9 July 06

Kissed (Part 2)

Click here for A Kiss Part 2.

Although I wanted to lock on her face like a wheel clamp and drain her dry of saliva, I tried to act cool.

Approaching her, my heart fluttered.
It all happened so fast.
Greetings.
Hugs and kisses.

As her lips gently brushed mine, I felt an electrical spark. Eyes closed, I travelled elsewhere.

Seated, we laughed and talked incessantly. I couldn’t take my eyes off her's. It was as if our eyes were speaking in a language of their own.

Oudoors, we walked and held hands along Lovers' Lane (laps around the picnic tables). There’s nothing so good for the ego as to be transformed from a celled-up ghost of a Romeo to a cock of the walk.

Royo Girl and I seem to be a match made by Cupid. She is strong and intelligent and soothing to be around. I didn’t feel uncomfortable or anxious in her presence. We dovetailed.

The visit ended with more hugs and kisses.

Royo Girl departed with flowers from the garden where Xena works. A bouquet of African daisies, bachelor buttons and zinnias.

Do I have a have a future with Royo Girl? I thought as I walked back to the yard. Have you lost your mind? You can't think like that after just one visit. My sister is right about me falling in love too easily. What’s wrong with me? But some force is at work here. What was the chance of us getting along like we did? But there are so many things aginst us ever being together. It’s because you're a prisoner you’re desperate for female attention. Stop the romantic thoughts. You sound like a teenager. But I can't get her out of my mind.

Back in my cell, I was visited by Jack. Jack is one of the brightest people I’ve met inside. He calculates math quicker than a Pentium.

"How did your visit go?” Jack asked.
“I can still feel the electricity. We chatted and giggled like little kids for over four hours. The other visitors seemed poker faced in comparison.”
“Did you feel there was relationship potential?”
“I did, but I can’t expect anything like that. I don’t want to be a prison boyfriend. She’s got her life to lead and I’m stuck in here. It’s not fair until I’m released.”
“That’s a sensible and mature answer. Surprising coming from you.”
“Thanks.”

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood

08 July 06

Kissed

Click here for Kissed Part 2.

What life is there, what delight, without golden Aphrodite?
Mimnermus of Smyrna 634-600 BC.

Love is a silly infatuation… I love nobody.
Napoleon Bonaparte 1769-1821.

Last night, I received an envelope from Royo Girl containing two computer printouts: Kelly Brook topless and Paris Hilton’s legs.

6:30am Royo Girl is visiting today, I thought. I hope she makes it. It seems too good to be true. I'm so excited. But I should prepare myself just in case she doesn't come - remember what happened with Claudia. I never imagined I’d feel so happy over hugs and kisses - and hours of female company. Calm down, it’s no big deal - or is it?
I need to plan for her arrival. I’d better check the breakfast menu to see if there’s anything likely to cause bad breath. Let’s see: hot cereal, biscuits, grilled potatoes, and three ounces of sharp cheddar cheese. Uh-oh. The cheese is out of the question. I can’t be kissing with my breath smelling like sweaty socks. I’ll give my cheese to
Slingblade.
Standing in front of the mirror, I thought, I look like Edvard Munch’s The Scream. Those nose hairs will have to go. I’ need to shave my face smooth, and get rid of that hair below my Adam’s apple. I'll give my ears a good clean.
What about clothing? OK, George did a good job pressing my pants. My new boxers are good to go. And my new T-shirt. There’s my socks, my sneakers. I’m set.

10:11a.m. “Dog eleven, you’ve gotta visit!”

Wow! She’s here. It’s unreal. Get dressed – fast!

My clothes found themselves on my body so fast they didn’t know what had hit them.

Go-go-go! But what about all the paperwork on my desk? I can’t leave it like that, I might get a ticket. It’s going to take me ages to file it away. What should I do?

Behaving like one of my childhood heroes, Thing from the Fantastic Four, I growled and seized the paperwork. I raised it and threw it toward an open drawer. It travelled through the air like an origami tumbleweed, spitting pens and envelopes. I slammed the drawer shut so hard it banged the wall and made my neighbour yell, “Whatthafuck England!”
I tossed an apology into the AC vent, and launched myself out of the cell. I felt like a guided missile programmed to strike the visitation room and propel through all obstacles in its way.
Like confetti bouncing off steel, inmates' heckles couldn't slow me down..
“Should I place medical staff on standby at the visitation room in case you get too excited?” Officer Gundel yelled. His question failed to slow me down.

Standing at the front of the visitation room, smiling but also looking a little nervous, was Royo Girl. I couldn't take my eyes off her face - it had a hint of Irish mischievousness, and her black outfit enhanced it's radiance.


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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood

06 July 06

Interview With A Blood

According to Phoenix Police Department, acts of violence enabled Bones to rise to the rank of leader in the South Side Posse Bloods. His police reports include crimes such as kidnapping, interfering with judicial proceedings, misconduct involving weapons, and possession of a prohibited weapon. One report states he was, “firing shots at another vehicle.” Let’s find out more about Bones.

“What’s a Blood?”
“The opposite of a Crip. Red versus blue. It started in L.A..”
“What division are you in?”
“The South Side Posse Bloods – a Chicano gang.”
“Did you get jumped in?”
“Yeah. Me and my friends were at a Posse party and gang members asked us if we wanted to get jumped in. There were six of us. My partners were big dudes – six footers, weighin’ two-hundred-and-sixty pounds each or so. There were fifteen of them. They gave a girl a stopwatch, and told us we were gonna have a free-for-all for seven to ten minutes. That’s a long time when you’re fightin’. People were getting’ body-slammed, tossed over a bonfire, hit over the head with bottles. After that everybody was cool, and lickin’ their wounds. We were officially part of the gang.”
“How did you rise up?”
“I became real popular. I was known for not takin’ any shit. And I was quick to shoot if someone came around. That earned me respect in the neighbourhood.”
“Which neighbourhood?”
“In Phoenix, it started out in '85, '86 in a small section of the south side of Central and Baseline to 7th Ave, and Baseline up to Dobbins and 7th.
“How did it begin?”
“Certain dudes in the neighbourhood refused to join the gang Happy Homes, and started South Side Posse Bloods. The cofounders included Lasaro and Chapo, who are dead now.”
“How dangerous did the gang become?”
“Extremely dangerous. We were known for havin’ guns. One night a Crip drove up and yelled, ‘Fuck Slobs,’ which is disrespectful to Bloods, and he shot into the crowd with a shotgun. After our gang had shot back, the police found ninety-seven rounds of ammunition in his car. One Crip died. One ended up in a wheelchair for life. It was on the news.”
“Do Bloods have different age classifications like the Crips have Pee-Wees or BGs?”
“We didn’t have ranks like that in our neighbourhood. Whoever puts in the most work gets the most respect.”
“What kind of work?”
“If enemies were talkin’ bad about us, we’d beat 'em down or shoot 'em. Drive-bys, stuff like that. Especially if they shot at us or killed one of us.”
“How big is the gang?”
“In ’95 there were fifteen-hundred members. It was the biggest Chicano Blood gang in Arizona. Until ’95, they were all the same gang. After ’95 they separated into little groups with their own shot-callers. But if somethin’ went down, if a gang challenged us by shootin’ at us, we’d all get together and retaliate, and not with just a single car drive-by. There’s be four or five cars, five guys in each, and everbody packin’ one or two guns. We were not people you wanted to cross.”
“Were South Side Posse big in the prison system?”
“At age twenty, I was the first member in the prison system. Then we didn’t have too many problems. But in ’95 the Mexican Mafia gave the green light to kill our members 'cause we didn’t play by their rules. They didn’t like the drive-bys 'cause kids and innocent people could get killed. But in our gang, if we’re gonna kill someone, we shoot when we see him no matter where he is or who he’s with. That’s why we’re known as one of the most dangerous gangs in Phoenix. When I came back to prison, I got jumped every time, every yard I went to. I was stabbed in my right side.” Bones pointed at a scar on his torso, and I noticed the SSP tattoo on his middle finger.
“How powerful were the SSP when you were last on the streets?”
“That was ’97. They’d branched off. There was 10th Street SSP. There was 7th Street SSP. And they were beefin’ with each other. The original dudes were dead or locked up. The new generation came up with their own rules, and were not feared by too many people. Several divisions bowed down to the Mexican Mafia by formin’ alliances.”
“What slang do you use?”
“Stuff like, ‘What that B like?’ meanin’ ‘How’s Blood life?’ Or ‘Whattup B-Dogg?’”
“Spelt Dawg?”
“Yeah or Dogg, like Snoop Dogg. We say, ‘bikin’ it,’ instead of ‘kickin’ it,’ 'cause all the C-words are for Crips, and we add a B for Bloods. If I’m kickin’ back, hangin’ out, I’d say, ‘I’m just gonna bik it, homey.’ We call Crips ‘crabs,’ 'cause they back up like crabs. And we call 'em, ‘E-rikets,’ 'cause they jump away like crickets. If a dude is dressed up all in blue we say he’s, ‘All boobooed up,’ and we’ll sweat him and ask him where he’s from.”
“Do you guys use expressions like, ‘fo shizzle,’ as in ‘for sure’?”
“No. That’s really for black gangs. Mostly for us, C-words become B-words. A cigarette is a bigarette. Crazy is brazy. I would say, ‘Did you see what that B-Dogg did, that shit was brazy, fool.’ Cousin is fousin.”
“Why not bousin?”
“It’s just the way it is.”
“If Crips are boobooed up in blue what do you guys typically wear?”
“Bloods wear red shirts and baseball caps, black jeans (dickies), and sneakers that are usually Nike. We had a bit of style. We were pretty-boy gang members, which attracted the girls. But don’t get me wrong: we were brazy Bloods.”
“Has this fashion changed since you’ve been down?”
“If someone claims Bloods they’re still wearin’ red.”
“What music do Bloods prefer?”
“Gangsta rap. The Relatives. Banging On Wax. Tupac – a lot – but he was just a thug not a Blood. Anythin’ from Bloods and not from Crips. We listened to Snoop Dogg until we found out he was a Crip.”
“I appreciate you talking to me, and providing an insight into gang culture. Is there anything you’d like to add?”
“After being in this gang life, out of fifteen-hundred gang members I knew, only three remained loyal to me, including Chris G, Negro, and my last homeboy, my brother, who did five years for manslaughter for killin’ a gang member who was tryin’ to kill me and had beat my sister with a sledgehammer. My brother’s dead now, so I’d like to put out an RIP for Robert.”

