on him. The police didn’t care too much about his death.
J How’d you know about the contract?
B My attorney told me. The prosecutor wanted to know if I’d killed him to collect the contract money.
J How much time did you get?
B Fifteen years.
J When do you get out?
B January.
J What’s the first thing that you want to do when you get out?
B Go to church.
J What else?
B Put flowers on the victim’s grave.
J Most inmates, when asked that question, say they want to get laid. Is sex a priority?
B No. I’ve been gettin' laid.
J In here?
B Yeah.
J With men or women?
B Women. Whiteshirts.
J What’s a whiteshirt?
B Kitchen workers who are contracted from outside.
J How many whiteshirts have you had sex with?
B Three.
J You had sex with them in the kitchen?
B In the freezer actually.
(We laugh)
J What does serving fifteen years feel like?
B Like a rollercoaster. Ups and downs. Its hardest around Christmas time and other holidays because that’s when I miss my family the most.
J Are you in a relationship with a woman?
B Nah. I learnt that relationships make your time harder on you. It’s best to be friends.
J Does killing a man make you view yourself differently?
B Yeah. I feel guilty because of what I did.
J I see. Can you describe what it feels like to be known as a convicted killer?
B Imagine the worst crime or thing that you ever done to a person in your entire life. How does that make you feel? Now imagine if everyone knew what you’d done. How would that make you feel? That’s what I have to live with every day of my life.
J What are you plans for when you get out?
B I’m gonna attend a culinary course.
J And then what?
B I’d like to get a job as a chef…ideally on a cruise ship or for a hotel company. I want to see the world, especially Greece, France and England. Some of the best chefs in the world are French.
J That’s a good plan. No more sex in freezers though!
(We laugh)
J Thanks for the interview. Good luck out there.
B I’ll be alright.
(We shake hands)
Send comments to writeinside@hotmailcom
Interview with a Murderer
It’s New Years Day and the world is hung over. Today seems like a good day to interview an inmate convicted of murder.
J How old are you Brian?
B Thirty-four
J How old were you when you were arrested?
B Nineteen. I can remember bein' on the bus goin' to prison. I was cryin' and some old-timer told me not to worry because I’d be lookin’ back on this day and thinkin’ it was all just a bad dream.
J You killed someone?
B Yeah.
J How?
B I shot him.
J Why?
B He was gonna stab my friend.
J Can you explain what happened?
B We were at a club called , and my friend – a big Mexican dude – got into an argument with a guy who he’d bought an ounce of crystal from. My friend was showin’ off in front of a bunch of women, and he hit the dude. The dude acted all cool at first, he backed off and said that everything was okay. Then he returned with a huge, buck knife and went for my friend, so I shot him.
J Were you drunk or on drugs?
B I was buzzed from drinkin’ a fifth of Jack Daniels. I wasn’t on drugs.
J What happened next?
B It was like...a…lucky shot. I used a .357 Magnum. A .357 Magnum makes a hole the size of a grapefruit if it hits someone. (Brian makes a fist.)
J What did you think when you looked at him and saw him dead with a massive head wound?
B I told myself that I had really fucked up. I regretted it immediately.
J How does it feel to kill a man?
B I had nightmares for months.
J In your dreams could you see him, his dead body, the hole in his head?
B As well as the nightmares, I couldn’t stop thinking about it for months. I replayed it over and over again.
J Are you still having nightmares?
B No.
J So you shot him in the club?
B Yeah.
J In front of how many witnesses?
B Maybe forty.
J You killed someone in front of forty witnesses, in the State of Arizona and you didn’t get the death penalty, how come?
B I come from a good family. I was in college. I played football. The victim was a biker – a member of the Hell's Angels. He was a known drug dealer and always in trouble. He even had a one-hundred-thousand-dollar contract out on him. The police didn’t care too much about his death.
J How’d you know about the contract?
B My attorney told me. The prosecutor wanted to know if I’d killed him to collect the contract money.
J How much time did you get?
B Fifteen years.
J When do you get out?
B January.
J What’s the first thing that you want to do when you get out?
B Go to church.
J What else?
B Put flowers on the victim’s grave.
J Most inmates, when asked that question, say they want to get laid. Is sex a priority?
B No. I’ve been gettin' laid.
J In here?
B Yeah.
J With men or women?
B Women. Whiteshirts.
J What’s a whiteshirt?
B Kitchen workers who are contracted from outside.
J How many whiteshirts have you had sex with?
B Three.
J You had sex with them in the kitchen?
B In the freezer actually.
(We laugh)
J What does serving fifteen years feel like?
B Like a rollercoaster. Ups and downs. Its hardest around Christmas time and other holidays because that’s when I miss my family the most.
J Are you in a relationship with a woman?
B Nah. I learnt that relationships make your time harder on you. It’s best to be friends.
J Does killing a man make you view yourself differently?
B Yeah. I feel guilty because of what I did.
J I see. Can you describe what it feels like to be known as a convicted killer?
B Imagine the worst crime or thing that you ever done to a person in your entire life. How does that make you feel? Now imagine if everyone knew what you’d done. How would that make you feel? That’s what I have to live with every day of my life.
J What are you plans for when you get out?
B I’m gonna attend a culinary course.
J And then what?
B I’d like to get a job as a chef…ideally on a cruise ship or for a hotel company. I want to see the world, especially Greece, France and England. Some of the best chefs in the world are French.
J That’s a good plan. No more sex in freezers though!
(We laugh)
J Thanks for the interview. Good luck out there.
B I’ll be alright.
(We shake hands)
Send comments to writeinside@hotmailcom
31 Dec 04
New Year’s Resolutions
I have two New Year’s resolutions: firstly, I will try my best not to harbour ill-will towards people, no matter what they say or do; secondly, I will intensify my reading and studying. I hope to read 1000 books by the time I get out.
The first resolution necessitates I gain better control over my emotions. Yoga and meditation have made me a calmer person. I pay less attention to the drama here. I forgive those who have hurt me in the past, especially the people involved in my case.
From time to time I read something maddening – especially instances of injustice – and I feel compelled to write something scathing; however, by the next day, I've calmed back down, and if I’ve written something not lacking in emotional content I’ll tear it up. That’s one of the advantages writers have over public speakers.
For my second resolution, I intend to study six new subject areas: ethics, international business law, justice, military science, behavioural finance and commodity price behaviour. I concocted this list after looking at last year’s bibliography and categorising the hours spent on each subject. It became evident that my study program has been lopsided towards the stock market, history, philosophy, biographies and Spanish.
To where my fanatical studies are leading I do not know. I relate to how Jean-Jacques Rousseau claimed he felt in his youth when he had not yet solidified his opinions:
"…by collecting a store of ideas, true or false but all of them clear, until my mind is sufficiently equipped to be able to compare them, and choose between them."
My feelings about injustice grew stronger in 2004. This blog is a platform I will continue to use to highlight injustice. To end injustice we all need to speak out.
‘The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good people do nothing.’Edmund Burke
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
New Year’s Resolutions
I have two New Year’s resolutions: firstly, I will try my best not to harbour ill-will towards people, no matter what they say or do; secondly, I will intensify my reading and studying. I hope to read 1000 books by the time I get out.
The first resolution necessitates I gain better control over my emotions. Yoga and meditation have made me a calmer person. I pay less attention to the drama here. I forgive those who have hurt me in the past, especially the people involved in my case.
From time to time I read something maddening – especially instances of injustice – and I feel compelled to write something scathing; however, by the next day, I've calmed back down, and if I’ve written something not lacking in emotional content I’ll tear it up. That’s one of the advantages writers have over public speakers.
For my second resolution, I intend to study six new subject areas: ethics, international business law, justice, military science, behavioural finance and commodity price behaviour. I concocted this list after looking at last year’s bibliography and categorising the hours spent on each subject. It became evident that my study program has been lopsided towards the stock market, history, philosophy, biographies and Spanish.
To where my fanatical studies are leading I do not know. I relate to how Jean-Jacques Rousseau claimed he felt in his youth when he had not yet solidified his opinions:
"…by collecting a store of ideas, true or false but all of them clear, until my mind is sufficiently equipped to be able to compare them, and choose between them."
My feelings about injustice grew stronger in 2004. This blog is a platform I will continue to use to highlight injustice. To end injustice we all need to speak out.
‘The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is that good people do nothing.’Edmund Burke
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
Poem about Jon by Prophet
Creative Isolation
These four walls surround my soul
but yet they've set my spirit free
with each passing moment inside this cube
another spark ignites inside me
burning a fuse that leads to a ballpoint
I explode on to the paper
all my sentiment
emotions not to be exposed
not while in this modern day dungeon
but I must have release
and these writings like the air I breathe provide me with survival
my hand sore from clasping pen innards
the only ventilation for my words to escape this musty chamber
once trapped in life now imprisoned in a cell
I transcend these walls through my written word
I rise above the wire fence to touch you with my intellect
for my arms may not grasp beyond this cage,
but my thoughts have traveled father than mortal limbs could ever reach
my mind-set entered homes I may never see
this so called 'correction' is nothing but my own creative isolation
and as long as there is creation there is life...
and I will,
live on
I'm a friend and faithful reader of Jon's Jail Blog. I recently wrote the above poem on a poetry forum I belong to based on your son's circumstance. I wanted to share it with you as well. I wanted to draw more attention to his ordeal so I added links to his webpages. I hope you enjoy and please tell Jon Happy New Year and that I pray for his safe return to you his family.
sincerely,
Prophet
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
Creative Isolation
These four walls surround my soul
but yet they've set my spirit free
with each passing moment inside this cube
another spark ignites inside me
burning a fuse that leads to a ballpoint
I explode on to the paper
all my sentiment
emotions not to be exposed
not while in this modern day dungeon
but I must have release
and these writings like the air I breathe provide me with survival
my hand sore from clasping pen innards
the only ventilation for my words to escape this musty chamber
once trapped in life now imprisoned in a cell
I transcend these walls through my written word
I rise above the wire fence to touch you with my intellect
for my arms may not grasp beyond this cage,
but my thoughts have traveled father than mortal limbs could ever reach
my mind-set entered homes I may never see
this so called 'correction' is nothing but my own creative isolation
and as long as there is creation there is life...
and I will,
live on
I'm a friend and faithful reader of Jon's Jail Blog. I recently wrote the above poem on a poetry forum I belong to based on your son's circumstance. I wanted to share it with you as well. I wanted to draw more attention to his ordeal so I added links to his webpages. I hope you enjoy and please tell Jon Happy New Year and that I pray for his safe return to you his family.
sincerely,
Prophet
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
27 Dec 04
Escape
On the 8th of December, Maniac Mack was charged with Offence 009 – Attempted Escape from the Madison Street Jail. I obtained a copy of his Disciplinary Action Report, which contains the following Formal Statement of Charge(s):
While conducting a perimeter walk on 12.8.04 at approximately 0050 hours with Officer ------------, we noticed a Stream of Debris leading from-------[Maniac Mack’s cell]. Upon further investigation we located a hole leading through the wall to the outside. The hole appeared to have been on the exterior of the jail, apparently to facilitate an escape. Refer to IR #04-217500. These inmates were placed on the loaf program*** for the destruction of County property. [Sic]
Maniac Mack is housed on the fifth floor, and each floor consists of two stories, so his cell is ten stories above the surrounding streets. How was he going to escape from so high up? Perhaps the author of the Disciplinary Action Report had recently watched the Spiderman movie or maybe Maniac Mack had studied up on aeronautical engineering and had constructed a jet pack from his scant belongings. And let’s not dismiss the beanstalk theory: at visitation Mack met Jack and keystered beanstalk seeds.
Mack suspects that his outspoken nature – particularly his recent comments about the jail’s conditions – caused the queer charge. Mack wrote, “The gathering dark-side of this place rallied and attacked yours truly enmasse. Now I’ve got an additional and notorious charge: Attempted Escape, for which I could face up to 7 years if convicted!” The stresses and strains seem to be getting to Mack who ended his letter with, “Man is born to die. To wait around, in lines, for transportation to arrive, in welfare and unemployment offices, for toilet paper and chow, waiting, waiting for the mouse to sing….”
It is clear what they want you to do Mack: hand over the beanstalk seeds and the jet pack, confess your sins, yell your guilt from the roof tops, sign a double-digit plea bargain, and join Jon in the land of the throwaway people.
My former cellmate Mark signed a plea bargain and was put on house arrest. He now wears a device on his ankles that emits radio signals. He is allowed to travel to work and back, and to attend church on Sundays. He is due to be sentenced early in 2005 and he hopes to get probation. I hope he does. But in Arizona's legal system anything could happen between now and then.
*** The loaf program
Inmates on the loaf program are housed in two-man cells, which remain locked for twenty-three hours a day. They are served the loaf twice daily.
One morning, a young Chicano who had not been fed was offered the loaf.
“I’ll take it,” he said.
This occurred during my hour out. Sensing an opportunity to taste the loaf, I said to the Chicano, “Break bread, dawg. Gimme a little piece of the loaf.”
And he did.
The loaf's outer surface resembled burnt bread. It smelled like shoe polish. I snapped the hard crust and observed a mush with what looked like carrots and bean skins protruding from it.
“It’s yesterdays left-over food mixed into bread,” shouted one of the chow servers. It looked foul, but I was compelled to taste it so that I could describe the experience. The taste was bad, like eating burnt food. The taste overwhelmed my mouth, as if I had eaten a poisonous chemical. I swallowed a small amount and spat the remainder out.
Send comments to Writeinside@hotmail.com
Escape
On the 8th of December, Maniac Mack was charged with Offence 009 – Attempted Escape from the Madison Street Jail. I obtained a copy of his Disciplinary Action Report, which contains the following Formal Statement of Charge(s):
While conducting a perimeter walk on 12.8.04 at approximately 0050 hours with Officer ------------, we noticed a Stream of Debris leading from-------[Maniac Mack’s cell]. Upon further investigation we located a hole leading through the wall to the outside. The hole appeared to have been on the exterior of the jail, apparently to facilitate an escape. Refer to IR #04-217500. These inmates were placed on the loaf program*** for the destruction of County property. [Sic]
Maniac Mack is housed on the fifth floor, and each floor consists of two stories, so his cell is ten stories above the surrounding streets. How was he going to escape from so high up? Perhaps the author of the Disciplinary Action Report had recently watched the Spiderman movie or maybe Maniac Mack had studied up on aeronautical engineering and had constructed a jet pack from his scant belongings. And let’s not dismiss the beanstalk theory: at visitation Mack met Jack and keystered beanstalk seeds.
Mack suspects that his outspoken nature – particularly his recent comments about the jail’s conditions – caused the queer charge. Mack wrote, “The gathering dark-side of this place rallied and attacked yours truly enmasse. Now I’ve got an additional and notorious charge: Attempted Escape, for which I could face up to 7 years if convicted!” The stresses and strains seem to be getting to Mack who ended his letter with, “Man is born to die. To wait around, in lines, for transportation to arrive, in welfare and unemployment offices, for toilet paper and chow, waiting, waiting for the mouse to sing….”