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
04 July 06

The Danger of Being a Brit in an American Prison on Independence Day (Part 2)

As a lone Brit surrounded by inmates running wild with July 4th excitement I
knew I was taking a big risk going to the chow hall. The breakfast special – pancakes, omelettes with turkey ham, biscuits, and cinnamon rolls – had induced a unique brand of patriotic madness into the crowd.
“Jon, your tray’s ready,” said a voice that could barely be heard above all of the noise. It was the midget Short Dog, the diet cook, who, for some reason, had chosen not to serve my chow through the hole in the wall, but instead to deliver it.
Mocking voices demanded I go immediately to Short Dog. I squeezed through the crowd and found Short Dog holding a tray containing a single bread crust and a cup of water. Suddenly, I was the laughing stock of about one-hundred-and-fifty inmates. I froze. I couldn't speak. My eyebrows twitched wildly.
Short Dog looked up at me, and said, “Happy July 4th, you Limey redcoat. You’re lucky you’re gettin’ this breakfast 'cause we don’t feed redcoats on America’s birthday. Here’s your bread and water. Sorry I couldn’t find a lime for your scurvy. Down with Queen Elizabeth. Down with Manchester United. Don’t make me get my squirrel gun.”
Insults rained down from every direction.
“Who authorised the water?” Officer Cooke yelled. “That’s way too generous.”
“Down with Beckham and the Spice Girls!”
“Write the queen,” T-Bone said, “and tell her America said thank you.”
“I’ll show you my Prince Albert,” Little Wood said, thrusting his pelvis, threatening to pull down his trousers.
“Let’s have a Boston Tea Party,” Slope said. “We kicked the goddam Limeys outta our country once. Why do they keep comin’ back?”
Two Tonys began singing "The Battle of 1814."
Slope commenced "The Star-Spangled Banner," and others joined in.

Oh say can you see,
By the dawn’s early light.

“Beckham can’t play for shit,” Short Dog said. “Down with King George.”
The slandering of the sports figure was the last straw. Although I was deep in enemy territory, it was time for me to respond. Like a fire eater, I theatrically tilted my head back and opened my mouth wide. I tossed the piece of bread inside.
My act of insolence raised some cheers, and George, in the fashion of a loyal retainer to the British cause, burst out in song:

Rule Britannia!
Britannia rule the waves
Britons never, never, never shall be slaves.

After chewing the bread several times, while getting angrier and angrier over the defamation of Beckham, not to mention the slur on the Spice Girls, I decided to up my defiance, so I spat the half-chewed bread onto the tray and yelled, “Bugger Independence Day!”
I was promptly imprisoned in a corner of the room where I tried to blend in with the wall until my real meal was served.
Later on, I thanked the mastermind behind the prank, Slope, for giving me something to write about.

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood

03 July 06

The Danger of Being a Brit in an American Prison on Independence Day (Part 1)

Travelling home from Two Tonys’, some inmates obstructed my way.
“Down with the queen I say!” Short Dog yelled. “No taxation without representation!”
“Two-hundred-and-thirty years of independence, and we’re still barbarians!” Slope howled.
“Bugger Independence Day!” I yelled at the inmates gathering in front of Building B.
My reply caused more inmates, large and tattooed, to come out of their cells and stare at me.
Hurrying away, I heard one of them shout, “Whatthafuck did the goddam Limey just say?”
If I were a Cyclops I would have chopped them up and eaten them for supper. Instead, I opted for appeasement. I stopped walking, raised my fist, and yelled, “I said, ‘Hurrah for Independence Day!’" Chased by their yells, I dashed home.

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
29 June 06

Halo
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
27 June 06

Interview With A Crip

Ever wondered what it’s like to be a Crip?
Xena arranged for me to interview Savage, aka C-Ducc – a member of the Los Angeles street gang, the Crips.

“How did Crips come about?”
“It stands for Community Response In Progress. We were neighbourhood activists – protectin’ the neighbourhood from police brutality.”
“Which branch were you in?”
“99 Mafia.”
“Which means?”
“It’s where I grew up. 99th Street and Main. On the west side of South Central L.A.”
“How’d you join?”
“I got jumped in. They beat me pretty good. My teeth went through here below my lip.” Savage pointed at a scar below his left lip.
“What did they have you do for them?”
“At first I was just a BG – Baby Gangster – so I was stealin’ stuff like car stereos, car parts, and bicycles.”
“How old are BGs?”
“Young teenagers.”
“That’s the youngest division?”
“No. There’s the Pee-Wees. Kids, six to nine year olds. They don’t get jumped in. They were just born in the neighbourhood. They can ask to be jumped in though, which shows heart and respect.”
“When you graduate from the BGs what do you become?”
“A gangbanger. Like fifteen- to twenty-one-year olds.”
“What else is there?”
“There’s party crews and there’s OGs.”
“What’s a party crew?”
“A party crew is a bunch of gangbangers that don’t dress gangster. They wear nice clothes, go to clubs, and find white girls to recruit.”
“What do they have the white girls do?”
“They use 'em for money, and cars, and to do drive-byes. 'Cause they’ve got no records, they can buy guns and cash cheques. Wherever they work, like at a supermarket, they’ll give us free stuff. The main purpose is for sex. They feel loved 'cause so many guys are with 'em – until we don’t need 'em anymore, then we tell 'em to get out.”
“When they’re all used up?”
“Yeah.”
“An OG is an original gangster, right?”
“Someone who’s twenty-five to thirty can be considered an OG. They’ve bin-there-done-that. They don’t hafta gangbang no more. They can lay back and give orders to the younger generation.”
“Let’s go back to the work you put in for them.”
“I used to spray paint neighbourhoods, and rival areas. Enemy neighbourhoods like East Side 9th Street, East Side 40 Ounce Posse, and South Side Posse Bloods – Crips’ sworn enemies.”
“What happens if you’re a Crip gangbanger and you come across a Blood?”
“You’re supposed to say ‘Wassup cuz.’ That’s automatic disrespect. So’s maddoggin’ – lookin’ at them for more than three seconds.”
“It’s not a KOS [Kill On Sight] situation then?”
“It depends. There’s usually a fight. If there’s guns there’ll be a shootout.”
“When you graduated from BG to gangbanger what were your duties?”
“Gangbangers are obligated to represent the neighbourhood. If you don’t, you’re a busta.”
“Busta?”
“B-U-S-T-A, like Busta Rhymes. That’s someone who claims the neighbourhood but won’t stand up for it.”
“What kind of stuff did you do as a gangbanger?”
“I won’t implicate myself.”
“That’s understandable.”
“The craziest stuff gangbangers get up to is killin’ people – drive-bys, shoot-outs. It has to be real serious though.”
“For what kind of reasons?”
“Disrespectin’ the neighbourhood. Sayin’ shit like, ‘Fuck your neighbourhood. Fuck your dead home boys.’ Or if we catch rivals spray paintin’ our names out. That means they wanna kill you. My name used to be crossed out everywhere 'cause I was a bully. Always takin’ things and disrespectin’ people. I’ve always been big for my age.”
“What about the drug scene?”
“The BGs transport the dope, and drop it off with the gangbangers and OGs who sell it. They’re supposed to give money back to the community, but they use it for cars, clothes and guns.”
“What do you think of Tookie?”
“He was a cofounder of the Crips. It’s sad that they had to kill him. Back in the day, he was about negativity, but he turned positive. He’s one of the reasons for the Blood-Crip peace treaty.”
“Can any race become a Blood or a Crip?”
“If you’re raised in the neighbourhood – white, Asian, it don’t matter – you can join 'cause you grew up there and you know what the gang's about.”
“What about getting out of the gang?”
“I’m recognised as what I was when I was a teenager. I can’t escape that identity.”
“Isn’t that a mental thing?”
“No. There’s things you do which earn you enemies for life. I’d hafta to leave the State to get out, but my family’s here, my kids and my mom.”
“What happens on the streets, after you get out, if you run into an enemy?”
“I guess it’s the first one who can pull out the gun fast enough. It’s hard to walk away, 'cause that’s who I am.”
“What Crip tattoos do you have?”
“Here’s a Crip throwin’ up an M for Mafia – not Mexican Mafia.” Savage displayed the Crip on his right forearm. “Here’s my name C-Ducc.” (Duck was tattooed with two C's because Crips never use C-K which spells Crip Killer.) “Here’s 99 on my shoulder for 99th Street, and the MCG on the back of my neck stands for Mafia Crip Gang.”
“What are the Crips wearing these days?”
“The fashion currently is blue and grey – navy or royal blue. We have blue bandanas hangin’ from our left pockets. Bloods put red ones in their back right pockets. We’ll wear sports clothin’: yellow, brown, and green – except red. A true Crip will wear nothin’ but blue and grey with no kind of red in it. Pants are dickies: industrial clothes like maintenance janitors or farm workers wear. These days companies are catering to gangbangers, makin’ clothin’ that’s fashionable to the urban community.”
“What slang’s used?”
“Stuff like shiznit – shit – that’s the shiznit, meanin’ it’s good. You could say, ‘That shit is off the heezee for sheezee. Heezee is hook, and sheezee is sure, so I’m sayin’, ‘That shit is off the hook for sure.’ It’s somethin’ real good. If someone’s a mark or a busta, it’s terminology for disrespect.”
“What music do Crips listen to?”
“It’s mostly gangsta rap. West Coast Underground. There’s Crips makin’ music: Brotha Lynch Hung, C-Bo, X-Raided. They were makin’ music in the early nineties when Crips and Bloods were evolving, and they’re still puttin’ music out. Then there’s the mainstream Crips: Snoop Dog, and WC, Jayo Felon. The Bloods are also puttin’ music out: DJ Quik, The Game, and Mack 10. There’s the Samoan Bloods, Boo-Yaa Tribe.”
“You’ve given me a fascinating insight into Crip culture. I appreciate you spending the time to do this. Before I finish up, is there anything you’d like to say for the Internet, kind of summing up what we’ve discussed?”
“Yeah. If you’re not down for ass whups or bullet holes, you have no business bein’ in a gang. I’ve also got an RIP. Give my love to the homies that are dead and gone: Crazy-C, Little Cub, and Smoker.”