It is clear what they want you to do Mack: hand over the beanstalk seeds and the jet pack, confess your sins, yell your guilt from the roof tops, sign a double-digit plea bargain, and join Jon in the land of the throwaway people.
My former cellmate Mark signed a plea bargain and was put on house arrest. He now wears a device on his ankles that emits radio signals. He is allowed to travel to work and back, and to attend church on Sundays. He is due to be sentenced early in 2005 and he hopes to get probation. I hope he does. But in Arizona's legal system anything could happen between now and then.
*** The loaf program
Inmates on the loaf program are housed in two-man cells, which remain locked for twenty-three hours a day. They are served the loaf twice daily.
One morning, a young Chicano who had not been fed was offered the loaf.
“I’ll take it,” he said.
This occurred during my hour out. Sensing an opportunity to taste the loaf, I said to the Chicano, “Break bread, dawg. Gimme a little piece of the loaf.”
And he did.
The loaf's outer surface resembled burnt bread. It smelled like shoe polish. I snapped the hard crust and observed a mush with what looked like carrots and bean skins protruding from it.
“It’s yesterdays left-over food mixed into bread,” shouted one of the chow servers. It looked foul, but I was compelled to taste it so that I could describe the experience. The taste was bad, like eating burnt food. The taste overwhelmed my mouth, as if I had eaten a poisonous chemical. I swallowed a small amount and spat the remainder out.
Send comments to Writeinside@hotmail.com
26 Dec 04
Kitchen Slave
After today’s special visit, I was sent to work as a dishwasher in the kitchen that serves chow to the whole unit. For 20 cents an hour I emptied hundreds of trays containing left over food into trashcans, and then drenched them with a hose. After being locked down for so long, the hustle and bustle of the kitchen raised my anxiety.
Please Note Jon has changed cells and is now in 2D2 and not 2D22
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
Kitchen Slave
After today’s special visit, I was sent to work as a dishwasher in the kitchen that serves chow to the whole unit. For 20 cents an hour I emptied hundreds of trays containing left over food into trashcans, and then drenched them with a hose. After being locked down for so long, the hustle and bustle of the kitchen raised my anxiety.
Please Note Jon has changed cells and is now in 2D2 and not 2D22
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
Boxing Day Punch
My honeymoon period seems to be over. Today, I discovered that one overgrown thug can cause serious problems. This morning, immediately before my visit with my parents, one of BHF’s cronies – who I’ll call Ogre to keep his identity secret – said he would spare my life if I gave him my Walkman. I declined his offer and later on he snuck up behind me and attacked me, smashing me in the back and knocking me down. I couldn't tell my parents what happened even though they could see I was injured.
The inmate who told me about his experience with a transsexual in Texas advised me that BHF had put Ogre up to this. There's also some inmates thinking I have a lot of money because the detectives told the media that I have hidden millions in offshore accounts, making me a target for extortion.
My honeymoon period seems to be over. Today, I discovered that one overgrown thug can cause serious problems. This morning, immediately before my visit with my parents, one of BHF’s cronies – who I’ll call Ogre to keep his identity secret – said he would spare my life if I gave him my Walkman. I declined his offer and later on he snuck up behind me and attacked me, smashing me in the back and knocking me down. I couldn't tell my parents what happened even though they could see I was injured.
The inmate who told me about his experience with a transsexual in Texas advised me that BHF had put Ogre up to this. There's also some inmates thinking I have a lot of money because the detectives told the media that I have hidden millions in offshore accounts, making me a target for extortion.
Cell Move
Yesterday I was moved from cell 22 to cell 2. BHF and I weren't getting along. BHF's robbery and torture anecdotes made excellent story material, but we had differences in other areas. On one occasion, I was returning to the cell after having a shower, and Greg (an Aryan Brother from California who murdered a child molester) blocked my entry and said, "You can't go in your cell right now 'cause the fellas are shooting up in there." I was also getting sick of pricking my feet on the needles BHF would leave out and the cell being full of smoke. And he was getting sick of waking up with my chest hair in his mouth. I was relocated to cell 2, which is downstairs in the same pod.
Yesterday I was moved from cell 22 to cell 2. BHF and I weren't getting along. BHF's robbery and torture anecdotes made excellent story material, but we had differences in other areas. On one occasion, I was returning to the cell after having a shower, and Greg (an Aryan Brother from California who murdered a child molester) blocked my entry and said, "You can't go in your cell right now 'cause the fellas are shooting up in there." I was also getting sick of pricking my feet on the needles BHF would leave out and the cell being full of smoke. And he was getting sick of waking up with my chest hair in his mouth. I was relocated to cell 2, which is downstairs in the same pod.
19 Dec 05
The First Visit: Two accounts by Jon’s parents …..
Driving south on Highway 85, Lewis Prison lies in the foothills of the Buckeye Mountains, a picturesque setting for a State incarceration facility.
Our first journey to the complex was enlivened by the sight of the rising sun to our left. The sky above the line of the Estrella Mountains became blood- red before the emergence of the Phoenix sun.
Along this stretch of highway are instructions to keep headlights on ‘day and night’, as the length of the road and its straightness makes it look as if distant cars are invisible without headlights on. As we passed the notorious road sign ‘State Prison – DO NOT STOP FOR HITCHHIKERS’, we knew that we were getting close to our son’s new home.
Arrival at the facility brought the first of many ID checks and searches. A swinging barrier stopped all cars as a guard with a clipboard stooped to check our passports and driving licence. We were waved on to the visitor car park, where we deposited our valuables into the boot of the car, only being allowed to take in 1 watch, 1 ring, 1 car key with remote, prescriptions glasses only, and $20 per person in quarters (to purchase food and drink from vending machines). The quarters have to be in a clear bag for the guards to check that no other items are being smuggled in. We had no quarters and no plastic bag. Fortunately other visitors seeing our plight kindly offered change for dollars and gave us a plastic food bag to put them in.
At the next check point we filled in the paper work; queued to hand it in at the office with our ID and joined the numerous visitors to await our name call.
When the guard shouted, ‘Attwood’, we were asked to remove our jackets; empty our pockets; take off belts; and our belonging were sent through an X ray machine, as we walked through the scanner.
In spite of the bright sun, at this time of the year it is very cold early in the morning and with our jackets off we started to shiver. Visitors with high boots which could conceal a weapon, had to walk through the scanner bare foot.
With our items returned, we were moved on through a fenced passage where a guard with a large, sniffer dog shouted, “Backs to the fence and hands by your sides”. We followed his instructions, lining up against the chain mail fence while the enthusiastic Alsatian jumped up and down behind us.
Given the 'all clear', we filed through a turnstile whose melancholic sound resembled that made by the squeaking windmill in the opening sequence to Sergio Leone’s masterpiece ‘Once Upon a Time in the West”.
The turnstile led to a bus stop. A trustie driving an old yellow school bus around the complex picking up and delivering the visitors to the various units, gave us a friendly, "Hello". A short ride brought us to a vast iron gate with a buzzer which signalled to the guard that visitors have arrived. The gate clanked open and we walked passed the grassy visitation compound surrounded with razor wire.
Inside the unit our paperwork and IDs were checked once again and the guard picked up the phone and asked that our son be brought to the visitation area. We went through another scanner, and after setting the alarm off with my belt buckle and shoes, I was ‘wanded’ by the guard, who gave us back the paperwork. We went through 2 more electronic doors which slid back to reveal the visitation room.
Once again the paperwork was checked and the guard assigned us a white, plastic table. We sat down, looked at each other and waited for our son to come through a door.
..........Passing the desert scenery that Jon had described so well in his blog, I became him, looking out from the transportation van, longing to be free.
Scanning the horizon the desert stretched for miles, skirted by the Estrella Mountain range: there were no signs of the prison, as we sped further into the arid landscape.
I thought my eyes were deceiving me, as, in the far distance I spied what looked like rows of silver pods suspended against the dark hills. Blinking hard, I tried to focus my distance vision, and as we drew closer I realised that the pods were flood lights: luminous eyes surveying the scence.
My heart sank to the pit of my stomach as the low sprawling mass of Lewis prison gradually revealed itself, and I wondered what part of the complex held my son captive…. …. …
… … …Chatting to Jon across the plastic table, we could have been in any café, in any country, smiling, talking, exchanging views on crime and justice, life and death, sorrow and joy. I stared at his animated face and time stopped. Glancing away, the walls of razor wire glistening in the bright Arizona sunshine remind me sharply of where I was.
Jon's parents would like to thank the prison authorities for granting us extra visits. After travelling 5200 miles this was greatly appreciated, as was the kindness and courtesy we received from all of the visitation staff.
Jon's impressions of our first visit have been held up in the Christmas mail and will be posted asap. He is doing well and sends everyone his regards.
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
The First Visit: Two accounts by Jon’s parents …..
Driving south on Highway 85, Lewis Prison lies in the foothills of the Buckeye Mountains, a picturesque setting for a State incarceration facility.
Our first journey to the complex was enlivened by the sight of the rising sun to our left. The sky above the line of the Estrella Mountains became blood- red before the emergence of the Phoenix sun.
Along this stretch of highway are instructions to keep headlights on ‘day and night’, as the length of the road and its straightness makes it look as if distant cars are invisible without headlights on. As we passed the notorious road sign ‘State Prison – DO NOT STOP FOR HITCHHIKERS’, we knew that we were getting close to our son’s new home.
Arrival at the facility brought the first of many ID checks and searches. A swinging barrier stopped all cars as a guard with a clipboard stooped to check our passports and driving licence. We were waved on to the visitor car park, where we deposited our valuables into the boot of the car, only being allowed to take in 1 watch, 1 ring, 1 car key with remote, prescriptions glasses only, and $20 per person in quarters (to purchase food and drink from vending machines). The quarters have to be in a clear bag for the guards to check that no other items are being smuggled in. We had no quarters and no plastic bag. Fortunately other visitors seeing our plight kindly offered change for dollars and gave us a plastic food bag to put them in.
At the next check point we filled in the paper work; queued to hand it in at the office with our ID and joined the numerous visitors to await our name call.
When the guard shouted, ‘Attwood’, we were asked to remove our jackets; empty our pockets; take off belts; and our belonging were sent through an X ray machine, as we walked through the scanner.
In spite of the bright sun, at this time of the year it is very cold early in the morning and with our jackets off we started to shiver. Visitors with high boots which could conceal a weapon, had to walk through the scanner bare foot.
With our items returned, we were moved on through a fenced passage where a guard with a large, sniffer dog shouted, “Backs to the fence and hands by your sides”. We followed his instructions, lining up against the chain mail fence while the enthusiastic Alsatian jumped up and down behind us.
Given the 'all clear', we filed through a turnstile whose melancholic sound resembled that made by the squeaking windmill in the opening sequence to Sergio Leone’s masterpiece ‘Once Upon a Time in the West”.
The turnstile led to a bus stop. A trustie driving an old yellow school bus around the complex picking up and delivering the visitors to the various units, gave us a friendly, "Hello". A short ride brought us to a vast iron gate with a buzzer which signalled to the guard that visitors have arrived. The gate clanked open and we walked passed the grassy visitation compound surrounded with razor wire.
Inside the unit our paperwork and IDs were checked once again and the guard picked up the phone and asked that our son be brought to the visitation area. We went through another scanner, and after setting the alarm off with my belt buckle and shoes, I was ‘wanded’ by the guard, who gave us back the paperwork. We went through 2 more electronic doors which slid back to reveal the visitation room.
Once again the paperwork was checked and the guard assigned us a white, plastic table. We sat down, looked at each other and waited for our son to come through a door.
..........Passing the desert scenery that Jon had described so well in his blog, I became him, looking out from the transportation van, longing to be free.
Scanning the horizon the desert stretched for miles, skirted by the Estrella Mountain range: there were no signs of the prison, as we sped further into the arid landscape.
I thought my eyes were deceiving me, as, in the far distance I spied what looked like rows of silver pods suspended against the dark hills. Blinking hard, I tried to focus my distance vision, and as we drew closer I realised that the pods were flood lights: luminous eyes surveying the scence.
My heart sank to the pit of my stomach as the low sprawling mass of Lewis prison gradually revealed itself, and I wondered what part of the complex held my son captive…. …. …
… … …Chatting to Jon across the plastic table, we could have been in any café, in any country, smiling, talking, exchanging views on crime and justice, life and death, sorrow and joy. I stared at his animated face and time stopped. Glancing away, the walls of razor wire glistening in the bright Arizona sunshine remind me sharply of where I was.
Jon's parents would like to thank the prison authorities for granting us extra visits. After travelling 5200 miles this was greatly appreciated, as was the kindness and courtesy we received from all of the visitation staff.
Jon's impressions of our first visit have been held up in the Christmas mail and will be posted asap. He is doing well and sends everyone his regards.
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
A Christmas Eve poem from an anonymous inmate
Twas the night before Christmas
And all through the cells,
The convicts were locked down
Madder than hell.
Except for the lifers
Kicked back on their bunks
With heads filled with visions
Of all of these grumps.
When suddenly from the roof top
There arose such a roar
That the cops thought
It must be a riot for sure.
The goon squad came running
Ready to hit
And the Sergeant yelled out,
“Who started this shit?”.
“It came from the roof,”
Sniveled some low life snitch.
“Must be a break out.
Oh! Son of a bitch!”
They climbed to the rooftop
By way of the stairs
And found a fat freak
In bright red underwear.
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” said the dude,
“I’m here on the scene”.
“Good Lord,” said the Captain
“We’ve captured a Queen!”
They yelled, “Hey you in the sleigh,
Get your hands on the wall.”
Then slapped on the cuffs
And searched him an all.
They booked him, and threw him
In the hole with a kick;
Well, so much for Christmas
They’ve busted St. Nick!
Twas the night before Christmas
And all through the cells,
The convicts were locked down
Madder than hell.
Except for the lifers
Kicked back on their bunks
With heads filled with visions
Of all of these grumps.
When suddenly from the roof top
There arose such a roar
That the cops thought
It must be a riot for sure.
The goon squad came running
Ready to hit
And the Sergeant yelled out,
“Who started this shit?”.
“It came from the roof,”
Sniveled some low life snitch.
“Must be a break out.
Oh! Son of a bitch!”
They climbed to the rooftop
By way of the stairs
And found a fat freak
In bright red underwear.
“Ho! Ho! Ho!” said the dude,
“I’m here on the scene”.
“Good Lord,” said the Captain
“We’ve captured a Queen!”
They yelled, “Hey you in the sleigh,
Get your hands on the wall.”
Then slapped on the cuffs
And searched him an all.
They booked him, and threw him
In the hole with a kick;
Well, so much for Christmas
They’ve busted St. Nick!