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
24 June 06

Pops and Slingblade's Shank Saga

Pops and Slingblade were brought back from lockdown to Yard 4. Pops ended up in A run in his own cell, and Slingblade was housed in C run with Bobble Head Bob (a murderer who is reputed to have set fire to his boyfriend).

“How’d you get out of the hole so fast?” I asked Pops.
“A guard brought me some forms.” Pops held up two forms: DI#6 Inmate Discipline Witness Request Form, and ADOC Inmate Disciplinary Report.

The latter read: On the below date and approximate time CO3 Dunn secured inmate [Pops] mattress. The scanner detected a metal object. Upon further searching of the mattress Sergeant Rios found a prison-made weapon sharpened to a point. Inmate [Pops] was verbally placed on report by Sergeant Rios.

“So what happened with the dangerous-weapon charge?”
“At first they acted like ass-holes, like I was a no-good man." Pops said. "Then the hearin’ officer never showed up by the hearin’ date, so, I guess by that time they’d found out the truth, and the ticket was dropped.”
“What was the truth?”
“The truth? By Gawd I don’t appreciate bein’ framed. They took a picture of me and all that bowlshit. They rolled us up like we were dirty guilty bastards – sonsofbitches!”
“Were you worried that Slingblade would get so hungry he would try to eat you in lockdown?”
“No. I gave him my pancakes and other stuff I couldn’t eat. I thought he was gonna go crazy 'cause there was less food. But 'cause he ate less, there was less farts. He eats five trays like I eat one, 'cause he don’t chew. He just sucks it down – schkkkkkk!”
“Even with your food, he still suffered a huge calorie cut, considering he eats five to ten leftover trays per meal.”
“He could eat a whole damn weddin’ cake! He don’t eat right. He’s gonna face the music one of these days. The way he eats, he inhales a lotta air, which is more gas. That’s why he has big-ol’, real-loud, long-lastin’ farts.”
“Are you missing him being your celly?”
“Hell no!”
“Will you ever have him back?”
“Never!”
“Did the guards ever find out whose shank was in your mattress?”
“They didn’t. It’s a mystery. Somebody musta threw it out on purpose, or forgot about it.”
“Alright, thanks for letting me know what happened.”
“You’re welcome. Remember to say hi to Queen Elizabeth for me.”
“I sure will, Pops.”

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood

21 June 06

T-Bone

Fresh from the hole after smashing a prison rapist, African American T-Bone arrived at Yard 4 looking as if he had just walked out of a Conan movie. Almost six-foot-six tall, weighing over three-hundred pounds, with arms that made his 6XL T-shirt look too small, T-Bone has got to be one of the toughest men on the yard. His body is covered in scars from stab wounds - which naturally caused my anecdote detector to start beeping. We talked, and I discovered an incredible story behind each scar. He said he had heard of my good reputation, and that he hoped nobody here has given me "any shit." After divulging his charges (drugs and violent crimes) he told me about a fight with an ex-cellmate.

“What did your celly look like?”
“He was six-feet tall and about 230 pounds. He had gold teeth and long greasy hair. He was a strong man. A cut up dude. He was benchin’ 385, squattin’ 475, and dead liftin’ 400 or more.”
“Wow! Why’d you get into it with him?”
“It came about 'cause he was a raper. He was rapin’ people on the yard. He raped a retarded kid with mental problems, in our cell. I said to him, ‘It smells like crap in here. What’s been goin’ on man?’ He said, ‘Whattaya thinks goin’ on? I just got me some.’ I told him, ‘Man, you’ve gotta get your nasty tail up outta here.’ He said, ‘No. You gotta get your tail outta here. You ain’t nothin’ but a punk anyway, and I’m gonna cut ya.’ He stood up, lookin’ at me all crazy. I hit him with a straight right and broke his jaw in two places. He lost four teeth. Another blow fractured his eye socket. I hit him flush and he was out.”
“What’s flush?”
“Flat. I thought he was dead. I laid him on his bunk and took a shower. When I came back, he was still on his bunk callin’ for his mama. Some white guys came over who wanted to kill him 'cause the dude he raped was a white guy. I stopped that. He was alone on his bunk, bleedin’ and groanin’, and I looked in his eyes and I saw a spark like he was becomin’ more aware.”
“Was he regrouping?”
“He had regrouped. From the top bunk, I moved my right leg. He jumped up. He had a rod of finely-sharpened iron. An eight-inch blade with a rag on one end and a real nice point on the other. I backhanded the wrist of the hand holdin’ the shank. He came at me. His eyes were red with rage. His jaw was swollen up. Blood was comin’ outta the corner of his mouth. He had death in his eyes - black pupils totally empty and void of emotion and feeling. I still have nightmares about the way he looked. He made his move: a lunge. I hit him in the right eye and he stumbled back. I kicked him in his right thigh and I felt my foot penetrate the muscle down to the bone. I knew I had to disarm him. His leg was momentarily numb, so in a split second I grabbed his right hand with both of mine and twisted his wrist. I broke his wrist and elbow, and kicked him in his lung.”
“Did he go down?”
“Oh yeah, he was finished. I put him on his bunk but he couldn’t keep still 'cause of the pain. An hour later it’s count time. A cop comes by. I’m usin’ the toilet. My celly rolled over and blood came outta his mouth in front of the cop. He said I’d assaulted him in his sleep. They took me to the hole. I was charged with dangerous and deadly assault on an inmate. I got a
seven-and-a-half-year sentence that ran concurrent with my other time.”
“So you did no additional prison time 'cause of the fight?”
“No, but the cops thought I was a real bad character after that.”

I now have two books featuring T-Bone, the hard-hitting Prison Time and a self-help book, Lessons from a Drug Lord – both include T-Bone fight stories



Shaun Attwood
15 June 06

Slave-X Deprogrammed By Televangelist?

One week after Slave-X made a vow to serve Xena, his mother and televangelist stepfather came from Florida to see him for their annual visit. Slave-X returned from the visit in a high state of agitation.