25 Nov 04
Bald Headed Fred
My new cellmate’s crime spree came to an abrupt end in 1995. He had been robbing drug dealers, which he considered his specialty, but his final job went askew.
BHF’s last robbery had commenced as normal. He subdued the occupants of an apartment at gunpoint, and proceeded to torture the drug dealer to get him to cough up the combination to the safe. BHF’s preferred method of torture that day involved knocking the man unconscious by hitting him in the head with a ball-peen hammer, a bloody process that broke the victim’s nose and split his head open. The victim’s hands were then raised above his head and attached to a shower with duct tape. When the victim regained consciousness, BHF played naughts and crosses (tic-tac-toe) on the fellows chest and face with a six-inch blade. After learning the safe’s combination, BHF stuffed his duffel bag with $10,000 in cash and $50,000 worth of crystal methamphetamine He was about to go on his way when some of the victim’s roommates returned home. They saw the bloodstained crime scene, fled and called the police. The police already had the place surrounded because BHF’s getaway driver was an informant, and a sting operation had been set up.
BHF hopped a fence and landed in someone's backyard. A lady holding a poodle opened a French window and BHF heard, “Easy boy, easy boy.” Fearing that the police helicopter would shine its light on him at any minute, BHF snapped into action.
“Freeze, police! In the house now!” he yelled, pointing his .357 Magnum at the lady's face.
He escorted her into the living room where he found a scantily clad and disheveled young couple, who had ventured down stairs to investigate the disturbance.
“Freeze muthafuckas, on the ground!” BHF said.
A large German Shepherd remained docile while BHF locked all of the windows and doors, and turned the lights off.
“Anyone else here?” BHF asked.
“No.”
“You calm down, go and put some clothes on and come straight back,” he said to the young lady dressed only in her underwear.
“I’ve done killed nine people tonight, let’s not make that twelve.”
It wasn’t long before BHF’s picture was broadcast on the TV and the hostages learned the true nature of his crimes.
“I’m not gonna rob you or hurt you. Just don’t do anythin’ stupid, and when it gets light outside I’m gone,” he told them.
The police knocked on the front door, but after their knocks went unanswered, they shone their torches in the backyard and departed. After a few hours of hovering the helicopter left.
The hostages and BHF bonded whilst drinking beers and smoking marijuana together. Eight hours later Fred decided that it was time to leave.
“I’m gonna take yer truck. Gimme yer keys. Get whatever you want out of it and I’ll call you and let you know where I leave it, so you can quickly get it back.”
The young man obliged and BHF kept his promise.
Two days later, after many news broadcasts had advertised BHF as a wanted man, someone tipped off the authorities that BHF was at a friend’s house. The house was surrounded by a SWAT team, a helicopter, an armoured vehicle, and news crews. BHF barricaded himself in the garage and while the cameras were broadcasting live, a police negotiator threw BHF a black box containing a phone which Fred grabbed with a rake.
“Hello.”
“Today’s a good day to die. What do you think?” Fred said.
“I’m here to help you get out. Have you got any hostages?”
“Yeah,” Fred lied, worried that they would storm the garage if they knew he was solo.
“We’re not coming in. Is there anything that you need?”
“I wanna pizza!”
“What else?”
“A helicopter,” Fred said.
“You’ve watched too many movies,” the negotiator said, and laughed.
One of BHF’s female friends, Special K, saw the standoff on her TV and rushed to the scene. She convinced the negotiator that she could talk BHF out of the garage without anyone getting harmed.
“Hi, honey,” Special K greeted BHF.
“Hi!”
“Are you gonna give up and come out?”
“I’ve got dope and smokes, I’m OK.”
“You’re big-time surrounded. Look down the street.”
BHF peeped at the armoured vehicle that had positioned itself so that its battering ram could knock down the garage door.
“They’re comin’ in to get yer, honey. They promise that no shots will be fired and I’ll get to talk to you if you come out right now.”
With his hands in the air, BHF surrendered. After being pummeled by the police, he was allowed to talk to Special K.
BHF’s next violent crime occurred at Alhambra, the prison processing facility for
newly-sentenced inmates. BHF had been housed in a fourteen-man cell, and one of the occupants was a convicted child molester. BHF presided over a kangaroo court with his new cellmates and it was decided that the "cho-mo" should be stabbed and tortured.
I read BHF’s police reports which describe what happened next. The sex offender was tied up and battered for “a good five minutes”. “They stuffed strips of cloth in his mouth…prior to the stabbings to see how the muffle worked.” His boxer shorts were pulled down and he was mocked for having “a little one”. The sex offender stated, “At that point was where I got stabbed in the stomach several times”. BHF actually stabbed him eleven times and then held a shank to the eyeball of a witness who stated, “He put it at the corner of my eye like he was gonna shove it in there and he says, ya know, he says you say anything, I’m gonna take this and shove it into your eye and pop your eye out. He said then we’re gunna eat it.”
For stabbing the child molester, BHF received an additional 30 months on top of the fifteen-year sentence for the kidnappings, home invasions and aggravated assaults. He feels that the 30 months was a small price to pay for stabbing and torturing someone convicted of molesting children. He is wondering how you feel about what he did to the sex offender.
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
Bald Headed Fred
My new cellmate’s crime spree came to an abrupt end in 1995. He had been robbing drug dealers, which he considered his specialty, but his final job went askew.
BHF’s last robbery had commenced as normal. He subdued the occupants of an apartment at gunpoint, and proceeded to torture the drug dealer to get him to cough up the combination to the safe. BHF’s preferred method of torture that day involved knocking the man unconscious by hitting him in the head with a ball-peen hammer, a bloody process that broke the victim’s nose and split his head open. The victim’s hands were then raised above his head and attached to a shower with duct tape. When the victim regained consciousness, BHF played naughts and crosses (tic-tac-toe) on the fellows chest and face with a six-inch blade. After learning the safe’s combination, BHF stuffed his duffel bag with $10,000 in cash and $50,000 worth of crystal methamphetamine He was about to go on his way when some of the victim’s roommates returned home. They saw the bloodstained crime scene, fled and called the police. The police already had the place surrounded because BHF’s getaway driver was an informant, and a sting operation had been set up.
BHF hopped a fence and landed in someone's backyard. A lady holding a poodle opened a French window and BHF heard, “Easy boy, easy boy.” Fearing that the police helicopter would shine its light on him at any minute, BHF snapped into action.
“Freeze, police! In the house now!” he yelled, pointing his .357 Magnum at the lady's face.
He escorted her into the living room where he found a scantily clad and disheveled young couple, who had ventured down stairs to investigate the disturbance.
“Freeze muthafuckas, on the ground!” BHF said.
A large German Shepherd remained docile while BHF locked all of the windows and doors, and turned the lights off.
“Anyone else here?” BHF asked.
“No.”
“You calm down, go and put some clothes on and come straight back,” he said to the young lady dressed only in her underwear.
“I’ve done killed nine people tonight, let’s not make that twelve.”
It wasn’t long before BHF’s picture was broadcast on the TV and the hostages learned the true nature of his crimes.
“I’m not gonna rob you or hurt you. Just don’t do anythin’ stupid, and when it gets light outside I’m gone,” he told them.
The police knocked on the front door, but after their knocks went unanswered, they shone their torches in the backyard and departed. After a few hours of hovering the helicopter left.
The hostages and BHF bonded whilst drinking beers and smoking marijuana together. Eight hours later Fred decided that it was time to leave.
“I’m gonna take yer truck. Gimme yer keys. Get whatever you want out of it and I’ll call you and let you know where I leave it, so you can quickly get it back.”
The young man obliged and BHF kept his promise.
Two days later, after many news broadcasts had advertised BHF as a wanted man, someone tipped off the authorities that BHF was at a friend’s house. The house was surrounded by a SWAT team, a helicopter, an armoured vehicle, and news crews. BHF barricaded himself in the garage and while the cameras were broadcasting live, a police negotiator threw BHF a black box containing a phone which Fred grabbed with a rake.
“Hello.”
“Today’s a good day to die. What do you think?” Fred said.
“I’m here to help you get out. Have you got any hostages?”
“Yeah,” Fred lied, worried that they would storm the garage if they knew he was solo.
“We’re not coming in. Is there anything that you need?”
“I wanna pizza!”
“What else?”
“A helicopter,” Fred said.
“You’ve watched too many movies,” the negotiator said, and laughed.
One of BHF’s female friends, Special K, saw the standoff on her TV and rushed to the scene. She convinced the negotiator that she could talk BHF out of the garage without anyone getting harmed.
“Hi, honey,” Special K greeted BHF.
“Hi!”
“Are you gonna give up and come out?”
“I’ve got dope and smokes, I’m OK.”
“You’re big-time surrounded. Look down the street.”
BHF peeped at the armoured vehicle that had positioned itself so that its battering ram could knock down the garage door.
“They’re comin’ in to get yer, honey. They promise that no shots will be fired and I’ll get to talk to you if you come out right now.”
With his hands in the air, BHF surrendered. After being pummeled by the police, he was allowed to talk to Special K.
BHF’s next violent crime occurred at Alhambra, the prison processing facility for
newly-sentenced inmates. BHF had been housed in a fourteen-man cell, and one of the occupants was a convicted child molester. BHF presided over a kangaroo court with his new cellmates and it was decided that the "cho-mo" should be stabbed and tortured.
I read BHF’s police reports which describe what happened next. The sex offender was tied up and battered for “a good five minutes”. “They stuffed strips of cloth in his mouth…prior to the stabbings to see how the muffle worked.” His boxer shorts were pulled down and he was mocked for having “a little one”. The sex offender stated, “At that point was where I got stabbed in the stomach several times”. BHF actually stabbed him eleven times and then held a shank to the eyeball of a witness who stated, “He put it at the corner of my eye like he was gonna shove it in there and he says, ya know, he says you say anything, I’m gonna take this and shove it into your eye and pop your eye out. He said then we’re gunna eat it.”
For stabbing the child molester, BHF received an additional 30 months on top of the fifteen-year sentence for the kidnappings, home invasions and aggravated assaults. He feels that the 30 months was a small price to pay for stabbing and torturing someone convicted of molesting children. He is wondering how you feel about what he did to the sex offender.
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
Christmas Greetings & Thanks
Thank you to all of the kind people who sent books for my birthday, which I received forwarded from Florence this week. Thank you for all the Christmas cards and books that I am receiving at Buckeye. The books do not always come with receipts, but I have mailed personal thank you's to all those that have. A big thank you to Guy Goo and the fair Surrah for the expensive finance books I am enjoying studying. Some readers have asked if I can receive photocopies and photographs. I can receive unlimited amounts of both and there is no censorship. Thank you all for being so kind and for keeping the blog's momentum going. A special thanks to my parents for their hard work in maintaining the blog. They will be visiting for two weeks at Christmas: we'll have a lot to talk about.
If you would like to send Jon a Christmas Greeting, his address is below:
Shaun Attwood ADC#187160
ASPC-Lewis,Morey 2-D-2,P.O. Box 3300,Buckeye, AZ 85326, USA
Thank you to all of the kind people who sent books for my birthday, which I received forwarded from Florence this week. Thank you for all the Christmas cards and books that I am receiving at Buckeye. The books do not always come with receipts, but I have mailed personal thank you's to all those that have. A big thank you to Guy Goo and the fair Surrah for the expensive finance books I am enjoying studying. Some readers have asked if I can receive photocopies and photographs. I can receive unlimited amounts of both and there is no censorship. Thank you all for being so kind and for keeping the blog's momentum going. A special thanks to my parents for their hard work in maintaining the blog. They will be visiting for two weeks at Christmas: we'll have a lot to talk about.
Merry Christmas, everyone!
...... appreciatively, Jon
If you would like to send Jon a Christmas Greeting, his address is below:
Shaun Attwood ADC#187160
ASPC-Lewis,Morey 2-D-2,P.O. Box 3300,Buckeye, AZ 85326, USA
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
18 Nov 04
The Move
(Part 2)
The bus stopped at Buckeye prison's main gate and a guard with a clipboard opened the side door.
“What’s your number?”
“187160.”
Satisfied with my answer, he closed the door, circled the bus, raised the hood and examined the vehicle.
Upon being given the all clear, the main gate was opened and we proceeded to a second checkpoint. The transportation officers exited the bus and a female officer instructed them to walk through a metal detector. The African American officer kept making the machine beep. He spent five minutes removing items of clothing until the woman was satisfied. We then proceeded from the entrance gate to the unit where I was to be housed.
“You can get out now. You’ve been awfully quiet back there,” said the redneck.
“I’m a quiet person.”
“Where’s that accent from?”
“England.”
“I spent ten years travellin’ the world with the military. I really like England. What the hell are you doin’ out here anyway?”
“It’s a long story. Stockbroker gone wild.” I said.
“Well, you know what they say about Arizona, don’t you?”
“No.”
“People come on vacation and leave on probation,” he said.
I smiled.
“Well, good luck to you,” he said, as he uncuffed me.
My three property boxes were extracted from the bus. A guard opened the gate and I walked through it carrying the boxes. I was locked in an outdoor cage, and the gate officer unholstered his walkie-talkie: “We got a new one here from SMU2. Can someone take him to his house?”
I was now at the prison where the longest hostage situation in the U.S. had occurred. I recognised the tower from the news. Over the mountains, behind the prison buildings, I saw an unusual smoke cloud in the shape of a funnel rising into the sky. The smoke was coming from the Palo Verde Nuclear Power Station, the largest of it’s kind in the country. The Palo Verde Nuclear Power Station was cited as a terrorist target following the 9/11 attacks.
“Is there somewhere I can pee out here?”
“No, you’ll just have to wait until you get inside.”
Two more officers arrived and I was escorted across the compound.
“It’s about time you made it!” hollered an inmate.
Another yelled, “Where’ve you been for so long?”
“I read about you in the newspaper,” said another.
I was escorted to Building 2, and then towards pods C and D. Down the entrance corridor we veered to the right and into D pod. I was led to a cell that I wrongly assumed was to be mine.
“Look who’s here!” shouted one of the guards into the cell. The son of the ex-Mafia hitman, Sammy the Bull, emerged from the room. With his dad, Junior Bull had a high-profile Ecstasy case and he was aware of my situation. I suspected that the guards had brought me to his cell to see how we would react to one another. As I had already met him at the Towers Jail we were on friendly terms.
“How yer doin’?” Junior Bull asked in a heavy New York Italian accent.
We shook hands.
“Much better now that I’m not going to be locked down all day. How about you?”
“I’m doin’ alright. I read dat shit in da newspaper about you writin’ about Joe Arpaio’s jail.”
“Yeah, I’ve become something of a champion of prisoners' rights.”
“You’ll be alright 'ere. I’ve already told da fellas dat yer a good dude.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Okay, lets show ya to yer cell,” said one of the guards.