“Xena, I gotta tell you somethin’. It’s bad news. I can’t be Slave-X anymore. You know about my visit. My mother married a televangelist, and all we talked about was Jesus, and me walkin’ the right path, and how if I veer from that path, I’ll burn in hell, and there’ll be fire and brimstone.”
“You’re not gonna burn in hell for havin’ fun,” Xena said.
Trembling, Slave-X said, “You don’t understand! I have to face them! I couldn’t look them in the eye.”
“When are they comin’ back?”
“I don’t know. I’m thinkin’ of takin’ my stepfather off my visitation list.”
“Was it really that bad?”
“The whole time they were talkin’ about the wrath of God, and half the time we were holdin’ hands in front of everyone at visitation, and they were holdin’ my hands up in the air, and prayin’ to Jesus for my everlastin’ soul, but all I could think about was your legs. They made me realise that if I continued to be your slave, they would know my soul was doomed. Oh God, I think they know already! I had the thought in my head the whole time. Knowin’ I’m your slave, I couldn’t look at them, and tell them everything’s gonna be OK. I was embarrassed.”
“Embarrassed of me!” Xena’s soft voice hardened.
“Oh no!” Slave-X squealed. “Oh my God! I could never be embarrassed of you. You’re the love of my life, the lastin’ wholeness, everythin’ that’s good in this world.”
“And how is it you’re gonna burn in hell for feelin’ like that?”
“You don’t understand!” Slave-X seemed at his wits end, and near to tears. “I have to face him – the televangelist! I have to look in his eyes, and tell him I’m not doin’ wrong. Not that I am doin’ anythin’ wrong, it’s just that I have the thought of bein’ your slave, and you spankin’ me, and your long legs in my head when I talk to him. He sees through me. I can’t lie.”
“So what are you sayin’?”
“I don’t know...er... I guess...er...I still want you to... er...spank me, if I can caress your lovely long legs.” Slave-X began to cry, his lower lip trembled. Lasciviously.
Xena abandoned Slave-X to his inner dilemma.

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
12 June 06

Question Time for Two Tonys

Here are Two Tonys responses to some of your comments and questions.

Adele asked if Two Tonys is sorry about the whackings, or has any regrets about his life.

“I’ve got a lotta regrets about my life, but I never whacked a motherfucker that I didn’t feel good about afterwards. For the record: there was no workin’ stiffs amongst those I whacked. None of 'em were on the way to the mill, lunchbox in hand. They were all in –.” Two Tonys pinched his right thumb and forefinger together, raised his hand, and pronounced slowly, “ - de bizznezz. And I didn’t learn that expression from Elmore fuckin’ Leonard. I’m sincere about that. I’m not layin’ on my bunk at nights, tossin’ and turnin’, seein’ this dead motherfuckers face, or worryin’ if he had a wife or a daughter. I’m seein’ the eyes of a motherfucker – and I’m not plagiarizin’ Chicago here – of a motherfucker who had it comin’. So what if I nailed the motherfucker, put slugs in him. I’ve got no remorse for that, 'cause he had it comin’.”

Bill asked how long Two Tonys is in for, if he’ll ever get to whack anybody else, and if Bill could hire him for such services.

“I’m in till 2082. I’m in a real comfortable spot in my life right now. I don’t see any reason to have to whack a motherfucker again. I stay outta the line of fire. I don’t get in other people’s business. There’s a quote I read every day: Don’t interfere with somethin’ that ain’t botherin’ you none. That’s my Ten Commandments right there. That’s my Exodus, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John rolled into one.
No: I will not whack a motherfucker for Bill. The record will show I never whacked anyone for affronts committed to somebody else in my whole fuckin’ life.”

Terry B suggested Two Tonys take up Shakespeare.

“I’ve read Shakespeare. ‘Hark, hark. Who knocks at yonder door.’ ‘Out, out damn spot.’ That was when Macbeth and his wife had just whacked the king, and they were tryin’ to wash the blood outta their clothes and hands. ‘A horse. My kingdom for a horse’ That’s Richard the Third.”

Anonymous pointed out that Two Tonys only used six ‘fucks’ in the blog Books.

“My thesis on the word fuck is: it’s like sayin’ DWI or any other acronym. When the Puritans first came to this country, after leavin’ sunny ol’ England, they had their rules and regulations they established when they got off the fuckin’ Mayflower. One happened to cover fornicating in public. The legal term was For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge. Abbreviated in legal terminology to F-U-C-K, to save them time.
Back then, when they busted a guy from the marketplace behind a bale of beeswax, boffin’ some wench – and I’m only sayin’ wench 'cause that’s the terminology they used in the 1600s. I don’t want the readers thinkin’ I’m a chauvinist pig, 'cause I have respect for real ladies, my mother and sister were real ladies. Anyway, they arrested him and took him to pilgrim court, and explained to the judge it’s for -U-C-K. So I’m not swearin’. Swearin’ is like sayin’ somethin’ like, ‘you punk-ass sonuvabitch’.”

Anonymous pointed out that some of the dialogue in Elmore Leonard’s novel Get Shorty is similar to Two Tonys speech.

“The element I’ve been brought up and raised in didn’t copy Elmore Leonard. It’s the other way round. Elmore Leonard gets his shit from people like me, unless you think Mr.Leonard is a whacker of men.”

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
08 June 06

Slave-X

After reading The Complete Marquis de Sade, Xena decided to convert one of her adorers here, a lifer, into Slave-X.
“I have a proposition for you,” Xena said.
“What’s that?” Slave-X asked.
“Would you be my slave?”
“Would you want me to do anythin’ you ask, without question?”
“Yes, and you’d get spanked.”
“Every day?”
“Yes, everyday.”
“Oh, Xena, you’ve got beautiful legs - the best I’ve ever seen. I want to be a thing, an entity, an object - all for your pleasure. That would be exciting, a little bondage, all for you.”
“You want me to spank you right now don’t you?”
“Wow! You’ve got me all excited. I can feel my toes curling.”
“Then you can start by kissin’ my feet…”

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
05 June 06

Nan

On the phone today, Dad disclosed Nan had died.

It was hard not to cry when I heard that Nan had asked for me on the eve of her death. Suddenly, I felt so sad. I even forgot to wish Mum a happy birthday.

I had no one to share my sadness with, so I stayed in my cell. I pondered how my crimes continued to affect my family, how I couldn't be there for Nan because of the bad decisions that put me in prison, of how I'll never see Nan again.

Goodbye, Nan. Thanks for being there for me when I was growing up. You knew how special our love was. I’ll always miss you, the delicious apple pies you baked, and the games of Scrabble we played for hours on end. It hurts that I didn’t get to see you before you departed. May you, reunited with Granddad Fred, rest in peace. I adored you both.

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
03 June 06

Tae Kwon Do

“Whatthafucks yer problem, you old motherfucker?” The question, swung like a battle-axe by Ogre, stopped the conversation between Two Tonys and the Chicanos.
“Don’t fuck with me,” Two Tonys said. “I kill Californians, motherfucker.”
Ogre swaggered from a gang of woods (peckerwoods) and grabbed and squeezed Two Tonys' ID.
Two Tonys’, seeing his ID get bent in half, made a tae kwon do move. He hitched his right leg behind Ogre's, and pushed Ogre's shoulders.
Ogre, who was stood precariously on a curb, lost his footingand fell to the ground. Too startled to speak. Too stunned to rise.
“Why’d you grab my ID?” Two Tonys said. “I warned you never to lay hands on me, motherfucker!”
“I told you a long time ago that I’d never hurt you," Ogre said. "Well fuck all that. Come on, motherfucker! Get some of this, old man.” Ogre rose.
It took a group of inmates to keep Ogre away from Two Tonys.


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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood

01 June 06

A Kiss (Part 2)

Click here for A Kiss Part 1.

Thoughts on the kiss:

When I first see Royo Girl at visitation, should I play it cool and just kiss her hand? Kiss her hand! Wait a minute, since when have you been afraid to make a bold move? Plant one on her lips right away. But not for too long. Just long enough to leave a lasting impression. Then go for a longer one at the end when everyone else in the visitation room is doing it. Then, you’ll be able to get in a good sniff of her neck.

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood

30 May 06

Shakedowns

After breakfast, guards swarmed Yard 4, and began to search our cells.

My penis shrinkage began when I saw a guard known to search inmates' foreskins walking toward Building D. I felt relieved when he stopped at the downstairs run.
A guard entered my cell and said, “Enjoying reading?”
I'd spent the morning in a world created by John Updike. “Yeah. I sure am.”
“I need you to strip.” After examining my body, he said,“Get dressed, and take your mattress outside.”

Outdoors, an ovoid man wearing an Arizona T-shirt was scanning mattresses with a metal detector that looked like a flying saucer on a stick. He was the oldest staff member I had ever seen. Next to Ovoid Man, stood the GED teacher, Mr Davidson. “And how are you this fine mornin’?” he asked as he ticked my name on a clipboard.
“Jolly good,” I said.
Ovoid Man began cruising his metal detector over an area of dirt, and it beeped frantically. “Lieutenant, this durts got fuckin’ metal in it everywhere,” he rasped as if gasping for oxygen.
The lieutenant aimlessly kicked some dirt around. Nothing was found.

“Jon, you can go back to your cell now,” said the guard who had searched my cell.
I was welcomed home by a mess on my bunk consisting of clothes, jars of peanut butter,
boxes of crackers, bags of pretzels, books, cassette tapes, bedding, pens, writing pads, and letters. I quickly put everything back where it belonged, and made the bed.

The cluster of inmates outside watched everything of theirs deemed contraband get seized. Some looked tense. Some irate. Some clowned around.

Dressed in black and looking like a vampire who didn't belong out in the sun, ADW Smith arrived. With him came a large operations officer (OO), chewing on a cigar and with a wild look in his eyes. A guard presented the OO with some pieces of metal. The OO removed the cigar from his mouth, nodded knowingly at the metal, grinned at the metal, clicked his walkie-talkie, and said, “Can you come to Yard 4? We need some info regarding metal objects.” Then he put the cigar back in his mouth, and blew out a cloud of smoke. The cloud steadily ascended until a flock of pigeons flew through it.

The shakedowns on Yard 4 lasted all morning. Then the guards invaded Yard 3.

Addendum: a lengthy shank was found in Pop’s mattress. Pops and Slingblade were sent to lockdown. There’s now an investigation and possible criminal charges for dangerous weapon possession, which could jeopardise Slingblade’s parole.
There’s a rumour the shank was planted. But who did it or why remains a mystery.

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood

Two Tonys on One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich

26 May 06

“Whattaya readin’?” Two Tonys asked.
Kolyma Tales by Varlam Shalamov,” I said. “He was a prisoner in a Soviet labour camp in Siberia where they worked most inmates to death. I feel lucky being here after reading about these conditions. They were working in temperatures as low as seventy degrees below zero – so cold that spit froze in mid air. If you refused to work, you were thrown off a cliff or tied to a horse and dragged to death.”
“Have you ever read One Day in the Life of Ivan Denisovich?”
“No. There’s an Ivan Ivanovich in this book, who hung himself from a tree without a rope by placing his neck where the tree branches forked.”
“I’m talkin’ about Ivan Denisovich. It’s a book by Alexander Solzhenitsyn, a writer who fought in World War 2 and was sent to the gulag for criticizing Stalin. The conditions were barely survivable. It was eat, keep warm, and try to stay alive. That was the whole struggle. There was none of this shit: 'chows twenty minutes late', or ‘why haven’t they opened my door for rec?’ Those folks in the gulag were prayin’ they’d get a fish eyeball in their soup – a little protein. They weren’t whinin’ 'cause they couldn’t wear a beanie cap. They had to wrap old socks around their heads so they wouldn’t lose their noses and ears to frostbite in the Siberian weather. There were no grievances and lawsuits. Imagine standing next to Ivan Denisovich, whose fingertips are turnin’ black with gangrene, and complainin’ that the store didn’t have your favourite brand of toothpaste or the water’s not hot enough or the razors are dull or you only got two rolls of toilet paper. It was a raw battle for survival. This was deep behind the Iron Curtain in the late forties, early fifties. Sheer communist totalitarianism. Most of the people they sent there were just political prisoners who hadn’t committed crimes. They’d just criticized some commissar’s old lady for havin’ a fat red ass.”
“Do you feel you’re lucky being here compared to what you've read about?”
“Yeah. My predicament’s a joke. I’m sixty-five years old. I’m gonna die in this motherfucker. But you’ve gotta die somewhere. Some get cancer. Some get their faces burnt off in car wrecks. Some kids get the flag waved at 'em in high school and hear, ‘God Bless America,’ and next thing they know they’re in the back of a Humvee in Iraq drivin’ over some explosive device, and all that’s sent back to their parents are their nuts and schlongs in body bags, folded in American flags, with letters from George Dubya Bush sayin’ ‘Thanks for the sacrifice.’ So big deal I’m gonna die in here. It could be worse. That’s what I’ve got comin’ 'cause I earned life in prison. I had to whack a few motherfuckers to get here. But at least I’m not in a Siberian gulag with some honky Polack, who ate pickles or fish-eye soup for breakfast, beatin’ me down if I don’t push enough wheelbarrows of iced dirt to meet Uncle fuckin’ Joe Stalin’s quotas.
Like I’ve said before: life is nothin’ but a state of fuckin’ mind. Shakespeare said in one of his plays: there is no happiness, there is no sadness, the mind makes it so. That’s why you get rich motherfuckers livin’ in mansions on Camelback Mountain blowin’ their brains out 'cause the stock market went down. Compare that to some Indian dude off the rez at the bottom of a ditch who loves life 'cause he’s got enough chump change to get himself a six-pack of Old Milwaukee and some green bologna. Why’s he happy? 'Cause his mind tells him he’s happy.
Me? I’m havin’ the time of my fuckin’ life.”

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
22 May 06

Tarot 2

Xena and I enjoyed your responses to the Tarot blog. Here are your readings:

Cheryl asked if she’s going to get off her "fat female butt" to look for a job. And what field it should be in.

“The Tower means total destruction. Cheryl loses jobs quickly and her relationships lack support. She has lots of family and friends but she is just getting by. To end the career instability she needs to go to school, learn a field, and become her own boss. She can make it happen if she gets off her ass. Good fields are sales, especially real estate.”

Lisa asked if she will marry the man she is with now.

“The person Lisa is in love with is the man 100 percent. Quarrels are a fact of life in all healthy relationships. Get over that and go for it, girlfriend.”

Joanne82 asked for a general reading.

“Joanne finds potential mates uninteresting. She’s not truly looking for love, but she wants a family, including a little boy. She hopes she doesn’t destroy herself by pushing in one direction. She should focus and get grounded on one thing before she starts her other plans. The fear has to leave. She’s not gonna have a whole lot – no big chunks of change or property – unless she keeps working at it.”

J asked if he should stay with his girlfriend.

“J wants to party. His girlfriend doesn’t. They have a child together but its not working out. If he wants to continue partying he should absolutely leave her.”

Mary asked if she would ever meet me.

“The inverted Magician tells me no, but the other cards say maybe. She wants physically and spiritually to meet you,but her family and friends are no help whatsoever because they don’t think it is a respectful move. She has surety of seeing you but doesn’t know how to initiate it. She is willing to meet you against the beliefs, thoughts, feelings, and verbal commands of her family and friends. It is possible if she overcomes these forces.”

Vega is at a crossroads in life and wanting to be steered in a positive direction.

“It’s a positive reading. Vega is in bondage having to do with a child. There’s a lotta stress and little support. Vega has skills in finance. He needs to lose the extra weight that he is carrying mentally. The final outcome, upright Death, signifies the shedding of life and starting over. Start over Vega and things will be fine.”

Joanne wants to know if her son will get better.

“I see some improvement, but it’s gonna cost a lot of money. He has been very ill. You and your husband need to be there for him because he is in emotional turmoil. Travel and pursue your plans. If everything falls into place he will get better.”

Trena is concerned over her sons and imprisonment.

“The inverted Devil means there’s bondage Trena doesn’t accept. The Ten of Swords means murder. The bondage is due to her children, and she already knows the answer to this question. Yes, prison, and its gonna cost her financially. She has enemies: the people putting her kids away. I know it’s a snitch, basically.”

JMK is curious about where her life will go.

“This reading is about travel, and being tied down. JMK lacks money and help from outside sources. There’s negative energy coming from her family. There’s not much her father can do for her. Something is preventing her from being committed to take control of her life. She will travel. Her friends and family will hold her down until she is willing to break the bond. Information from her father should be relied on.”

Don wants to know if he should move to Nicaragua.

“This is a troubling reading to do with things Don has done. These things will follow him no matter. He wants to leave because he is in love. He wants to go and he should make it happen. If he stays the negative things will find him sooner rather than later.”

Xena’s closing statement, “To all of you who desire Xena and are looking for a relationship, you know where to find me. Just ask and I will answer. Anybody who wants a reading by me, ask and I will answer.”

Any more takers?