I was instructed to go up the stairs to cell D22. The 8 feet by 12 feet room was spick and span. It contained double bunks, a toilet, a sink, shelves and a much larger table than in any of my previous cells. There was a slim window, like one of those windows in a turret that archers used to shoot their arrows from; it provided a view of the pebbles and gravel separating the buildings.
“Your celly is a bit of a joker!” a guard said and departed.
“Great. I like the quiet life,” I yelled after him.
I soon found out I had been housed with one of the most dangerous men in the unit, a man whose numerous violent crimes included torturing and stabbing another inmate whom he had discovered was a child molester. BHF had already served 10 years of a 16-year sentence. His crimes and subsequent arrest were on the news. The cell I had moved into was also BHF's tattoo shop.
D pod has 25 two-man cells. There is a large day room about the size of a ballroom, which I share with the other 49 pod members. There are five private showers arranged like cloakrooms at the end of the runs. There are two white plastic circular tables in the day room, which inmates use to play dominoes, cards, chess and Scrabble. Most of the inmates here seem to be heroin users and the majority of them have hepatitis C. Two charge-per-call phones hang on the wall. Day-room access is from 7am until 8.15pm, however we are required to lockdown for two counts, one hour in the morning and one in the afternoon.
A 50-year-old gay named George has been insisting that I read chapters of Harry Potter to him in my, “fine English accent”. A six-and-a-half-foot transexual called Xena has been putting her arm around me and asking if I, “wanna go party?” While at rec, an inmate took me to one side and told me about an encounter he had had with a transsexual in Texas. I told him I didn't do that kind of stuff.
The inmates donated some extra clothing to me. I was provided the bare essentials by prison staff and the rest I have to purchase-what a racket! Junior Bull gave me a sweatshirt, which cost him $11 at the inmate store.
There’s plenty of things to do here. I challenged the resident chess and Scrabble champions. I'm marched off to the chow hall three times a day for hot meals, and I’ve had no problems getting vegetarian food. There are daily two-hour recreation sessions. Lengthy contact visits are allowed on alternate weekend days, which can last from 7.30am to 3pm; I am allowed one hour per week in the library. With all of this activity, I'm hoping that the rest of my sentence will pass quickly.
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
The Move
(Part 2)
The bus stopped at Buckeye prison's main gate and a guard with a clipboard opened the side door.
“What’s your number?”
“187160.”
Satisfied with my answer, he closed the door, circled the bus, raised the hood and examined the vehicle.
Upon being given the all clear, the main gate was opened and we proceeded to a second checkpoint. The transportation officers exited the bus and a female officer instructed them to walk through a metal detector. The African American officer kept making the machine beep. He spent five minutes removing items of clothing until the woman was satisfied. We then proceeded from the entrance gate to the unit where I was to be housed.
“You can get out now. You’ve been awfully quiet back there,” said the redneck.
“I’m a quiet person.”
“Where’s that accent from?”
“England.”
“I spent ten years travellin’ the world with the military. I really like England. What the hell are you doin’ out here anyway?”
“It’s a long story. Stockbroker gone wild.” I said.
“Well, you know what they say about Arizona, don’t you?”
“No.”
“People come on vacation and leave on probation,” he said.
I smiled.
“Well, good luck to you,” he said, as he uncuffed me.
My three property boxes were extracted from the bus. A guard opened the gate and I walked through it carrying the boxes. I was locked in an outdoor cage, and the gate officer unholstered his walkie-talkie: “We got a new one here from SMU2. Can someone take him to his house?”
I was now at the prison where the longest hostage situation in the U.S. had occurred. I recognised the tower from the news. Over the mountains, behind the prison buildings, I saw an unusual smoke cloud in the shape of a funnel rising into the sky. The smoke was coming from the Palo Verde Nuclear Power Station, the largest of it’s kind in the country. The Palo Verde Nuclear Power Station was cited as a terrorist target following the 9/11 attacks.
“Is there somewhere I can pee out here?”
“No, you’ll just have to wait until you get inside.”
Two more officers arrived and I was escorted across the compound.
“It’s about time you made it!” hollered an inmate.
Another yelled, “Where’ve you been for so long?”
“I read about you in the newspaper,” said another.
I was escorted to Building 2, and then towards pods C and D. Down the entrance corridor we veered to the right and into D pod. I was led to a cell that I wrongly assumed was to be mine.
“Look who’s here!” shouted one of the guards into the cell. The son of the ex-Mafia hitman, Sammy the Bull, emerged from the room. With his dad, Junior Bull had a high-profile Ecstasy case and he was aware of my situation. I suspected that the guards had brought me to his cell to see how we would react to one another. As I had already met him at the Towers Jail we were on friendly terms.
“How yer doin’?” Junior Bull asked in a heavy New York Italian accent.
We shook hands.
“Much better now that I’m not going to be locked down all day. How about you?”
“I’m doin’ alright. I read dat shit in da newspaper about you writin’ about Joe Arpaio’s jail.”
“Yeah, I’ve become something of a champion of prisoners' rights.”
“You’ll be alright 'ere. I’ve already told da fellas dat yer a good dude.”
“I appreciate that.”
“Okay, lets show ya to yer cell,” said one of the guards.
I was instructed to go up the stairs to cell D22. The 8 feet by 12 feet room was spick and span. It contained double bunks, a toilet, a sink, shelves and a much larger table than in any of my previous cells. There was a slim window, like one of those windows in a turret that archers used to shoot their arrows from; it provided a view of the pebbles and gravel separating the buildings.
“Your celly is a bit of a joker!” a guard said and departed.
“Great. I like the quiet life,” I yelled after him.
I soon found out I had been housed with one of the most dangerous men in the unit, a man whose numerous violent crimes included torturing and stabbing another inmate whom he had discovered was a child molester. BHF had already served 10 years of a 16-year sentence. His crimes and subsequent arrest were on the news. The cell I had moved into was also BHF's tattoo shop.
D pod has 25 two-man cells. There is a large day room about the size of a ballroom, which I share with the other 49 pod members. There are five private showers arranged like cloakrooms at the end of the runs. There are two white plastic circular tables in the day room, which inmates use to play dominoes, cards, chess and Scrabble. Most of the inmates here seem to be heroin users and the majority of them have hepatitis C. Two charge-per-call phones hang on the wall. Day-room access is from 7am until 8.15pm, however we are required to lockdown for two counts, one hour in the morning and one in the afternoon.
A 50-year-old gay named George has been insisting that I read chapters of Harry Potter to him in my, “fine English accent”. A six-and-a-half-foot transexual called Xena has been putting her arm around me and asking if I, “wanna go party?” While at rec, an inmate took me to one side and told me about an encounter he had had with a transsexual in Texas. I told him I didn't do that kind of stuff.
The inmates donated some extra clothing to me. I was provided the bare essentials by prison staff and the rest I have to purchase-what a racket! Junior Bull gave me a sweatshirt, which cost him $11 at the inmate store.
There’s plenty of things to do here. I challenged the resident chess and Scrabble champions. I'm marched off to the chow hall three times a day for hot meals, and I’ve had no problems getting vegetarian food. There are daily two-hour recreation sessions. Lengthy contact visits are allowed on alternate weekend days, which can last from 7.30am to 3pm; I am allowed one hour per week in the library. With all of this activity, I'm hoping that the rest of my sentence will pass quickly.
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
11 Nov 04
The Move
(Part 1)
Near midnight, a female guard approached my cell, and said,“Roll yer property up. Yer leavin’ tomorrow.”
“Can he take his food with him?” Penguin asked.
“No, he cannot take his food!”
Penguin licked his lips.
I was happy and nervous. I was glad to be getting out of lockdown, to be on my way to a prison where I would be allowed new privileges. I prayed for a good cellmate.
I removed all food from my property boxes. All I had was a quarter jar of Circus Brand Creamy Peanut Butter, two boxes of Keefe Kitchens Snackers Snack Crackers, and five packets of Cactus Annie’s Cheddar Cheese Squeeze Snack. The property being moved included books, toiletries, stationery, correspondence and my written work. I ate the peanut butter and gave the rest to Penguin.
“Ay, England, you leavin’ any food behind?” Mad Dog asked.
The rest of the Chicanos followed suit.
“Fuck Penguin! He’s got plenty of store. Fish that shit up here to us indigent inmates," Mad Dog said in a tone a young lad might use to increase his chances of getting sweets from his parents.
“There’s a box of crackers you can have. Penguin said he’ll fish them up tomorrow. Please be quiet,” I said. “People down here are trying to sleep.”
“Alright, England. Good lookin’ out, dawg!"
“If we don’t catch you tomorrow, good luck, England,” Scooby said.
"Take care, England!”
“I hope to see yer soon, England!”
“Stay away from the cheetos, England!”
“Watch yer back out there, England!”
“Hey, England, fuck you, 'cause I’m still fuckin’ here and you’re leavin’,” Diego said.
At about 6am – before chow was served – a guard approached my cell. I was strip searched, handcuffed through the trap, and escorted through SMU2 to a holding cell to await the arrival of the transportation guards. To kill time, I meditated and did yoga. Four hours later I felt an urge.
“I need to pee,” I yelled through a crack at the side of the trap.
“Okay. Just a minute.”
I was handcuffed and escorted to the inmate restroom. After being uncuffed, I relieved myself with the guard stood behind me.
“You’ve been in there all morning. You want a lunch sack?” he asked, as I was returned to the holding cell.
“Yeah! That would be great. I haven’t eaten all day.” As it wasn’t a vegetarian lunch sack, I just ate the crackers and two pieces of brown bread.
Two hours later, I had given up hope of the transportation officers ever arriving. But at 1pm they came. One of them was a skinny, young African American who wore spectacles and spoke in an effeminate voice. His partner was a redneck with a deep voice. After another strip search, I was escorted from the building.
Farewell SMU, Penguin, Frankie, Barbarian, the young Chicanos, the shitslingers, the darters, the death row and the security-threat-group inmates. Another phase of this journey is over, I thought.
“Pick a seat, the bus is all yours,” the redneck said, as I entered the vehicle. I noticed a Glock holstered at his side.
When my eyes had adjusted to the sunshine, I was able to enjoy the desert and mountain scenery surrounding Florence. On either side of the highway, mountains protruded into an azure sky. Saguaros were everywhere; their horizontal branches made them look like a mrdieval army with swords drawn. Lizards and birds of prey put in occasional appearances.
As the locals drove by, all wearing sunglasses, I examined their rustic faces. I wondered what their everyday lives were like and if they were descendants of European families that had migrated eastwards and captured land from the Native Americans.
Approaching Phoenix, shiny new cars zipped past us. Drivers on cell phones became common. Housing developments and malls replaced the rural scenery. When I saw the areas where I used to live and hang out, I felt sad. I longed to turn back the clock and to be free again. The sight of the skyscraper I had worked in as a stockbroker, caused my mind to fill with memories:
long hours in the office, colleagues (mostly fiesty New York Italians), sales meetings, ruthless bosses, exciting times trading the stock market. How did I get from stockbroker to prisoner? I asked myself. A group of young women, smiling and carefree, came into view, and derailed my train of thought. But not for long. Perhaps I was meant to become a prisoner to achieve my full potential, I wondered.
Eventually we arrived at the exit for Buckeye. We headed south towards Yuma and I read a sign that said we were in the Buckeye Hills. Then another sign warned: DO NOT STOP FOR HITCHHICKERS, ARIZONA STATE PRISON. My anxiety went up. I reminded myself to be pleasant, but also to keep myself to myself as much as possible.
The bus pulled up to the prison’s main gate. I braced myself, as if I were getting onto a roller-coaster ride, for the types of things that happen when a fish arrives at a new prison.
...to be continued
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
The Move
(Part 1)
Near midnight, a female guard approached my cell, and said,“Roll yer property up. Yer leavin’ tomorrow.”
“Can he take his food with him?” Penguin asked.
“No, he cannot take his food!”
Penguin licked his lips.
I was happy and nervous. I was glad to be getting out of lockdown, to be on my way to a prison where I would be allowed new privileges. I prayed for a good cellmate.
I removed all food from my property boxes. All I had was a quarter jar of Circus Brand Creamy Peanut Butter, two boxes of Keefe Kitchens Snackers Snack Crackers, and five packets of Cactus Annie’s Cheddar Cheese Squeeze Snack. The property being moved included books, toiletries, stationery, correspondence and my written work. I ate the peanut butter and gave the rest to Penguin.
“Ay, England, you leavin’ any food behind?” Mad Dog asked.
The rest of the Chicanos followed suit.
“Fuck Penguin! He’s got plenty of store. Fish that shit up here to us indigent inmates," Mad Dog said in a tone a young lad might use to increase his chances of getting sweets from his parents.
“There’s a box of crackers you can have. Penguin said he’ll fish them up tomorrow. Please be quiet,” I said. “People down here are trying to sleep.”
“Alright, England. Good lookin’ out, dawg!"
“If we don’t catch you tomorrow, good luck, England,” Scooby said.
"Take care, England!”
“I hope to see yer soon, England!”
“Stay away from the cheetos, England!”
“Watch yer back out there, England!”
“Hey, England, fuck you, 'cause I’m still fuckin’ here and you’re leavin’,” Diego said.
At about 6am – before chow was served – a guard approached my cell. I was strip searched, handcuffed through the trap, and escorted through SMU2 to a holding cell to await the arrival of the transportation guards. To kill time, I meditated and did yoga. Four hours later I felt an urge.
“I need to pee,” I yelled through a crack at the side of the trap.
“Okay. Just a minute.”
I was handcuffed and escorted to the inmate restroom. After being uncuffed, I relieved myself with the guard stood behind me.
“You’ve been in there all morning. You want a lunch sack?” he asked, as I was returned to the holding cell.
“Yeah! That would be great. I haven’t eaten all day.” As it wasn’t a vegetarian lunch sack, I just ate the crackers and two pieces of brown bread.
Two hours later, I had given up hope of the transportation officers ever arriving. But at 1pm they came. One of them was a skinny, young African American who wore spectacles and spoke in an effeminate voice. His partner was a redneck with a deep voice. After another strip search, I was escorted from the building.
Farewell SMU, Penguin, Frankie, Barbarian, the young Chicanos, the shitslingers, the darters, the death row and the security-threat-group inmates. Another phase of this journey is over, I thought.
“Pick a seat, the bus is all yours,” the redneck said, as I entered the vehicle. I noticed a Glock holstered at his side.
When my eyes had adjusted to the sunshine, I was able to enjoy the desert and mountain scenery surrounding Florence. On either side of the highway, mountains protruded into an azure sky. Saguaros were everywhere; their horizontal branches made them look like a mrdieval army with swords drawn. Lizards and birds of prey put in occasional appearances.
As the locals drove by, all wearing sunglasses, I examined their rustic faces. I wondered what their everyday lives were like and if they were descendants of European families that had migrated eastwards and captured land from the Native Americans.
Approaching Phoenix, shiny new cars zipped past us. Drivers on cell phones became common. Housing developments and malls replaced the rural scenery. When I saw the areas where I used to live and hang out, I felt sad. I longed to turn back the clock and to be free again. The sight of the skyscraper I had worked in as a stockbroker, caused my mind to fill with memories:
long hours in the office, colleagues (mostly fiesty New York Italians), sales meetings, ruthless bosses, exciting times trading the stock market. How did I get from stockbroker to prisoner? I asked myself. A group of young women, smiling and carefree, came into view, and derailed my train of thought. But not for long. Perhaps I was meant to become a prisoner to achieve my full potential, I wondered.
Eventually we arrived at the exit for Buckeye. We headed south towards Yuma and I read a sign that said we were in the Buckeye Hills. Then another sign warned: DO NOT STOP FOR HITCHHICKERS, ARIZONA STATE PRISON. My anxiety went up. I reminded myself to be pleasant, but also to keep myself to myself as much as possible.
The bus pulled up to the prison’s main gate. I braced myself, as if I were getting onto a roller-coaster ride, for the types of things that happen when a fish arrives at a new prison.
...to be continued
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
Crime & Punishment
I recently read an article in a newspaper ‘USA Today’, about America’s record prison population. The author, Richard Willing, used a quote in the article that made my blood boil:
‘The reason crime rates have fallen to levels we haven’t seen for 30 years, is due to the nationwide movement to keep habitual criminals behind bars.’
Michael Rushford, Criminal Justice Legal Foundation
I am compelled to respond to Mr. Rushford’s deceptive twaddle.
Dear Mr. Rushford,
If you removed your habitual mental bars, you would see that America’s record prison population reflects a disease embedded in your society. Until your leaders eradicate the swamps in which the miasma of crime forms and breeds, lawlessness in America is going to persist and spread like leprosy. The public are becoming increasingly aware that the intimidation and slow-motion torture, which you call punishment, does not work. Your misleading slant on the record crime statistics is an insult to my intelligence. Until your chieftains cleanse the swampy soils of economic poverty, poor education and discrimination, and the enforced medication of young children, tension in American society is going to build and build.
I would like to refer you to a quote from the ‘Declaration of Principles’ adopted in 1870 by the leaders of what became the American Correctional Association:
‘The supreme aim of prison discipline is the reformation of criminals, not infliction of vindictive suffering.’
The cost of America’s senseless mass incarceration policy has sucked resources from the very services that could address the root cause of crime. Teachers, trainers, psychologists and sociologists should be flourishing in an enlightened society, not prison guards. If you and your leaders fail to address the smouldering stresses and strains – mark my words – you will have an erupting volcano on your hands, whose cinders and lava your sham policies helped to produce.
Yours sincerely, Jon
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
I recently read an article in a newspaper ‘USA Today’, about America’s record prison population. The author, Richard Willing, used a quote in the article that made my blood boil:
‘The reason crime rates have fallen to levels we haven’t seen for 30 years, is due to the nationwide movement to keep habitual criminals behind bars.’
Michael Rushford, Criminal Justice Legal Foundation
I am compelled to respond to Mr. Rushford’s deceptive twaddle.
Dear Mr. Rushford,
If you removed your habitual mental bars, you would see that America’s record prison population reflects a disease embedded in your society. Until your leaders eradicate the swamps in which the miasma of crime forms and breeds, lawlessness in America is going to persist and spread like leprosy. The public are becoming increasingly aware that the intimidation and slow-motion torture, which you call punishment, does not work. Your misleading slant on the record crime statistics is an insult to my intelligence. Until your chieftains cleanse the swampy soils of economic poverty, poor education and discrimination, and the enforced medication of young children, tension in American society is going to build and build.
I would like to refer you to a quote from the ‘Declaration of Principles’ adopted in 1870 by the leaders of what became the American Correctional Association:
‘The supreme aim of prison discipline is the reformation of criminals, not infliction of vindictive suffering.’
The cost of America’s senseless mass incarceration policy has sucked resources from the very services that could address the root cause of crime. Teachers, trainers, psychologists and sociologists should be flourishing in an enlightened society, not prison guards. If you and your leaders fail to address the smouldering stresses and strains – mark my words – you will have an erupting volcano on your hands, whose cinders and lava your sham policies helped to produce.
Yours sincerely, Jon
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
09 Nov 04
Dear Nuala,
Does casting a man into prison compensate society for the wrongs he has done it?….. Such a man must be set free, if amends are to be made, and if he is freed there is none who would fail to make them, there is not a single man alive who would not prefer doing good to the necessity of living in chains.
Marquis de Sade (Source: Ernestine, A Swedish Tale 1788)
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
Dear Nuala,
Does casting a man into prison compensate society for the wrongs he has done it?….. Such a man must be set free, if amends are to be made, and if he is freed there is none who would fail to make them, there is not a single man alive who would not prefer doing good to the necessity of living in chains.
Marquis de Sade (Source: Ernestine, A Swedish Tale 1788)
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
07 Nov 04
The Rain Room Revisited
Aunty Ann had nightmares after reading the blog that described the showers at the Madison Street jail. ('Wankers' 06 May 04). Perhaps Aunty Ann should't read on.
On Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday mornings we are offered showers. After the breakfast chow is served the officer grunts,“Showers?”
“Two for showers,” is my standard reply. The same officer will then return at some random time between 7.30 and 9.30 am, and wake us up to take us to the showers. The officer opens the trap whilst we put on our flip-flops and orange jumpsuits, and grab our towels and soap. Individually, Penguin and I back up to the cell door and the guard handcuffs us through the trap. The door is unlocked and the officer yells, “Cell 27!” The guard in the control tower presses a button and our door slides open. One of us is instructed to go to the upper shower and the other to the lower one.
Upon arriving at one of the cells containing a shower, I wait outside until the guard in the control tower presses the button that opens the door. When it is open I step inside and the door slides shut. I am then unhandcuffed through the trap and handed a razor. The cell is tiny, dingy and dimly lit. There is no mirror to look at whilst shaving. I undress and hang my clothes upon a steel hanger that is screwed to the wall. I always inspect the floor and walls to see if there are any messes that need to be avoided. The lower shower drains much better than the upper one, so the amount of hair matted with semen is usually lower downstairs. Some semen is usually observable on the floors and walls of both showers.
A button activates the shower. The water runs at a comfortable temperature for around ten minutes. This provides enough time for a thorough soaping and a blind shaving session. It takes a few months to master shaving without being able to observe yourself. I have to feel my face to determine where the stubble is. I don't shave my head because I'm afraid of cutting my ears off. One time Penguin returned with a bleeding ear. On another occasion I sliced my Adam’s apple.
When the water stops we are at the mercy of the guards as to how soon they will return us to our cell. The average wait is 15 minutes, but there have been some occasions when Penguin and I were left in the showers for up to two hours. When left in the shower I often do the hula-hula yoga pose while looking at the black mould on the walls, and the tiny grey flies that seem to hop rather than fly. Some inmates get hysterical after being left inside there. Those that yell and bang on the door usually have their stays extended.
Before releasing us from the showers, the guards examine our razors to ensure that we have not extracted blades to make weapons. After this inspection we are handcuffed through the traps. The doors slide open and as we trudge back to our cell inmates taunt us:
“Did you shave your ass?”
“Did you step on my water babies?”
“We know what kind of yoga you’re doing in there!”
“Did you see my dead kids?”
“Did you find your anal G-spot?”
Upon returning to our cell we are released from our handcuffs through the trap.
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
The Rain Room Revisited
Aunty Ann had nightmares after reading the blog that described the showers at the Madison Street jail. ('Wankers' 06 May 04). Perhaps Aunty Ann should't read on.
On Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday mornings we are offered showers. After the breakfast chow is served the officer grunts,“Showers?”
“Two for showers,” is my standard reply. The same officer will then return at some random time between 7.30 and 9.30 am, and wake us up to take us to the showers. The officer opens the trap whilst we put on our flip-flops and orange jumpsuits, and grab our towels and soap. Individually, Penguin and I back up to the cell door and the guard handcuffs us through the trap. The door is unlocked and the officer yells, “Cell 27!” The guard in the control tower presses a button and our door slides open. One of us is instructed to go to the upper shower and the other to the lower one.
Upon arriving at one of the cells containing a shower, I wait outside until the guard in the control tower presses the button that opens the door. When it is open I step inside and the door slides shut. I am then unhandcuffed through the trap and handed a razor. The cell is tiny, dingy and dimly lit. There is no mirror to look at whilst shaving. I undress and hang my clothes upon a steel hanger that is screwed to the wall. I always inspect the floor and walls to see if there are any messes that need to be avoided. The lower shower drains much better than the upper one, so the amount of hair matted with semen is usually lower downstairs. Some semen is usually observable on the floors and walls of both showers.
A button activates the shower. The water runs at a comfortable temperature for around ten minutes. This provides enough time for a thorough soaping and a blind shaving session. It takes a few months to master shaving without being able to observe yourself. I have to feel my face to determine where the stubble is. I don't shave my head because I'm afraid of cutting my ears off. One time Penguin returned with a bleeding ear. On another occasion I sliced my Adam’s apple.
When the water stops we are at the mercy of the guards as to how soon they will return us to our cell. The average wait is 15 minutes, but there have been some occasions when Penguin and I were left in the showers for up to two hours. When left in the shower I often do the hula-hula yoga pose while looking at the black mould on the walls, and the tiny grey flies that seem to hop rather than fly. Some inmates get hysterical after being left inside there. Those that yell and bang on the door usually have their stays extended.
Before releasing us from the showers, the guards examine our razors to ensure that we have not extracted blades to make weapons. After this inspection we are handcuffed through the traps. The doors slide open and as we trudge back to our cell inmates taunt us:
“Did you shave your ass?”
“Did you step on my water babies?”
“We know what kind of yoga you’re doing in there!”
“Did you see my dead kids?”
“Did you find your anal G-spot?”
Upon returning to our cell we are released from our handcuffs through the trap.
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
O5 Nov 04
Question Time?
Q. Jay asked if Frankie and I were ever an item?
Frankie did ask me to be his cellmate, but I politely declined. In lockdown it's not physically possible to have sex with anyone other than your cellmate. So becoming cellmates is the first step in that direction. The closest Frankie and I ever got was when we played chess through his cell window. During chess he would frequently put on an aching-for-sex look, whilst licking his lips and grinning. He would say things like, “Mmmm, Englandman, we should be cellies. Mmmm, Englandman, I’d like to turn you out. Let’s pretend that we’re back in the Roman days and I’m your Caesar. Mmmm, Englandman, the things that we could do. I’d get to watch you do naked yoga every night. Oh, Englandman, you turn me on.”
I assumed these remarks were part of his chess strategy until he started to send me love letters written in English and Spanish. I jokingly played along with his fantasies because he was at a safe distance. I didn’t realise that we might end up at the prison together. In his recent letters he has made it clear that he is looking forward to taking my anal virginity.
Q. Aunty Ann asked if I gave a hoot about the election and Bush and Kerry.
I’ll answer this question with a quote from the American historian Howard Zinn:
‘To give people a choice between two different parties and allow them...to choose the slightly more democratic one was an ingenious mode of control.’ *
*(Source: A People’s History of the United States 1492-Present)
Q. Emma asked about my taste in movies.
My favourite is Gladiator. My eyes went wet at the end of the film when the protagonist died to a beautiful trance tune. Another one I enjoyed is Silence of the Lambs - superb acting by Anthony Hopkins. Another is True Romance. It’s my favourite love story. Gary Oldman’s role as a sushi-eating pimp was extraordinary. It’s a brilliant film with an all-star cast.
I also enjoyed Heat, Killing Zowie, Goodfellas, The Godfather, and Casino . Regarding horror movies: any of the old Hammer Horror Films such as Dracula with Christopher Lee. Action movies: Pulp fiction, No U-turn. Mystery: Wild Things. Sci-Fi: Dune. Three movies I watched a lot are The Wall, The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Clockwork Orange.
My favourite actors include Dennis Hopper, Harvey Keitel, Samuel L. Jackson, Robert De Niro, Gary Oldman, Al Pacino, Joe Peschi, Christopher Walken, Bruce Lee, Vincent Price. Actresses include the Arquette sisters, Juliette Lewis, and Denise Richards.
I tend to watch movies directed by Oliver Stone, Quentin Tarentino and Guy Ritchie.
Q. The question most asked by readers is whether have or will ever have Internet access during this incarceration.
No. The Arizona Department of Corrections does not permit inmates to have Internet access under any circumstances. I do not see that policy changing during my stay.
Your emails and comments are mailded to me by my parents. My responses are then sent back to my parents who then email them on, hence it takes weeks for me to get back to people. I apologise for the delays, but I have made my best efforts to reply to everyone who provided a return email address. The replies are brief because lots of people have emailed and I must consider my parents’ poor fingertips. Anyone who provides a physical address will get a longer reply, as I am able to write to her or him directly from prison at minimal expense. I deeply appreciate all of the correspondence. Reading your kind words helps keep a smile on my face. I am grateful for your continued interest in my blog. Thank you for all of the birthday cards and books as well!
Post comments to: writeinside@hotmail.com
Jon’s address: Shaun Attwood ADC#187160
ASPC-Lewis, Morey 2-D-22
P.O. Box 3300,Buckeye,
AZ 85326, USA
Question Time?
Q. Jay asked if Frankie and I were ever an item?
Frankie did ask me to be his cellmate, but I politely declined. In lockdown it's not physically possible to have sex with anyone other than your cellmate. So becoming cellmates is the first step in that direction. The closest Frankie and I ever got was when we played chess through his cell window. During chess he would frequently put on an aching-for-sex look, whilst licking his lips and grinning. He would say things like, “Mmmm, Englandman, we should be cellies. Mmmm, Englandman, I’d like to turn you out. Let’s pretend that we’re back in the Roman days and I’m your Caesar. Mmmm, Englandman, the things that we could do. I’d get to watch you do naked yoga every night. Oh, Englandman, you turn me on.”
I assumed these remarks were part of his chess strategy until he started to send me love letters written in English and Spanish. I jokingly played along with his fantasies because he was at a safe distance. I didn’t realise that we might end up at the prison together. In his recent letters he has made it clear that he is looking forward to taking my anal virginity.
Q. Aunty Ann asked if I gave a hoot about the election and Bush and Kerry.
I’ll answer this question with a quote from the American historian Howard Zinn:
‘To give people a choice between two different parties and allow them...to choose the slightly more democratic one was an ingenious mode of control.’ *
*(Source: A People’s History of the United States 1492-Present)
Q. Emma asked about my taste in movies.
My favourite is Gladiator. My eyes went wet at the end of the film when the protagonist died to a beautiful trance tune. Another one I enjoyed is Silence of the Lambs - superb acting by Anthony Hopkins. Another is True Romance. It’s my favourite love story. Gary Oldman’s role as a sushi-eating pimp was extraordinary. It’s a brilliant film with an all-star cast.