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
18 May 06

Through The Eyes Of A Killer

“How’s your mother and father doin’?” Two Tonys asked.
“They’re good,” I said.
“I only saw your parents by chance when I was outside Medical. I was thirty foot away from them in an eight-by-ten cage separated by two fences with razor wire. As corny as this may sound, I could see they were nice people. They smiled and waved, and I said, ‘Welcome to America.’ They were both nice people who loved their boy. And it’s because of them you are who you are.”
“I think you’re right.”
“I know I’m right. And a lotta people ain’t as fortunate as havin’ family like that. Have you guys always been a tight family unit?”
“Growing up we were, but after my sister and I graduated from university, we left home and travelled overseas. I ended up this side of the planet, and my sister ended up on the other side, in Japan. The distance drifted us apart somewhat, but my arrest pulled us back together again.”
“Then a good thing came outta your arrest. I can tell you were well-raised. That you were nurtured by people who cared about you. To stay alive in here, I hafta read people upon meetin’ them. Some I hafta be around a little while to figure out, some I hafta be in positions of adversity with. Others I look for controllability and wind-upness, so I can send them on missions like those eighteen and nineteen year olds Dubya’s sendin’ to Iraq. My point is this: I’m a good judge of character. You’re not perfect, Jon, but I can tell by talkin’ to you, trustin’ you, and discussin’ things with you I normally wouldn’t with others, I don’t detect any malice, greed or deceptiveness from you. You seem to be genuinely interested in my life. You seem to be real honest. And you’re outta your environment here. You know that.”
“Being in prison?”
“Yeah. But at the same time you’ve managed to maintain yourself and nobody really fucks with you. That’s because of the way you carry yourself, not like a swaggerin’ tough guy like Ogre who wants to cave skulls in 'cause you didn’t buy him a jar of coffee. You seem to have a knack for stayin’ out of people’s business.”
“Thanks a lot for saying that. It means a lot to me coming from someone with as much respect as you.”
“I think your blog readers would be interested in seein’ Jon through the eyes of a person such as myself, and I see you as a good guy, a compassionate person. I’ve come to you several times lookin’ to vent about some motherfucker or other. I’ll say somethin’ like, ‘Hey, Jon, so and so is a piece of fuckin’ shit, and you, in a roundabout way, usually say, ‘Hey Two Tonys, if that guy’s no good why are you wastin’ so much mental energy on him right now. He doesn’t know you’re hating on him like this. Why let him control your mind?’ And I think about it, and realise what you said makes sense. Then you told me to read Viktor Frankl’s The Doctor and the Soul, and already I’ve found somethin’ very profound in it."
“Frankl recommended that you find happiness in the simple things you do each day. You may not be environmentally free, but you do have a degree of freedom that starts with the decisions you make each day. You can decide to stress yourself out over people you dislike and release negative hormones into your system, or you can relax, read some Wolfe or Updike, and make the most of the circumstances.”
“I think I’m too much of a fatalist. I sit around and sweat myself over shit like gettin’ some new motherfucker for a celly who I might hafta get into it with and end up in the hole or in the hospital. Shit's just like that in here. It fucks up your plans.”
“So you’ve just gotta go with the flow of whatever comes your way otherwise you’ll drive yourself nuts worrying about things that’ll never happen.”
“I know. I’m slowly comin’ around to that. You’ve taught me that.”
“Look how happy you were the day I wrote the blog about you, the Two Tonys Day.”
“It’s nice to have a person around like you who I can sit down and kick it with in a refreshin’ way. Too many people here only want to talk about the great robberies they did, and how many kilos of coca they dealt, or how many show broads they banged when they went to Vegas with $100 bills plastered all over their foreheads. It’s good to be able to sit down and have a normal conversation. There’s motherfuckers in here, I’ve been around for years who I walk with and I don’t even make eye contact with. I don’t ever wanna speak to them.”
“So you don’t think I’m standoffish because I keep myself to myself and rarely leave my cell?”
“In here that’s not a bad trait.”

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
15 May 06

Sexy Mail

My mail included a Manila envelope from Royo Girl. In it I discovered four fantasy-art prints and a picture, but no letter. I enjoyed the perfume.
Why no letter? I thought That’s a first. Is Royo Girl trying to tell me something? Maybe the pics contain a cryptic message.
I examined the pictures. Four women drawn by Luis Royo. A redhead wearing only latex thigh-highs, elbow-length gloves, army boots and a leather cap; a tribal tatoo on her tailbone. A sleep-walking Goth in a flowing cloak, hands on hips, pushing a thong down. A brunette in a diaphonous gown holding a monocle. A woman with long black hair wearing a blindfold and elbow-length gloves. The fifth picture was a photo of Angelina Jolie in a sheer dress, looking down and smiling at her breasts. I had to stop looking at the pictures because they were disrupting my blood flows.

Royo Girl looks similar to the girl in the Luis Royo prints. What is she up to sending me these things?

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood

10 May 06

Psychotherapy With Dr. O’Malley (Part 3)

On Dr. O's desk sat a magazine article about Susan Sontag and depression, titled “Melancholy Minus Its Charms.”
“Here’s my thought journal.” I handed Dr. O two sheets of paper.
He began reading the positive and negative thoughts I’d documented since the last session.
“What I noticed,” I said, “by writing my thoughts down, was that I varied within certain levels of happy and sad until the weekend, then my happiness went off the scale. I think I was manic.”

Dr. O took extra interest as he read Saturday’s entry: Currently manic? Overwhelmingly, inexplicably happy. Felt as if I could accomplish anything. Have written for almost 8 hours. My mind is racing with ideas. Creativity and the right words are flowing naturally. I haven’t showered, done yoga, or talked to anyone other than ushering a few visitors out. Time is flying. The announcements of rec beginning and then ending (a two hour period) seemed like ten minutes. I thought I was hearing things when rec ended because time couldn’t possibly be moving so fast. I’ve accomplished a lot today, and I am extremely satisfied. In comparison to recent happiness, I am way off the scale. Why can’t I feel this good everyday? I feel like I could walk to the chow hall and back on my hands – and maybe even fly!

“When you reviewed these thoughts after you wrote them what did you think?” he asked.
“I thought, Oh no! Now I’ve got multiple personality disorder, because Saturday’s thoughts seem like they were written by a different person.”
“Some writers, when they are feeling great like that, achieve tremendous insights. What was the quality of your written thoughts on Saturday?”
“Words fell into place. My sense of humour was up. I liked what I wrote.”
“The reason I ask, is because when you are at negative or positive emotional extremes your critical ability goes down.”
“That’s true, because a lot of what I wrote was rubbish, but I judged my production on the things that bubbled up that looked good, things that I don’t think I could have written if I wasn’t in such a good mood. I simply edited out the rubbish when I’d calmed down, and used the good stuff.”
“Your sudden energy interrupted what you usually do in the day: yoga, taking a shower, and dealing with people. What did foregoing those things mean to you?”
“I didn’t mind. That was all secondary stuff. Most important to me was writing.”
“Is this energy you experience the same as the energy you utilised when throwing raves?”
“I never thought of it like that. It could be. Actually, I feel it wasn’t happy energy that led me to partying – it was depressions, thoughts of suicide, relationship break-ups, and negative emotions and events that made me look to drugs for solace. Also, a lot of energy, I channelled into sex.”
“You have to watch your swings. It seems that you don’t think of yourself as interesting when you’re not manic. You need to polish your thinking style, and be able to weigh the consequences of your ups and downs. You have a high state of denial - it’s something you must remedy if you want to have a normal life. ‘I like the highs! I can walk to the chow hall on my hands!’" Dr. O threw his arms in the air as he imitated me.
I laughed. “Here’s the rest of my homework.” I handed him my notes about my connection with the universal.

The Shakti (universal force) is the source of all power. We can do nothing unless the Shakti enables it. The ego resists this truth, and we believe we have our own power – which is a fallacy. We are unfullfilled until we discover the inner Shakti. Upon discovering it, we flow with good or bad events, conscious of the dance of the Shakti, the power behind all happenings and moods.

“Is that what you were looking for?” I asked.
“Yes. Yoga means union, everything, good and bad, dark and light. Whether studying Dao, the yin and yang of Chinese philosophy, or Christian theology at the mystical level, all paths lead to the union with the universal – including observance of the eight limbs of yoga. Such awareness doesn’t demand perfection. Whatever occurs is allowed to occur. The problem is: the mind interferes. The monkey mind. It doesn’t stay still. It behaves like a restless monkey grabbing at objects that aren’t there. The flow of the mind is the essence of many esoteric doctrines.”
“I understand that, but reading it and understanding it are different from being able to apply it.”
“It always is. You have to work at it. Look at ascetics, people who have isolated themselves from others. Not bums with their cheap wine and oblivion, but renunciators with their books and bags. Isn’t that an expression of intellectual energy? Although it has good and bad to it, it seems to enhance the path for some folks.”
“So where am I on that spectrum? I’m channelling my intellectual energy into writing, but I’ve also spun out of control into drugs and partying.”
“It doesn’t matter. My opinion has little to do with it. It is your image of yourself that’s important – your insights, your judgements. Can you imagine yourself five or ten years from now?”
“Yes. I have long-term goals. That’s why I try not to waste time. I’m happy knowing I’m moving in the right direction.”
“But goals shift. And rest is important. You need rest to be able to apply yourself to achieve your goals.”
“I need to rest more. I know this, but it seems impossible to apply.”
“That’s were mindfulness and self-awareness come in. If a Tibetan Buddhist monk lost his legs, he could still achieve his goal of making a journey around the Sacred Mountain. He would do it slower than most, but he would be mindful and self-aware. If your goal is to throw the best rave parties in the Valley –”
“Oh no, never again!”
“Let’s just assume that at one time it was. If you’d been mindful of the bigger picture instead of being excited by one thing and forgetting everything else, then you would have been more aware of the unintended consequences of your actions. Consequences that put you in here.”
“That’s true.”
“For homework, I’d like you to keep up the thought journal, and consider the difficulty you have with good intentions. As the old cliché goes: the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Most folks don’t think about the consequences for themselves. With your physical practice – your asanas - I’d like you to be more mindful, and to consider your bone and muscle alignments. You should also try meditation to control your monkey mind."

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
08 May 06

Frankie’s Chess Challenge (Part 2)

“Well George, you read the reader responses to Frankie’s chess challenge, and they quite rightly pointed out that I shouldn’t do the bet because there’s nothing in it for me. I have no desire to see Frankie’s arse.”
“Fuck the readers!” George said. “ Its an honour thing. A commitment is a commitment.”
“I didn’t commit,” I said. “I told him I’d think about it. A good idea would be if he would agree to let you do my butt-naked pushups if I lost.”
Frankie entered the cell.
“How come,” I asked Frankie, “you haven’t been over to play chess in a few weeks?”
“’Cause you copped outta the butt-nakeds,” Frankie said.
“He’s put you on shine status,” George said.
“How can I do this if all I win is seeing your arse?”
“Maybe I’ve gotta good ass,” Frankie said. “And I’ve read your readers' comments. They make me sound like I’m a mean guy. I’m not a mean guy”
“Wait a minute,” George said to Frankie. “You are mean. You’re mean to me. Very mean.”
“No I’m not,” Frankie said.
“Do I need to remind you?” George said.
“What about the bet?” I asked.
“When in Rome, do as the Romans do,” George said.
“And,” Frankie said, “you know I’m Caesar the Booty Pleaser. I’ll be gentle on you, Englandman.”
“Actually, Frankie,” I said, “George has agreed to do my pushups for me if I lose.”
“Then it’s gotta be more,” Frankie said.
“How many butt-naked pushups did you guys agree on?” George said.
“Ten,” I said.
“I want twice that amount,” Frankie said.
“Twenty?” I asked.
“No,” Frankie said. “I want more than pushups. They are eliminated if George stands in. I want some real action, you know what I mean, George?”
“No!” George said. “All I’ll do are his pushups at a dollar a time.”
“But what if I win?” I said.
“You get to watch him,” George said.
“What fun is that?” I said.
“Trust me,” Frankie said. “I’m a virgin.”
“I don’t see a virgin,” George said.
“If I put in a medical slip for an ass exam, it would come back rectus titus, but your ass, George, is big enough for a Greyhound bus to pass through it. And if Jon loses, well, you’ll see what a nice guy I can be.”
“Greyhound bus! I’m insulted you should say things like that about me,” George said. “There’s no talking to you. And as for you, Jon, you’re gonna hafta do your own fuckin’ butt-naked
pushups.” With that George stormed off.

What have I got into?

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
06 May 06

My Comments On Your Comments

Thank you for the comments posted during the first quarter of 2006, which kept me amused and entertained – by reading them over and over again – during the hostage situation, and the subsequent lockdown.

Frankie’s Chess Challenge almost broke the comments record set by the Anal Virginity Threat about George’s glory hole argument. Comments such as TonyRob’s about Frankie burgling my buttcheeks gave me a laugh. Then there were people like Brian who seemed to want me to take the bet and lose so they could read the lurid outcome. More sensible advice came from Andrew M, Cheryl, David Vogel, and JMK. As I beat Frankie 274 – 239 in a recent four-month championship, I might take Chris H’s advice, and make the bet with a different stake.

Tommy was made up with the nine comments on Breast Reduction. Xena said reading your comments made her day. Two Tonys enjoyed responding to your questions, which provoked some unusual answers.

The comments following Am I Crazy? Were touching. Lady Arkles, Carl, and K made sense. As usual, Zen’s comment was poetic.

Cheryl and TonyRob want Long Island to start a blog, but I’ve not heard from him since his release.

Martha and JMK expressed sympathy about my relationship with Claudia. Although Claudia urged me to call her, she never answered the phone, so I stopped calling.

JMK pointed out my misuse of dawg, versus dog. Dawg means homey. I should have used dog for the context of dirty dog, not dawg. American pronunciations of dog and dawg sound similar to me. Cheryl asked if calling someone dog versus dawg would start a fight. I doubt it. Someone looking for a fight will use the tried and tested, ‘I’m callin’ you out, you punk-ass bitch.’ Fighting words indeed.

Carl commented about studying behavioural finance. As I’m looking do post-graduate study in that subject, I was hoping that Carl would email me more info.

Many thanks for all your comments. Keep them coming.

Good lookin’ out, dawgs!

Coming soon: Two Tonys and Xena answer your questions.

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
04 May 06

Final Special Visit

8:05am “Dog 11, stand-by for special visit.”

8:15am Two guards arrived.
“I’m ready,” I said.
“Hold up. We’re gonna hafta strip you out.”
That’s odd, being strip-searched going out, I thought. It must be an additional security measure.

8:25am I was escorted into the visitation room.
“He can’t come in here. This is my command post,” a sergeant yelled.
Oh no, they’re going to cancel the visit.
Officer Rossini appeared and said, “I’m going to escort you to a different room, a conference room. And the visit has only been approved for three hours.”
Only three hours instead of six and a half. But at least it’s not completely cancelled.

8:30am The conference table in the room caused flashbacks to my stockbroking days. Pitching stocks to clients. The view of Camelback Mountain from our high-rise. Power sales meetings. Rowdy New York Italian co-workers. Receiving awards for high commissions.. Worshipping Wall Street and Mammon.

8:35am Dad and sister arrived.
“I thought I wasn’t going to get to see you two again any time soon.”
“I noticed,” Dad said. “You should have seen your face yesterday. You turned as white as a ghost, and if you’d had hair, it would have stood on end.”
We laughed.
“We’ve only got three hours,” I said.
“It’s better than nothing,” Karen said.

9:00am The DW passed by and we thanked her.

11:30am The visit ended.
“This might be the last time I see you in a while. They may not allow your final visit,” I said.
We hugged.
“I’ll call the prison on Saturday, and we’ll see if they’ll let us in,” Dad said.
“Thanks for coming. It’s been great seeing you.”
“Goodbye Jon,” Karen whispered, tears running down her cheeks. “Love you.”
“Love you,” I said.
“See you, Jon,” Dad said. “Love you.”
“Love you.”

11:45am I was told to wait in the outdoor visitation area until a guard could be found to conduct a strip-search. In the main visitation area, dozens of guards were eating pizzas.

12:15pm I was suddenly surrounded by staff members. C03 Dunn, wearing a yellow shirt and a Stetson, asked how my visits had been. Some guards discussed how they had considered resigning during the hostage situation. Everyone laughed when Officer Stewart – who looks more like a model than a guard – tried to respond to a radio call with a mouth full of pizza. A C03 said sixty pizzas had been ordered. Warden Mann, the boss of Tucson prison, arrived.

12:45pm I was summoned to be strip-searched.
“How’d yer visits go?”
“Great. I was lucky to have them under the circumstances.”
“When’s yer next visit?”
“This weekend. But I don’t think we’ll be off lockdown by then, so its not looking good. I don’t think they’ll allow a special visit on a regular visitation day if we’re still locked down. People would complain if I got special treatment.
“Did you ask the DW about that?”
“Yes. But we’re just grateful for what we’ve been allowed so far.”
“We do have searches and an investigation going on. Prisoners are getting upset, because they don’t want to miss their weekend visits, but they hafta realise there’s security procedures we hafta go through.”
“It was good the hostage didn’t get hurt.”
“She was all shook up though.”
“I’ll bet she was. Do you think we’ll spend the weekend on lockdown?”
“It depends on prisoner attitudes. If people stay calm and ride it out, things will get back to normal. The problem is some people have made things worse. Like a group of prisoners yelling at a female C03, ‘Come and sit on my face.’ When the DW hears stuff like that it’s not gonna help you guys get off lockdown. Another prisoner who was getting stripped out threw his T-shirt at a guard."

The regular Saturday weekend visitation was cancelled, and the prisoners were still on lockdown when Derick and Karen flew back to the UK on Monday 8th May.

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
03 May 06

My Sister in Tears

8:01am Two guards delivered breakfast: pancakes, hot cereal, syrup, peanut butter, an
apple and milk.
“Did you get your visit yesterday?”
“No.” I said. “I spoke to the DW and she said we're going to be locked down for a few days.”
“Damn. That’s rough. And they came all the way from England, right?”
“Yes. The trip cost thousands of dollars, and they only came here to see me.”
“You should see if DOC will pay for the trip.”
“We’ll see what happens. I’ve got visits until the weekend. Maybe we’ll get off lockdown by then.”

8:47am “Dog 11, stand by for a special visit. Get ready.”
How the hell did that happen? Perhaps the DW reconsidered. Maybe they came down here and pled their case. I’d better hurry up and get dressed.