I also enjoyed Heat, Killing Zowie, Goodfellas, The Godfather, and Casino . Regarding horror movies: any of the old Hammer Horror Films such as Dracula with Christopher Lee. Action movies: Pulp fiction, No U-turn. Mystery: Wild Things. Sci-Fi: Dune. Three movies I watched a lot are The Wall, The Rocky Horror Picture Show, Clockwork Orange.
My favourite actors include Dennis Hopper, Harvey Keitel, Samuel L. Jackson, Robert De Niro, Gary Oldman, Al Pacino, Joe Peschi, Christopher Walken, Bruce Lee, Vincent Price. Actresses include the Arquette sisters, Juliette Lewis, and Denise Richards.
I tend to watch movies directed by Oliver Stone, Quentin Tarentino and Guy Ritchie.
Q. The question most asked by readers is whether have or will ever have Internet access during this incarceration.
No. The Arizona Department of Corrections does not permit inmates to have Internet access under any circumstances. I do not see that policy changing during my stay.
Your emails and comments are mailded to me by my parents. My responses are then sent back to my parents who then email them on, hence it takes weeks for me to get back to people. I apologise for the delays, but I have made my best efforts to reply to everyone who provided a return email address. The replies are brief because lots of people have emailed and I must consider my parents’ poor fingertips. Anyone who provides a physical address will get a longer reply, as I am able to write to her or him directly from prison at minimal expense. I deeply appreciate all of the correspondence. Reading your kind words helps keep a smile on my face. I am grateful for your continued interest in my blog. Thank you for all of the birthday cards and books as well!
Post comments to: writeinside@hotmail.com
Jon’s address: Shaun Attwood ADC#187160
ASPC-Lewis, Morey 2-D-22
P.O. Box 3300,Buckeye,
AZ 85326, USA
04 Nov 04
Frankie Arrives
Frankie is here. As I write this blog I can hear his loud and distinct cackle. He is causing uproar in a neighbouring run by hitting on young Chicanos, just like he did at the Madison Street jail with Yum-Yum and Cupcake.
“Hey sexy, you wanna be my celly? Don’t be afraid.”
It will take Frankie up to three months to find out which prison he is going to. Maybe he’ll follow in my footsteps and I’ll get to blog his liaisons with the cheetos. Hopefully, he’ll have forgotten about chasing my behind by then.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
Frankie Arrives
Frankie is here. As I write this blog I can hear his loud and distinct cackle. He is causing uproar in a neighbouring run by hitting on young Chicanos, just like he did at the Madison Street jail with Yum-Yum and Cupcake.
“Hey sexy, you wanna be my celly? Don’t be afraid.”
It will take Frankie up to three months to find out which prison he is going to. Maybe he’ll follow in my footsteps and I’ll get to blog his liaisons with the cheetos. Hopefully, he’ll have forgotten about chasing my behind by then.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
03 Nov 04
Maniac Mack
One of the letters I received today was from Maniac Mack. Maniac Mack is housed at the Madison Street jail in a different area than Frankie and Mark. I met Maniac Mack in 2004 when we were both housed in a pod that had no running water for several days causing the toilets to become stacked up, and inmates were depositing their business in plastic bags (See blog entry 19/02 Deep Shit.) When the water was turned back on, I had to dig through the pile in the toilet with my bare hands to prevent things from overflowing onto our cell floor.
Maniac Mack wrote:
“Tonite in an attempt to oppress our already downtrodden spirits, some administrative blockhead decided we are being 'mollycoddled' and also that living conditions are far too ‘opulent and overly luxurious!' Personally I feel that Sheriff Joe A.K.A. ‘Humpty Dumpty,’ feeling particularly omnipotent and invincible since his election victory in the primaries decided to visit a new and fantastic torture on us…. 3 men to a cell…. A direct violation of the inmate housing federal guidelines set forth in Hart v M.C.S.O. case law” [sic]
I am unsure of this rumour so I have written to Frankie and Mark asking for confirmation.
The latest jail rumour discussed by Diego and Scooby was that the new multi-million-dollar jail is sinking upon its foundations. If anyone can back up these rumours with some facts I would love to hear more.
Read what Maniac Mack has to say in the comments box below:
Maniac Mack
One of the letters I received today was from Maniac Mack. Maniac Mack is housed at the Madison Street jail in a different area than Frankie and Mark. I met Maniac Mack in 2004 when we were both housed in a pod that had no running water for several days causing the toilets to become stacked up, and inmates were depositing their business in plastic bags (See blog entry 19/02 Deep Shit.) When the water was turned back on, I had to dig through the pile in the toilet with my bare hands to prevent things from overflowing onto our cell floor.
Maniac Mack wrote:
“Tonite in an attempt to oppress our already downtrodden spirits, some administrative blockhead decided we are being 'mollycoddled' and also that living conditions are far too ‘opulent and overly luxurious!' Personally I feel that Sheriff Joe A.K.A. ‘Humpty Dumpty,’ feeling particularly omnipotent and invincible since his election victory in the primaries decided to visit a new and fantastic torture on us…. 3 men to a cell…. A direct violation of the inmate housing federal guidelines set forth in Hart v M.C.S.O. case law” [sic]
I am unsure of this rumour so I have written to Frankie and Mark asking for confirmation.
The latest jail rumour discussed by Diego and Scooby was that the new multi-million-dollar jail is sinking upon its foundations. If anyone can back up these rumours with some facts I would love to hear more.
Read what Maniac Mack has to say in the comments box below:
1 Nov 04
Manny's Swan Song
Some of my neighbours were rolled up in the last week. Barbarian was moved to a pod in SMU where he will probably serve the remainder of his time. I suspect he has been housed with fellow STG (Security Threat Group) inmates. The STG process was initiated to extract the heads of prison gangs from regular yards, and to house them at SMU in the hope that the power of gangs such as the Aryan Brotherhood, Mexican Mafia, and Mau Maus would be reduced.
Manny was moved on a night the guards were searching for a pair of missing nail clippers in our pod. They were shining their torches all over the place, when Manny yelled,
“I’m sure gonna enjoy clipping my finger nails on that bus ride from Florence!”
“Who said that?” a sergeant yelled in a voice full of fury.
“I fuckin’ did,” Manny said, perhaps because he knew his personal property was en route to the transportation bus and hence out of harms way of the guards.
The guards stormed upstairs, and clustered in front of Manny’s cell.
“I wuz just clowning,” Manny said in a tone that suggested he found something funny about the whole situation.
There was silence. The sergeant’s jaw dropped and if he could have breathed fire he would have torched Manny alive.
The guards stripped out Manny and Scooby. Manny was dragged down the stairs and locked in the shower cell. Scooby’s property was once again confiscated due to Manny’s mouth. Manny was rolled up a few hours later and he departed our pod with a satisfied grin on his face. He is now serving the remaining four months of his domestic-violence sentence at a different prison.
Odds & Ends
Arizona’s death-row inmates are housed at SMU2. The guards have recently begun telling me that an inmate who looks like me and also has my surname is awaiting execution on death row. Another guard talked about the "shitslingers" and "darters" who are housed in a neighbouring pod in cells protected by Plexiglas screens. The shitslingers are inmates renowned for hurling their feces at prison staff and other inmates. The darters, however, are more dangerous than the shitslingers. Darters like to make blowpipes and shoot excrement-coated darts at their victims. If a dart pierces human skin and faecal matter gets into the target’s bloodstream there can be serious health consequences.
American news broadcasts are pitiful. Every night this week the scarcity of flu shots has been a major headline. Several minutes are devoted to this subject and then viewers are advised to call a toll free number to get their hands on supposedly-unavailable-but-somehow-remaining flu shots. This is a blantant commercial for the pharmaceutical-industrial complex who make billions of dollars each year selling doses to people with healthy immune systems who do not need the shots in the first place. (This comment does not apply to sick infants and elderly people who may benefit from flu shots.)
Where is the real news? Is the average American more interested in Paris Hiltons's goings on than world events that could affect all of our lives? I no longer watch the news here..
I received a Wake Up Newsletter this week. They are running extracts from my blog. This resource provides a wealth of information for prisoners. Family members of prisoners can access their site at http://www.azceg.org/ . The Arizona Coalition for Effective Government is a non-profit organisation. I have extracted two quotes from the current issue that I will end this entry with.
'America is the land of second chances'
US Attorney General John Ashcroft
'...our resources are misspent, our punishments too severe, our sentences too long.'
US Supreme Court Justice Anthony Kennedy
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
Manny's Swan Song
Some of my neighbours were rolled up in the last week. Barbarian was moved to a pod in SMU where he will probably serve the remainder of his time. I suspect he has been housed with fellow STG (Security Threat Group) inmates. The STG process was initiated to extract the heads of prison gangs from regular yards, and to house them at SMU in the hope that the power of gangs such as the Aryan Brotherhood, Mexican Mafia, and Mau Maus would be reduced.
Manny was moved on a night the guards were searching for a pair of missing nail clippers in our pod. They were shining their torches all over the place, when Manny yelled,
“I’m sure gonna enjoy clipping my finger nails on that bus ride from Florence!”
“Who said that?” a sergeant yelled in a voice full of fury.
“I fuckin’ did,” Manny said, perhaps because he knew his personal property was en route to the transportation bus and hence out of harms way of the guards.
The guards stormed upstairs, and clustered in front of Manny’s cell.
“I wuz just clowning,” Manny said in a tone that suggested he found something funny about the whole situation.
There was silence. The sergeant’s jaw dropped and if he could have breathed fire he would have torched Manny alive.
The guards stripped out Manny and Scooby. Manny was dragged down the stairs and locked in the shower cell. Scooby’s property was once again confiscated due to Manny’s mouth. Manny was rolled up a few hours later and he departed our pod with a satisfied grin on his face. He is now serving the remaining four months of his domestic-violence sentence at a different prison.
Odds & Ends
Arizona’s death-row inmates are housed at SMU2. The guards have recently begun telling me that an inmate who looks like me and also has my surname is awaiting execution on death row. Another guard talked about the "shitslingers" and "darters" who are housed in a neighbouring pod in cells protected by Plexiglas screens. The shitslingers are inmates renowned for hurling their feces at prison staff and other inmates. The darters, however, are more dangerous than the shitslingers. Darters like to make blowpipes and shoot excrement-coated darts at their victims. If a dart pierces human skin and faecal matter gets into the target’s bloodstream there can be serious health consequences.
American news broadcasts are pitiful. Every night this week the scarcity of flu shots has been a major headline. Several minutes are devoted to this subject and then viewers are advised to call a toll free number to get their hands on supposedly-unavailable-but-somehow-remaining flu shots. This is a blantant commercial for the pharmaceutical-industrial complex who make billions of dollars each year selling doses to people with healthy immune systems who do not need the shots in the first place. (This comment does not apply to sick infants and elderly people who may benefit from flu shots.)
Where is the real news? Is the average American more interested in Paris Hiltons's goings on than world events that could affect all of our lives? I no longer watch the news here..
I received a Wake Up Newsletter this week. They are running extracts from my blog. This resource provides a wealth of information for prisoners. Family members of prisoners can access their site at http://www.azceg.org/ . The Arizona Coalition for Effective Government is a non-profit organisation. I have extracted two quotes from the current issue that I will end this entry with.
'America is the land of second chances'
US Attorney General John Ashcroft
'...our resources are misspent, our punishments too severe, our sentences too long.'
US Supreme Court Justice Anthony Kennedy
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
28 Oct 04
Birthday Bonanza!
Thank you for the birthday cards! I appreciate your kindness. The cards range from picturesque to rather amusing. The Asian ones are particularly striking. I've been happy all week, especially during mail delivery. I’ve been heckled nightly by the mail officer due to all the mail he’s having to deliver.
Penguin also received some birthday cards he had been expecting - albeit belatedly - so he's cheered up a tad in the last week. Penguin’s favourite TV show is Fear Factor. He watches it twice a day. He is also fond of the nature channel and today he convinced me to take a break from my studies to join him watching a BBC programme about dangerous ants. Penguin was so delighted with the footage of the ants that he spent the rest of the evening blurting out newly acquired ant facts to our unreceptive neighbours: “Did you know that the Australian bulldog ant can kill a human being within four minutes?” Our neighbours, who don't have a TV, were peeved at him for watching the ants instead of obtaining them the WWF wrestling results. I’m glad we watched the ants.
I’ve been told that I will soon be at a medium-security prison. I expect to be moved in November, probably to Buckeye prison. It was at Buckeye that American’s longest prison hostage situation recently occurred. My mail will be forwarded from Florence to wherever I end up at.
After being locked down for so long it will be exhilarating to exit my cell and to breathe some fresh air. The weather in Arizona is utopian at this time of the year. I’ll be allowed three hours of outdoor recreation each day. Everything in nature that I used to take for granted now appears in a new light.
Cheers for all the cards and good wishes!
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
Birthday Bonanza!
Thank you for the birthday cards! I appreciate your kindness. The cards range from picturesque to rather amusing. The Asian ones are particularly striking. I've been happy all week, especially during mail delivery. I’ve been heckled nightly by the mail officer due to all the mail he’s having to deliver.
Penguin also received some birthday cards he had been expecting - albeit belatedly - so he's cheered up a tad in the last week. Penguin’s favourite TV show is Fear Factor. He watches it twice a day. He is also fond of the nature channel and today he convinced me to take a break from my studies to join him watching a BBC programme about dangerous ants. Penguin was so delighted with the footage of the ants that he spent the rest of the evening blurting out newly acquired ant facts to our unreceptive neighbours: “Did you know that the Australian bulldog ant can kill a human being within four minutes?” Our neighbours, who don't have a TV, were peeved at him for watching the ants instead of obtaining them the WWF wrestling results. I’m glad we watched the ants.
I’ve been told that I will soon be at a medium-security prison. I expect to be moved in November, probably to Buckeye prison. It was at Buckeye that American’s longest prison hostage situation recently occurred. My mail will be forwarded from Florence to wherever I end up at.
After being locked down for so long it will be exhilarating to exit my cell and to breathe some fresh air. The weather in Arizona is utopian at this time of the year. I’ll be allowed three hours of outdoor recreation each day. Everything in nature that I used to take for granted now appears in a new light.
Cheers for all the cards and good wishes!
Send comments to writeinside@hotmail.com
27 Oct 04
Kryptonitis
Last night the Chicanos were discussing the death of Christopher Reeve, when suddenly their conversation was interrupted by one of the old-timers downstairs breaking wind.
Mad Dog, a new and disruptive addition to the run, began the conversation with, “I didn’t know that Christopher Reeve wuz dead, ese.”
“Yeah, ese, from bedsores,” Scooby said.
“Nah, he didn’t die from bed sores, homey. You wanna know how he died?” Manny said.
“Yeah. How’d he die, ese?"
“From Kryptonitis!” Manny said.
“You ain’t right! Fuck you, ese!” Mad Dog said.
“Take no notice of my celly," Scooby said in a helpful tone. “Reeve died from a cardiac arrest brought on by an infection from the bedsores."
“Bed sores?" Mad Dog asked.
“She killed him. Know what I mean? She knew what she was doin’. Know what I mean?"
“You're right, ese,” Scooby said. “She studied up on dat shit. She knew what wuz good for him and what wuzn't good for him.”
“That’s gonna be a high-profile case,” Diego said.
“How’d da bitch kill him from bedsores, ese?” Mad Dog said.
“She wuzn't cleanin' him right, ese,” Scooby said.
“Dat fool had a lot of money, ese, You know dat dose Hollywood tramps are all about the cheddar [money], ese,” Diego said.
“Da bitch did it,” Manny said.
“He wuz just a head. His body had shrunk and dey didn’t clean his body, right? Know what I mean? Dem bed sores iz nothin’ nice. Know what I mean?"
“Da bitch wuz sick o’ takin’ care o’ him, ese,” Manny said.
“Fuckin killa! She did it, ese,” Mad Dog said.
A series of loud farts halted the conversation.
“God damn!” Manny yelled.
“I love you,” Scooby whispered.
“Speak to me,” Mad Dog said in a feminine tone.
“Damn! Know what I mean?"
“Fuck his tight ass,” Diego said.
Kryptonitis
Last night the Chicanos were discussing the death of Christopher Reeve, when suddenly their conversation was interrupted by one of the old-timers downstairs breaking wind.
Mad Dog, a new and disruptive addition to the run, began the conversation with, “I didn’t know that Christopher Reeve wuz dead, ese.”
“Yeah, ese, from bedsores,” Scooby said.
“Nah, he didn’t die from bed sores, homey. You wanna know how he died?” Manny said.
“Yeah. How’d he die, ese?"
“From Kryptonitis!” Manny said.
“You ain’t right! Fuck you, ese!” Mad Dog said.
“Take no notice of my celly," Scooby said in a helpful tone. “Reeve died from a cardiac arrest brought on by an infection from the bedsores."
“Bed sores?" Mad Dog asked.
“She killed him. Know what I mean? She knew what she was doin’. Know what I mean?"
“You're right, ese,” Scooby said. “She studied up on dat shit. She knew what wuz good for him and what wuzn't good for him.”
“That’s gonna be a high-profile case,” Diego said.
“How’d da bitch kill him from bedsores, ese?” Mad Dog said.
“She wuzn't cleanin' him right, ese,” Scooby said.
“Dat fool had a lot of money, ese, You know dat dose Hollywood tramps are all about the cheddar [money], ese,” Diego said.
“Da bitch did it,” Manny said.
“He wuz just a head. His body had shrunk and dey didn’t clean his body, right? Know what I mean? Dem bed sores iz nothin’ nice. Know what I mean?"
“Da bitch wuz sick o’ takin’ care o’ him, ese,” Manny said.
“Fuckin killa! She did it, ese,” Mad Dog said.
A series of loud farts halted the conversation.
“God damn!” Manny yelled.
“I love you,” Scooby whispered.
“Speak to me,” Mad Dog said in a feminine tone.
“Damn! Know what I mean?"
“Fuck his tight ass,” Diego said.
26 Oct 04
Mark Update
Today I received a letter from Mark, my last cellmate at the Madison Street jail. He was recently rolled up, but he managed to land in the same pod as Frankie. Mark wrote “The roach dreams are back 'cause this place has a lot of cracks with nothing sealed.”
There's nothing worse than being moved from a roach-proofed cell to a cell where gaping cracks abound. At the whimsy of the jail, months of hard work sealing the cracks with toothpaste can be rendered redundant.
Sorry to add to your woes, Mark, but I recently read that the American cockroach carries 22 species of pathogenic human bacteria, virus, fungi and protozoa’s, as well as five species of helminthic worms.
Mark is be sentenced soon. He hopes that everyone will say a prayer for him, so that he receives probation. His plight will be in my thoughts after tonight’s meditation session. Mark’s neighbour Sal wasn’t so lucky with the legal vampires. His attorney promised him he'd only get seven years if he signed a plea bargain. He signed and got 23 years.
Thank you for all of the birthday cards!
Mark Update
Today I received a letter from Mark, my last cellmate at the Madison Street jail. He was recently rolled up, but he managed to land in the same pod as Frankie. Mark wrote “The roach dreams are back 'cause this place has a lot of cracks with nothing sealed.”
There's nothing worse than being moved from a roach-proofed cell to a cell where gaping cracks abound. At the whimsy of the jail, months of hard work sealing the cracks with toothpaste can be rendered redundant.
Sorry to add to your woes, Mark, but I recently read that the American cockroach carries 22 species of pathogenic human bacteria, virus, fungi and protozoa’s, as well as five species of helminthic worms.
Mark is be sentenced soon. He hopes that everyone will say a prayer for him, so that he receives probation. His plight will be in my thoughts after tonight’s meditation session. Mark’s neighbour Sal wasn’t so lucky with the legal vampires. His attorney promised him he'd only get seven years if he signed a plea bargain. He signed and got 23 years.
Thank you for all of the birthday cards!
25 Oct 04
Viva Mexico!
Frankie’s strategy worked. By forcing his case to trial Frankie called the prosecutor's bluff. He had refused to sign plea bargains, against his attorney’s advice, and just before the trial, the prosecutor dropped all of his more serious charges and offered him a better plea bargain. The prosecutor had never expected Frankie to take things so far. Frankie described her face as, "looking like she ate a sour lemon." He has pleaded guilty to a Class 3 felony: conspiracy to commit aggravated assault. He should be arriving at SMU2 this winter.
There was a jailhouse shuffle and Frankie was rolled up to a new pod and separated from the object of his lust: Cupcake. Frankie’s new cellmate had refused to tell the police his name, so on his ID his name is printed as John Doe. Whether John Doe has succumbed to Frankie’s charms, is, as yet, a mystery.
Frankie and his neighbours were disturbed by the arrival of a paisano who yelled, "Viva Mexico!" at all hours of the day and night. During the paisano's first hour out he spat on guards and kicked cell doors whilst yelling, "Viva Mexico!" After two days of this he was restrained, cuffed and permanently removed from Frankie’s pod. Frankie wrote that he left yelling "Viva Mexico!"
Due to all of your questions about Frankie, I have written to him asking if he has a pic that he wouldn’t mind being posted to the blog. My fingers are crossed.
Viva Mexico!
Frankie’s strategy worked. By forcing his case to trial Frankie called the prosecutor's bluff. He had refused to sign plea bargains, against his attorney’s advice, and just before the trial, the prosecutor dropped all of his more serious charges and offered him a better plea bargain. The prosecutor had never expected Frankie to take things so far. Frankie described her face as, "looking like she ate a sour lemon." He has pleaded guilty to a Class 3 felony: conspiracy to commit aggravated assault. He should be arriving at SMU2 this winter.
There was a jailhouse shuffle and Frankie was rolled up to a new pod and separated from the object of his lust: Cupcake. Frankie’s new cellmate had refused to tell the police his name, so on his ID his name is printed as John Doe. Whether John Doe has succumbed to Frankie’s charms, is, as yet, a mystery.
Frankie and his neighbours were disturbed by the arrival of a paisano who yelled, "Viva Mexico!" at all hours of the day and night. During the paisano's first hour out he spat on guards and kicked cell doors whilst yelling, "Viva Mexico!" After two days of this he was restrained, cuffed and permanently removed from Frankie’s pod. Frankie wrote that he left yelling "Viva Mexico!"
Due to all of your questions about Frankie, I have written to him asking if he has a pic that he wouldn’t mind being posted to the blog. My fingers are crossed.
24 Oct 04
Abuse of Juveniles at Arpaio's Jail
Today I received an eyewitness account from a reliable source that described some violence that occurred last month at the Madison Street jail. Sadly, the victims were juveniles.
The juveniles are housed upstairs in the jail where they suffer the same conditions as the adults. On the day in question, the juveniles had been raising hell - their activity included several fights, gallivanting around the pod naked with pink towels wrapped around their heads, and, one of them had tried to hang himself. Failed suicide attempts always invite harsh reprisals.
A dozen restraint chairs were brought to the juveniles' pod. These contraptions look like they've been lifted from a medieval torture chamber. Inmates limbs are strapped into these chairs. They are low to the ground and have tilted backs. To prevent spitting, nets are sometimes placed over the inmate's face.
The violence began with the guards tasing most of the juveniles, who collapsed on the floor.
One of the untased juveniles spat on a guard’s face. This juvenile was held down and pummelled by two officers twice his age, size and weight. The pod was searched, property was confiscated and the juveniles were left to suffer wearing only their pink boxers. Some of them got to spend a few days confined to their cells completely naked.
Surely committing violence on juveniles is only going to traumatise them and add to their future unlawfulness.
Abuse of Juveniles at Arpaio's Jail
Today I received an eyewitness account from a reliable source that described some violence that occurred last month at the Madison Street jail. Sadly, the victims were juveniles.
The juveniles are housed upstairs in the jail where they suffer the same conditions as the adults. On the day in question, the juveniles had been raising hell - their activity included several fights, gallivanting around the pod naked with pink towels wrapped around their heads, and, one of them had tried to hang himself. Failed suicide attempts always invite harsh reprisals.
A dozen restraint chairs were brought to the juveniles' pod. These contraptions look like they've been lifted from a medieval torture chamber. Inmates limbs are strapped into these chairs. They are low to the ground and have tilted backs. To prevent spitting, nets are sometimes placed over the inmate's face.
The violence began with the guards tasing most of the juveniles, who collapsed on the floor.
One of the untased juveniles spat on a guard’s face. This juvenile was held down and pummelled by two officers twice his age, size and weight. The pod was searched, property was confiscated and the juveniles were left to suffer wearing only their pink boxers. Some of them got to spend a few days confined to their cells completely naked.
Surely committing violence on juveniles is only going to traumatise them and add to their future unlawfulness.
22 Oct 04
Orange Alert
Due to the response to the BBC online news story, I am asking everyone who has corresponded to wait a bit for a reply because I'm only allowed so much stationary each week. People who have provided physical addresses will receive letters in due time. I am overjoyed to be setting the incoming-mail record at Florence prison. Please keep the emails, letters and comments coming, as reading them is the highlight of my day. Your kind words will all be read and appreciated.
Cheers! Jon
Dear Chris Summers,
Thank you for the well-written news story that you put together for the BBC. The public takes notice of the plight of prisoners when a respectable news organisation highlights what is really occurring. Our combined efforts have helped disclose the illegal and immoral treatment of the presentence detainees at the Madison Street jail. My hope is that the jail administration will mend their ways, stop flouting the law and start observing human rights.
Your article contained Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s standard response, "Don’t violate the law and you won’t come back." I find this odd, because the jails predominantly house inmates awaiting trial, who have not yet been convicted of the crimes they have been charged with. Supposedly, there is a presumption of innocence until guilt is proven.
Kudos to the BBC for providing a first-class service in an industry permeated by commercial disinformation. Prisoners listen to the BBC even here. My neighbour, Diego, is an avid listener to the BBC World Service. My cellmate, Penguin, swears up and down that a recent BBC. documentary about ants, shown on the nature channel, was the best programme he has ever seen.
Keep up the good work, Chris!
Appreciatively yours, Jon
To Messrs. Alan West (Daily Post) and Simon Drury,
Thank you for the "Barbaric Conditions" articles. You have helped bring attention to the blog and you have increased the public’s awareness of the plight of the presentence detainees at the Madison Street jail. My hope is that sufficient pressure will come about to halt the practices occurring in that place.
I appreciate your contributions to a worthy cause.
Respectfully yours, Jon
Dear Pauline Crowe, Prisoners Abroad, http://www.prisonersabroad.org.uk/
Thank you for bringing to my attention the fact that the staff at the British Consulate in Washington DC are now aware of the abuses occurring at the Madison Street jail. If it is your intention - in light of the Guardian article - that no citizens of the UK will ever be housed at Maricopa County jailhouses again, then I feel as if our collective efforts have scored a victory. Your email contained great news.
Appreciatively yours, Jon
Orange Alert
Due to the response to the BBC online news story, I am asking everyone who has corresponded to wait a bit for a reply because I'm only allowed so much stationary each week. People who have provided physical addresses will receive letters in due time. I am overjoyed to be setting the incoming-mail record at Florence prison. Please keep the emails, letters and comments coming, as reading them is the highlight of my day. Your kind words will all be read and appreciated.
Cheers! Jon
Dear Chris Summers,
Thank you for the well-written news story that you put together for the BBC. The public takes notice of the plight of prisoners when a respectable news organisation highlights what is really occurring. Our combined efforts have helped disclose the illegal and immoral treatment of the presentence detainees at the Madison Street jail. My hope is that the jail administration will mend their ways, stop flouting the law and start observing human rights.
Your article contained Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s standard response, "Don’t violate the law and you won’t come back." I find this odd, because the jails predominantly house inmates awaiting trial, who have not yet been convicted of the crimes they have been charged with. Supposedly, there is a presumption of innocence until guilt is proven.
Kudos to the BBC for providing a first-class service in an industry permeated by commercial disinformation. Prisoners listen to the BBC even here. My neighbour, Diego, is an avid listener to the BBC World Service. My cellmate, Penguin, swears up and down that a recent BBC. documentary about ants, shown on the nature channel, was the best programme he has ever seen.
Keep up the good work, Chris!
Appreciatively yours, Jon
To Messrs. Alan West (Daily Post) and Simon Drury,
Thank you for the "Barbaric Conditions" articles. You have helped bring attention to the blog and you have increased the public’s awareness of the plight of the presentence detainees at the Madison Street jail. My hope is that sufficient pressure will come about to halt the practices occurring in that place.
I appreciate your contributions to a worthy cause.
Respectfully yours, Jon
Dear Pauline Crowe, Prisoners Abroad, http://www.prisonersabroad.org.uk/
Thank you for bringing to my attention the fact that the staff at the British Consulate in Washington DC are now aware of the abuses occurring at the Madison Street jail. If it is your intention - in light of the Guardian article - that no citizens of the UK will ever be housed at Maricopa County jailhouses again, then I feel as if our collective efforts have scored a victory. Your email contained great news.
Appreciatively yours, Jon
21 Oct 04
Free Yoga Services For U.S. Inmates
The Prison Dharma Network sends donated books free of charge to prisoners. I have written to both of the addresses below and I received my first two lessons from the SYDA foundation this week. Per Lesson 2, I have now incorporated a new mantra into my nightly meditation sessions: Om Namah Shivaya, literally, Om I bow to Shiva. Shiva denotes divine consciousness.
Whilst studying the lessons and the Sanskrit terms it became evident that the ancient Indic civilization compartmentalised the mind thousands of years before Freud et al did. For example, ahamkara means the ego, and samskara is a subtle impression of a past experience or thought that shapes our present experiences or thoughts. The westernization of yoga seems to have overemphasised the physical side, the asanas, at the expense of the metaphysical side. I suspect there is a wealth of information within eastern philosophy that could help us better understand humankind and ourselves. I urge inmates to give yoga and meditation a try. You’ll be pleasantly surprised at the immediate benefits. I’ll finish with a quote.
“I shut my eyes in order to see”
Paul Gaugin
Inmates may contact the following 2 organisations:
SYDA Foundation Prison Project
P.O. Box 99140
Emeryville CA. 94662
The Siddah Yoga Correspondence Course provides two lessons sent each month, for up to 12 years. The emphasis is on meditation and reading.
Prison Dharma Network
P.O. Box 4623
Boulder CO. 80306http://www.prisondharmanetwork.org/
Free Yoga Services For U.S. Inmates
The Prison Dharma Network sends donated books free of charge to prisoners. I have written to both of the addresses below and I received my first two lessons from the SYDA foundation this week. Per Lesson 2, I have now incorporated a new mantra into my nightly meditation sessions: Om Namah Shivaya, literally, Om I bow to Shiva. Shiva denotes divine consciousness.
Whilst studying the lessons and the Sanskrit terms it became evident that the ancient Indic civilization compartmentalised the mind thousands of years before Freud et al did. For example, ahamkara means the ego, and samskara is a subtle impression of a past experience or thought that shapes our present experiences or thoughts. The westernization of yoga seems to have overemphasised the physical side, the asanas, at the expense of the metaphysical side. I suspect there is a wealth of information within eastern philosophy that could help us better understand humankind and ourselves. I urge inmates to give yoga and meditation a try. You’ll be pleasantly surprised at the immediate benefits. I’ll finish with a quote.
“I shut my eyes in order to see”
Paul Gaugin
Inmates may contact the following 2 organisations:
SYDA Foundation Prison Project
P.O. Box 99140
Emeryville CA. 94662
The Siddah Yoga Correspondence Course provides two lessons sent each month, for up to 12 years. The emphasis is on meditation and reading.
Prison Dharma Network
P.O. Box 4623
Boulder CO. 80306http://www.prisondharmanetwork.org/
20 Oct 04
Convict Cannon Fodder
Dear George W. Bush,
I have pondered conscription, and I have an idea that may help.
Perhaps you should consider the millions of men in America's prisons and jails. If you do so you may find cunning men, plenty with prior weapons experience, and some who relish the prospect of killing.
I hope that the following conversation between some of my neighbours helps demonstrate my point.
With great respect,
Your dawg,
Jon
Diego, Manny, Scooby, and a new arrival, a young Chicano with an affinity for the expression "Know what I mean?" kept me up late last night with this conversation.
“They’z gonna reintroduce da draft, ese,” Scooby said.
“I’d go, ese,” Diego said.
“I’d fuckin’ go as well, ese,” Manny said.
“I’d love to go. I’d be free. Know what I mean?"
“Fuck da draft. I’m an anarchist! 'Specially after readin’ deese philosophy books, ese,” Scooby said.
“I wanna drive a tank, ese,” Diego said.
“I’d go just so I can shoot my own people and escape, ese,” Manny said.
“I ain’t riskin’ gettin’ killed so these politician vatos can make money for their homies runnin’ the military and oil companies,” Scooby said.
“But we’d be freed. Know what I mean? Maybe they wouldn’t send us to the Middle East, ese. Know what I mean? Maybe we’d get to kill those Korean vatos before dey nuke us. Know what I mean?"
“Yeah, lets bomb dose bastards!” Manny said.
“Nah, day aint got nukes, ese. Day did a few shitty missile tests and day even fucked dem up, homey. Dose Korean vatos are still using weapons manufactured in the seventies. Days broke-arse muthafuckas, dats wot day is,” Diego said in a slow emphatic tone.
“It be sayin’ dat dey wanna nuke us on mi radio, ese.”
“Yup, day be sayin’ dat on mi radio as well. Day are sayin’ dat because our government and the military vatos want to keep military bases in dat area so they can spy on the Chinese and Russian vatos, ese,” Diego said.
“He’s been listening to Coast to Coast. He thinks dat he’s George fuckin’ Noory,” Scooby said.
“I do. I listen to Coast to Coast every night on mi radio, ese,” Diego said.
“You know a lot o' shit though, ese,” Scooby said.
“That’s because I wuz studyin’ this shit on the streets, ese, unlike you who wuz robbin’ Circle Ks,” Diego said.
“Fuck you, ese! I wuz studyin’ too, homey,” Scooby said.
“I listen to all kinds o' shit on mi radio, ese. Know what I mean?"
“Yeah, on mi radio, when he said that, ‘We attacked Iraq because they attacked us,' and that gobacho Kerry den said, ‘Nah, Osama bin Laden attacked us,’ Bush got pissed off, ese,” Scooby said.
“Yeah, Kerry got the better of Bush in dat debate, ese,” Diego said.
“I think dat Kerry’s gonna win, ese. Know what I mean?"
“It don’t matter who wins, ese. According to my Plato book, the strong homies are always gonna shit on the weak homies, ese,” Scooby said.
“Yeah, Kerry’s a military vato all the way,” Diego said.
“Nothin’s gunna change, ese. People just think that it is. It’s all a big chess game to those fools, ese. Anyway, I’m gunna get back to readin’ my Machiavelli book, ese. Orale!” Scooby said.
“Orale!” they jointly replied.
Note from Jon’s parents: We heard on Thursday 4th November, via an email from Jon’s Aunt that he has been moved from SMU2 to Buckeye prison. The address is below. Mail sent to his previous address will be forwarded.
Thanks again, we know your correspondence keeps him going.
He can now have hard back books.
Shaun Attwood ADC 187160
ASPC-Lewis
Morey Unit 2-D-22
P.O. Box 3300, Buckeye, AZ 85326, USA
Convict Cannon Fodder
Dear George W. Bush,
I have pondered conscription, and I have an idea that may help.
Perhaps you should consider the millions of men in America's prisons and jails. If you do so you may find cunning men, plenty with prior weapons experience, and some who relish the prospect of killing.
I hope that the following conversation between some of my neighbours helps demonstrate my point.
With great respect,
Your dawg,
Jon
Diego, Manny, Scooby, and a new arrival, a young Chicano with an affinity for the expression "Know what I mean?" kept me up late last night with this conversation.
“They’z gonna reintroduce da draft, ese,” Scooby said.
“I’d go, ese,” Diego said.
“I’d fuckin’ go as well, ese,” Manny said.
“I’d love to go. I’d be free. Know what I mean?"
“Fuck da draft. I’m an anarchist! 'Specially after readin’ deese philosophy books, ese,” Scooby said.
“I wanna drive a tank, ese,” Diego said.
“I’d go just so I can shoot my own people and escape, ese,” Manny said.
“I ain’t riskin’ gettin’ killed so these politician vatos can make money for their homies runnin’ the military and oil companies,” Scooby said.
“But we’d be freed. Know what I mean? Maybe they wouldn’t send us to the Middle East, ese. Know what I mean? Maybe we’d get to kill those Korean vatos before dey nuke us. Know what I mean?"
“Yeah, lets bomb dose bastards!” Manny said.
“Nah, day aint got nukes, ese. Day did a few shitty missile tests and day even fucked dem up, homey. Dose Korean vatos are still using weapons manufactured in the seventies. Days broke-arse muthafuckas, dats wot day is,” Diego said in a slow emphatic tone.
“It be sayin’ dat dey wanna nuke us on mi radio, ese.”
“Yup, day be sayin’ dat on mi radio as well. Day are sayin’ dat because our government and the military vatos want to keep military bases in dat area so they can spy on the Chinese and Russian vatos, ese,” Diego said.
“He’s been listening to Coast to Coast. He thinks dat he’s George fuckin’ Noory,” Scooby said.
“I do. I listen to Coast to Coast every night on mi radio, ese,” Diego said.
“You know a lot o' shit though, ese,” Scooby said.
“That’s because I wuz studyin’ this shit on the streets, ese, unlike you who wuz robbin’ Circle Ks,” Diego said.
“Fuck you, ese! I wuz studyin’ too, homey,” Scooby said.
“I listen to all kinds o' shit on mi radio, ese. Know what I mean?"
“Yeah, on mi radio, when he said that, ‘We attacked Iraq because they attacked us,' and that gobacho Kerry den said, ‘Nah, Osama bin Laden attacked us,’ Bush got pissed off, ese,” Scooby said.
“Yeah, Kerry got the better of Bush in dat debate, ese,” Diego said.
“I think dat Kerry’s gonna win, ese. Know what I mean?"
“It don’t matter who wins, ese. According to my Plato book, the strong homies are always gonna shit on the weak homies, ese,” Scooby said.
“Yeah, Kerry’s a military vato all the way,” Diego said.
“Nothin’s gunna change, ese. People just think that it is. It’s all a big chess game to those fools, ese. Anyway, I’m gunna get back to readin’ my Machiavelli book, ese. Orale!” Scooby said.
“Orale!” they jointly replied.
Note from Jon’s parents: We heard on Thursday 4th November, via an email from Jon’s Aunt that he has been moved from SMU2 to Buckeye prison. The address is below. Mail sent to his previous address will be forwarded.
Thanks again, we know your correspondence keeps him going.
He can now have hard back books.
Shaun Attwood ADC 187160
ASPC-Lewis
Morey Unit 2-D-22
P.O. Box 3300, Buckeye, AZ 85326, USA
18 Oct 04
The Butterfly Effect
I received some kind words this week in the form of an email from http://www.prisonersabroad.org.uk/. Apparently, it is the intention of Prisoners Abroad that no other Brits will ever be housed in Sheriff Joe Arpaio's jail system. This decision was made, the email said, after the staff at Prisoners Abroad read the Guardian article. So more thanks are due to the Guardian.
I would also like to thank Bob Ayala, the candidate for Sheriff of Maricopa Country who is running against Joe Arpaio, for linking my blog to his website. It is the people of Maricopa County who I'm hoping are becoming more aware of the conditions at Arpaio's jail system. If enough local voices are raised then maybe changes will be made.
Good Luck, Mr. Ayala!
The Butterfly Effect
I received some kind words this week in the form of an email from http://www.prisonersabroad.org.uk/. Apparently, it is the intention of Prisoners Abroad that no other Brits will ever be housed in Sheriff Joe Arpaio's jail system. This decision was made, the email said, after the staff at Prisoners Abroad read the Guardian article. So more thanks are due to the Guardian.
I would also like to thank Bob Ayala, the candidate for Sheriff of Maricopa Country who is running against Joe Arpaio, for linking my blog to his website. It is the people of Maricopa County who I'm hoping are becoming more aware of the conditions at Arpaio's jail system. If enough local voices are raised then maybe changes will be made.
Good Luck, Mr. Ayala!
17 Oct 04
Odds & Ends
It was Penguin’s birthday on Saturday and he celebrated by drinking what he called "a Cadillac." He mixed enough coffee for 16 cups along with enough chocolate for four cups into a twenty-ounce pop bottle. He explained it was a recipe he had learned during a previous prison sentence. After drinking eight cups of tea, Penguin downed the Caddy.
“I haven’t speeded off coffee like this for 5 years!” Penguin said, his moon face flushing wildly.
A few hours later he projectile vomited the Cadillac into our toilet. Poor Penguin.
It didn’t take Manny long to clash with another guard.
Manny was asleep when a young graveyard-shift officer shone a torch on his face.
“Get dat fuckin’ light out o’ my face, toots!” Manny yelled.
“For bein’ so rude, I’m gonna shine it on yer face every walk tonight.”
“I’m tryin’ to fuckin’ sleep, toots!”
“Tough shit!”
“That’s alright, 'cause I was dreamin’ of yer wife anyway!”
“For sayin’ that, I’m gonna rip up you’re store slip!”
The guard hurriedly left the run, returned with Manny’s store form, ripped it up, and cackled like a mad-man, before departing the run.
Manny’s weekly store order never came, but he seemed unphased.
I had a special visit approved by a sergeant. My Aunty Ann came, accompanied by two of my cousins from England. I got to sit in a little cell and to speak to them through a glass window. Our voices travelled through the window frames. It was Silence of the Lambs style. I hadn’t laughed so hard in a while. At one point my visitors stood up, held hands, danced and sang English folk songs. The visitation staff initially looked askance at them, but they ended up laughing hysterically at the bizarre display. Good lookin' out Aunty Ann and cousins Pat and Frances!
I’ve received more letters from organisations seeking to publish blog extracts and I’ve also received requests for newspaper interviews. I suspect that more articles will be out soon. I’d like to say a big thank you to you, my readers, for the stream of emails and letters offering support.
Odds & Ends
It was Penguin’s birthday on Saturday and he celebrated by drinking what he called "a Cadillac." He mixed enough coffee for 16 cups along with enough chocolate for four cups into a twenty-ounce pop bottle. He explained it was a recipe he had learned during a previous prison sentence. After drinking eight cups of tea, Penguin downed the Caddy.
“I haven’t speeded off coffee like this for 5 years!” Penguin said, his moon face flushing wildly.
A few hours later he projectile vomited the Cadillac into our toilet. Poor Penguin.
It didn’t take Manny long to clash with another guard.
Manny was asleep when a young graveyard-shift officer shone a torch on his face.
“Get dat fuckin’ light out o’ my face, toots!” Manny yelled.
“For bein’ so rude, I’m gonna shine it on yer face every walk tonight.”
“I’m tryin’ to fuckin’ sleep, toots!”
“Tough shit!”
“That’s alright, 'cause I was dreamin’ of yer wife anyway!”
“For sayin’ that, I’m gonna rip up you’re store slip!”
The guard hurriedly left the run, returned with Manny’s store form, ripped it up, and cackled like a mad-man, before departing the run.
Manny’s weekly store order never came, but he seemed unphased.
I had a special visit approved by a sergeant. My Aunty Ann came, accompanied by two of my cousins from England. I got to sit in a little cell and to speak to them through a glass window. Our voices travelled through the window frames. It was Silence of the Lambs style. I hadn’t laughed so hard in a while. At one point my visitors stood up, held hands, danced and sang English folk songs. The visitation staff initially looked askance at them, but they ended up laughing hysterically at the bizarre display. Good lookin' out Aunty Ann and cousins Pat and Frances!
I’ve received more letters from organisations seeking to publish blog extracts and I’ve also received requests for newspaper interviews. I suspect that more articles will be out soon. I’d like to say a big thank you to you, my readers, for the stream of emails and letters offering support.
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