9:05am “How did you manage to get in?” I asked Dad.
“I called down here, and they said it was approved. DW Wallace must have given her permission.”
“You must have felt frustrated when you couldn’t get in yesterday.”
“It was terrible,” Karen said. “My stomach was in knots. I was throwing up all day.”
“We saw it on the news on Monday night,” Dad said. “A reporter was standing in front of the prison, and as soon as he mentioned Santa Rita, I thought, bloody hell - it’s going to be a lockdown and we won’t get in.”
“What did the news say?”
“A woman guard was held hostage for six hours by a prisoner who demanded to be transferred to Montana.”
“Any weapons involved or did she get hurt?”
“He had razor blades but he didn’t hurt her.”
“It’s a good job nobody got hurt. Last night it looked like a scene from Star Wars in here with all the storm troopers wearing protective gear. Did the news say how it ended?”
“They told him,” Karen said, “they’d move him to Montana, so he gave up and they moved him alright: straight to SMU [Special Management Unit] in Florence.”
“Perhaps he was doing a copycat of the Morey standoff, because one of the prisoners involved – Steven Coy – got transferred to Maine. He raped a guard and a kitchen worker, and he got seven consecutive life sentences plus one-hundred-and-fifty-two years. But if he was already serving life, the additional time means nothing.”
“Well, we got in today,” Dad said.“We’ve only lost one visit, so we didn’t do too bad.”
“How’s Mum taking it?”
“We told her we’d try and get in today,” Dad said, “ and that if we weren’t answering the hotel phone, that means we got in. So by now she’ll know where we are.”
“Great.”

2:30pm Visit ended.

“Do you think I should ask Officer Rossini whether we need to call the prison before we come tomorrow?” Dad asked.
“If they let you in today, you should be all right for the rest of the week,” I said.
“That’s no guarantee. We’d better ask,” Karen said.
We approached Officer Rossini.
“Officer, do you think we should call tomorrow before we come out here?” Dad asked.
“Let me call the DW and find out.”
A few minutes later, Officer Rossini emerged from her office with an uncomfortable look on her face. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news but the DW said no."
“No what?” Dad asked. “That we don’t need to call or we can’t have the visit?”
“That you can’t have the visit.”
I felt sick. Dad and Karen looked devastated.
“I’d like to speak to the DW,” Karen said, tears welling in her eyes.
“Let me call her again. Actually there she is. Maybe she’ll talk to you in person.” Officer Rossini hand signalled the DW who came through security doors and joined us.
“Thank you very much,” Dad said,” for allowing us to visit today.”
“You’re welcome,” DW Wallace said.
“Is it not possible for us to come tomorrow?” Dad asked.
“The prison is going to be locked down for the next few days while we do our investigation. I spoke to Jon, and I was able to give you today’s visit, but tomorrow’s not possible."
Dad and Karen both started to speak at once.
“One at a time please,” DW Wallace said.
Karen broke down. “I’ve not seen - sniff – my brother in two years – sniff-sniff. That’s all I am here for – sniff – just this one week – sniff-sniff – to see my brother."
“We’ve had this trip planned all year,” Dad said. "We’ve come five-thousand miles at considerable cost, just to see Jon. All of these visits were approved by the prison, and we’ve already lost one visit.”
“Which visit did you lose?”
“Yesterday's.”
“And when do you go back to England?”
“Monday.”
She thought for a minute and said, “Right, here’s what I’m going to do. I’ll authorise tomorrow’s visit, but if anything, and I mean anything, goes wrong on the yard during the visit, we’ll have to send you home.”
“I understand that,” Dad said.
We thanked the DW and after she departed, we praised our luck. We said goodbye.
After I was strip searched, the guard asked, “Did you have a good visit?”
“Yes. It was great. It’s just bad timing with this hostage situation.”
“That guy was crazy pulling that stunt.”
“I understand you have security procedures to follow.”
“Yeah, but you shouldn’t be punished 'cause of one idiot.”
“I think the DW sees it that way. We’re lucky she’s kept some of the visits going considering what’s happened.”

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
02 May 06

Hostage Situation (Part 2)

5:50am Should I get up? I thought. I’ve got to look out the window to see what’s going on.

5:52am Not a soul near Building 2. Good.
No kitchen workers in Yard 4’s chow hall. Bad.
Mixed signals. Are we still locked down?

6:01am Ah, two kitchen workers and a guard in the chow hall. A good sign. I’d better start preparing for the visit. It seems that things are back to normal. And I spent hours last night stressing out. What an idiot I am.

7:17am Why no stand-by for chow? The hostage situation seems to be over. Surely it’s back to business as usual? I hope there’re not going to punish us all by keeping us locked down for days on end. Here comes the nurse distributing meds - a good sign.

7:21am Kitchen workers started to deliver chow to Building 1.

7:30am “I’ve got a special visit today. Are we still on IMS?” I asked Officer Marquez.
“We are on IMS.”
“But the situation on Yard 2 is resolved right?”
“Yeah. But who knows if you’ll get your visit.”

7:36am Breakfast arrived. Tortillas, refried beans, shredded cheese, salsa, and applesauce.
“Do you think I’ll get the visit?”
“I dunno,” Officer Marquez said. “I can ask.”
“OK.”

9:00am Why haven't I been called out for the visit? Obviously, I’m not getting a visit today. If I miss one, it’s no big deal. There’s three remaining. Making four out of five wouldn’t be too bad. Perhaps they just need a day to get back to normal.

9:40am Two guards appeared. Trash collectors.
“I’m supposed to have a visit today with my family who flew in from England.”
“We can tell yer not lying. You’ve certainly got the accent.”
“I’m certainly not lying.”
“The DW's walking round right now. You’ll soon be able to ask her.”
The DW was outside Junior Bull’s cell, working her way around the run, coming in my direction.

9:45am “My family have flown from England, and I’m supposed to have a special visit today.”
“You won’t have it,” DW Wallace said.
“What about the rest of the week? That’s all we’ve got left before they fly home.”
“You’re gonna be locked down for a few days. I don’t know about the weekend,” she said and walked away.

I might not be seeing my dad and sister for a while. I don’t understand this. If kitchen workers can walk around, why can't I? If the situation is resolved, then what’s the big deal about letting me walk to the visitation area? Maybe my dad and sister will get a better opportunity than I did to plead our case. I'm sure they'll speak to someone here and try to get in somehow.

11:30am I wondered whether my dad and sister would be allowed in tomorrow.

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
30 April 06

Hostage Situation (Part 1)

4:15pm
“Surprise cell inspection,” Officer Rivero said, entering my cell.
“Uh-oh,” I replied, acting surprised, although I’d heard him say the same thing to my neighbours, giving me just enough time to chuck the clutter on the countertops into the drawers.
“It’s quite clean in here,” he said.
“Thanks.”
He ticked my name on his clipboard, and continued down the run.

4:25pm Officer Rivero sprinted across the rec area and out of Yard 4 into Yard 2. Numerous officers from all directions were running toward Yard 2. I assumed there had been a fight or an assault on a guard.

5:40pm Kitchen workers, ordered to return to their cells, were yelling:
“We’ve got another hostage situation!”
“A hostage has been taken on Yard 2!”

My heart sank. A previous hostage situation at Buckeye had lasted for fifteen days, making it the longest prison hostage standoff in US history. On January 18th 2004, two prisoners – Steven Coy and Ricky Wassenaar – took a male and female guard hostage in the guard tower, where the female was raped. During the crisis, inmates were not allowed out of their cells, and didn’t get food for several days.

My dad and sister have travelled so far to see me, I thought. Unless there’s a swift resolution to this situation, I might not get to see them. How will they feel if they are turned away tomorrow?

6:05pm Guards amassed on Yard 2, and put ladders up to the roof.

6:25pm Why's this got to happen right now? How soon before everything is back to normal? Calm down. There’s absolutely nothing I can do. What’s going to happen is going to happen. And what about the person who’s been taken hostage? How do you think he or she feels right now? A person’s life is on the line. I feel sick. Stop pacing the cell and go back to reading.

6:34pm Strategic Response Team (SRT) members arrived at Yard 2 in flatbed trucks.

6:35pm SRT members marched into Building 2. Yard 2 had begun to look like a scene from a war movie.

6:37pm More SRT arrived.

6:43pm A floodlight was shone over Building 2, lasting ten seconds.

6:46pm Another truckload of SRT arrived.

6:54pm The setting sun turned the mountain behind Building 2 pink, adding to the surrealism. SRT members extracted equipment from the trucks.

8:00pm Darkness. Bats swooped around the yard lights catching moths. Another truckload of SRT members passed by.

8:47pm “Are you a regular or a diet?” asked a guard at the door.
“Diet. I’m a lacto,” I said.
“We’re serving regulars right now, but I gotcha,” he said – meaning he may or may not be back with my food at some hour of the night.

9:15pm I ate peanut butter and crackers as I didn’t fancy staying awake for black beans and mashed potatoes.

9:30pm Shoved wet toilet paper in my ears and went to bed – still worried about the visits.

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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood