15 August 06
Do I have a Haemorrhoid? (Part 4)
I ceased using the ointment, and hid it so that Frankie wouldn't find it.
"George," I said, “I’ve got a health problem you may be able to advise me on, but I don’t need it sharing with the rest of the yard.”
“And what would that be?”
“I have a small lump on my anus. I saw the nurse. They haven’t looked at it. I was given cream and I’ve been scheduled for a full exam next month.”
“Is it itching or bleeding?”
“Neither.”
“I’ve got some good advice for you.”
“What’s that?”
“Don’t tell Frankie.”
“I’ve only told you.”
“It’s probably a cyst. What we need to do is pop it and see what comes out. I’ll do it if you like. I’m used to seeing backsides. I used to pack them with cotton when I was a funeral director.”
“Mine is a little more alive than that, and what good would popping it be?”
“It’s similar to how you deal with a zit, except you normally lance a cyst.”
“I think I’ll give the popping a miss, otherwise I’ll end up at Medical witha bleeding behind."
“As pale as you are, I don’t think you have that much blood in you. And you certainly wouldn’t be the first in here to go to medical with a bleeding rectum. Mooga was up there with a bleeding ass all of the time.”
“Have a look at the cream, tell me what you think.” I took the ointment from its hiding place.
George examined the tube and fondled the intrarectal applicator.“How beautiful!”
“That thing isn’t going up my arse.”
“Why not? Bigger stuff comes out. What are you afraid of? You’re such a prude hiding this in your Kleenex box.”
“I’m trying to get some serious advice out of you, George. What if I’ve got cancer or something?”
“Well, usually cancer polyps are on the underside of the colon.”
“That’s reassuring.”
“That’s when they do a colonoscopy, and you can’t eat for a few days before it.”
“So what’s this rectal exam I’m scheduled for?”
“He’ll do a visual of it. If it looks serious, a hospital appointment will follow. That’s when the tubes, cameras, and lights come out. If he sees a suspected polyp, he’ll probably snip a piece off for a biopsy.”
“I doubt if it’s rectal cancer.”
“It’s always good to get it checked. Detected early enough, it is easily treated and got rid of. Look at Katie Couric. Her husband died of rectal cancer, so she had a colonoscopy live on The Today Show. It can be a very serious matter but highly treatable if caught early enough, but so many people are scared of someone looking in such a private place.”
“Thanks for the advice. I thought you were just going to rip me about it like you did with my scrotum situation.”
“I only made fun of the scrotum 'cause it was external and I had visions of one-ball Jon. Until we find out whether it’s serious or not, it’s nothing to joke about. If it turns out to be a haemorrhoid, the gloves are off, and I’ll make fun of your asshole. In the meantime, if you need help with the applicator, I’ll be only too happy to give you a helping hand.”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
14 August 06
Psychotherapy with Dr. O'Malley # 5 (continued)
“I’m not sure.” I said. “In high school a lot of the boys grew bigger and taller than me, and I felt inadequate. Getting mauled by some of the rugby players didn’t help. As I grew older I got along better with girls. I was always a wheeler-dealer from a young age, and that drive got stronger, much stronger into my early twenties.”
“Why do you feel you were driven to acquire material things?”
“I guess I was a bit of a show off. I equated material items with being cool. I was immature.”
“So you were mesmerised by external things, and you didn’t give much attention to your inner core. There’s a part of you that wanted to attract attention, and material things would generate attention from others. You have to realise the essence of a person has nothing to do with being attracted to money and things. Look at the Dalai Lama. He looks like a regular old fella. But he’s very charismatic. You need to find your internal self and you need to ask yourself what person do you want to be. Drugs aren’t going to do that for you. Not peyote or mescaline or LSD. Hallucinogens may fit into certain cultures, but in our culture they don’t make sense.”
“Does all the alcohol and nicotine consumption in our culture make sense?”
“Wasn’t that a scene you were part of?”
“No. We were a counterculture. We dressed outrageously. Our music sounded like signals from outerspace. We were rebellious. We sneered at mainstream – even mainstream drugs. We were out to shock the world.”
“You wanted attention.”
“I got attention.”
“But it didn’t work out. Everything you did was a step on the path that brought you here.”
“That’s true.”
“With increased mindfulness you can learn from the previous negative things you did and determine what things are going to be beneficial to you. You’re able to start afresh.”
“I agree.”
“Now let’s discuss your thought journal. When you were in class you applied breathing at the end of each sentence and you did well, but when your buddy instigated a play fight you got mad. Instead of getting mad you can train yourself to concentrate on your breathing, just like you did in class.”
“You’re right. But it’s easier said than done.”
“Absolutely. But you need to think about breathing, and to be able to analyse your thoughts in all uncomfortable situations. When you take a deep breath you get a useful response: your adrenalin doesn’t pump in as much. I see progress in your thought journal throughout the month until the last entry.”
“Detecting that lump brought on anxiety and embarrassment.”
“Do you think it could be something that could cause your fatality?”
“I really don’t, but I’m aware of a slight chance of it being cancer.”
“So there’s a nagging doubt?”
“Yes, but its mostly embarrassment. I’ve got to have an examination. I can’t image people looking in my arse.”
“It there’s something wrong with your car, you take it in. You shouldn’t be embarrassed if your engine’s leaking oil. The mechanic has seen engines that look better than yours and he’s seen worse. Health providers find solving bodily problems interesting - just like I find the brain and behaviour interesting. The bottom line is: your embarrassment is all in your head.”
“I realise that.”
“Good. But do you realise this anxiety has driven you all of your life? You need to become adept and to learn to listen to your anxiety. To know when things make sense and when they stop making sense. For homework, I want you to not only listen to how you talk to yourself but also to notice, and to write down, when anxiety causes you to cross the fence into irrational thoughts. And remember to breath. Long deep breaths. Make Darth Vader noises if you have to.”
I laughed and thanked him for the session. It seems I’m making more progress with Dr. O. than Drs. A. and B.. What do you think? How do you feel Dr. O.’s advice about drugs compares with Two Tonys’ advice?
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Psychotherapy with Dr. O'Malley # 5 (continued)
“I’m not sure.” I said. “In high school a lot of the boys grew bigger and taller than me, and I felt inadequate. Getting mauled by some of the rugby players didn’t help. As I grew older I got along better with girls. I was always a wheeler-dealer from a young age, and that drive got stronger, much stronger into my early twenties.”
“Why do you feel you were driven to acquire material things?”
“I guess I was a bit of a show off. I equated material items with being cool. I was immature.”
“So you were mesmerised by external things, and you didn’t give much attention to your inner core. There’s a part of you that wanted to attract attention, and material things would generate attention from others. You have to realise the essence of a person has nothing to do with being attracted to money and things. Look at the Dalai Lama. He looks like a regular old fella. But he’s very charismatic. You need to find your internal self and you need to ask yourself what person do you want to be. Drugs aren’t going to do that for you. Not peyote or mescaline or LSD. Hallucinogens may fit into certain cultures, but in our culture they don’t make sense.”
“Does all the alcohol and nicotine consumption in our culture make sense?”
“Wasn’t that a scene you were part of?”
“No. We were a counterculture. We dressed outrageously. Our music sounded like signals from outerspace. We were rebellious. We sneered at mainstream – even mainstream drugs. We were out to shock the world.”
“You wanted attention.”
“I got attention.”
“But it didn’t work out. Everything you did was a step on the path that brought you here.”
“That’s true.”
“With increased mindfulness you can learn from the previous negative things you did and determine what things are going to be beneficial to you. You’re able to start afresh.”
“I agree.”
“Now let’s discuss your thought journal. When you were in class you applied breathing at the end of each sentence and you did well, but when your buddy instigated a play fight you got mad. Instead of getting mad you can train yourself to concentrate on your breathing, just like you did in class.”
“You’re right. But it’s easier said than done.”
“Absolutely. But you need to think about breathing, and to be able to analyse your thoughts in all uncomfortable situations. When you take a deep breath you get a useful response: your adrenalin doesn’t pump in as much. I see progress in your thought journal throughout the month until the last entry.”
“Detecting that lump brought on anxiety and embarrassment.”
“Do you think it could be something that could cause your fatality?”
“I really don’t, but I’m aware of a slight chance of it being cancer.”
“So there’s a nagging doubt?”
“Yes, but its mostly embarrassment. I’ve got to have an examination. I can’t image people looking in my arse.”
“It there’s something wrong with your car, you take it in. You shouldn’t be embarrassed if your engine’s leaking oil. The mechanic has seen engines that look better than yours and he’s seen worse. Health providers find solving bodily problems interesting - just like I find the brain and behaviour interesting. The bottom line is: your embarrassment is all in your head.”
“I realise that.”
“Good. But do you realise this anxiety has driven you all of your life? You need to become adept and to learn to listen to your anxiety. To know when things make sense and when they stop making sense. For homework, I want you to not only listen to how you talk to yourself but also to notice, and to write down, when anxiety causes you to cross the fence into irrational thoughts. And remember to breath. Long deep breaths. Make Darth Vader noises if you have to.”
I laughed and thanked him for the session. It seems I’m making more progress with Dr. O. than Drs. A. and B.. What do you think? How do you feel Dr. O.’s advice about drugs compares with Two Tonys’ advice?
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
13 August 06
Psychotherapy with Dr O Malley (Part 5)
Dr O was listening to "The Godfather Waltz." On his desk were a kiwi fruit, a bottle of Trader Joe’s Natural Mountain Spring Water and a Scientific America magazine headlined Quark Soup. He read my thought journal, which contained some highs (how I’d calmly read out a passage in the SMART Recovery class, and how I’d transformed energy from anxiety into writing) and some lows (getting mad at Frankie for instigating wrestling when I was trying to write, and my anxiety, embarrassment and worry over the lump on my behind).
“Before we begin,” Dr. O said, “is there anything you’d like to discuss?”
“Yes. There is actually. I’d like to get your advice about drugs. It’s self-evident that I don’t need to be running around raves doing designer drugs. But where do I draw the line in a world in which it seems everyone is doing drugs? Nearly everyone I know either drinks or smokes or pops prescription pills or does illegal drugs. Should I be drinking a glass of wine with my parents during the evening meal? Can I pop Xanax before flying because it raises my anxiety? Where do I draw the line?”
“There are two things you need to understand: firstly, you need awareness and mindfulness to understand the situations and the premises that are drawing you to drugs; secondly, you need an awareness of how drugs work. On the wall behind me is a diagram of the limbic system. It’s a system of nerves and networks that when stimulated makes you feel good and tells you, lets get higher and higher. Then, doing more and more drugs gives you immediate gratification. Instead of seeking such chemically-induced extremes, you must learn how to activate it at lower natural levels. Ecstasy, Special K or whatever do not come in nature. They are refined substances that cause huge cascades of neurotransmitters. You need to think about what gives you a little euphoria without doing drugs.”
“Writing, exercise, sex!”
“But frequent sexual encounters are not a positive addiction. If you’re having sex compulsively you’re not enjoying it.”
“I’ve never had any sex that I didn’t enjoy.”
“If you’re increasing the amount, and your sexual aggression is escalating, doesn’t that interfere with your ability to function normally?”
“I don’t know. I think we’re designed for sex, and it’s a natural and healthy thing.”
“Sex is a good thing, but becoming a sex addict isn’t a good thing. It may be pleasurable in the heat of the moment. Some people misappropriate Tantra for Tantric sex.”
“Sex gluttons?”
“Yes. The idea is mindfulness. It’s part of being in a healthy relationship with a person.”
“Are you saying any kind of drug is out of the question for me? Say for example I get a wild idea to take a trip to do peyote with Mexican Indians or Amanta mushrooms with the Siberians? I read about professional people who occasionally do such consciousness-raising experiments.”
“Why would Mexican Indians or indigenous Siberians want you, some westerner, sharing their sacred rites or rituals?”
“I see what you’re saying: they’d be doing it for commercial reasons.”
“Which leads to problems. You’re assuming you can buy a cheap thrill through a mystical experience. A mystical experience is supposed to give you a profound understanding of the universe.”
“Timothy Leary claimed he got that through LSD.”
“Maybe he did, but my answer for you is a resounding no. There are no short cuts for you. Ahead of you is a journey down a long hard road that’s going to get you where you need to be. If you do drugs once, you’ll want to test yourself again and again. You’ll think, I can do this and this. When in actuality your will power is fucked up by drugs. Your neurotransmitters are screwed up by huge chemical loads in the brain. You’ll have to become like a teetotaller who learns to appreciate tea, or a highly-sexual person who learns to have sex with one partner, allowing your partner to look into yourself, and letting her look in synthesis.
Yoga will help you. Yoga was developed by people who sat outside, in isolated situations, and developed ideas that took place over 5000 years of tradition. You need to find things that make sense to you and explore those to achieve unity."
“Writing and creativity make sense to me.”
“There are many authors who have done drugs and done well. But on closer examination they did drugs to address internal turmoil, and when they look back after doing drugs they saw they had natural writing skills irregardless of whether they did drugs or not.”
“I’ve had internal turmoil.”
“It’s something you need to figure out.”
“How?”
“By paying attention to how you talk to yourself.”
“Like with the thought journal?”
“Yes. But also you need to go back, way back and ask yourself what were you telling yourself from the ages of 12 to 25. That’s when your personality solidified and you chose certain paths in life. There was something about you you were not happy with."
To be continued.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Psychotherapy with Dr O Malley (Part 5)
Dr O was listening to "The Godfather Waltz." On his desk were a kiwi fruit, a bottle of Trader Joe’s Natural Mountain Spring Water and a Scientific America magazine headlined Quark Soup. He read my thought journal, which contained some highs (how I’d calmly read out a passage in the SMART Recovery class, and how I’d transformed energy from anxiety into writing) and some lows (getting mad at Frankie for instigating wrestling when I was trying to write, and my anxiety, embarrassment and worry over the lump on my behind).
“Before we begin,” Dr. O said, “is there anything you’d like to discuss?”
“Yes. There is actually. I’d like to get your advice about drugs. It’s self-evident that I don’t need to be running around raves doing designer drugs. But where do I draw the line in a world in which it seems everyone is doing drugs? Nearly everyone I know either drinks or smokes or pops prescription pills or does illegal drugs. Should I be drinking a glass of wine with my parents during the evening meal? Can I pop Xanax before flying because it raises my anxiety? Where do I draw the line?”
“There are two things you need to understand: firstly, you need awareness and mindfulness to understand the situations and the premises that are drawing you to drugs; secondly, you need an awareness of how drugs work. On the wall behind me is a diagram of the limbic system. It’s a system of nerves and networks that when stimulated makes you feel good and tells you, lets get higher and higher. Then, doing more and more drugs gives you immediate gratification. Instead of seeking such chemically-induced extremes, you must learn how to activate it at lower natural levels. Ecstasy, Special K or whatever do not come in nature. They are refined substances that cause huge cascades of neurotransmitters. You need to think about what gives you a little euphoria without doing drugs.”
“Writing, exercise, sex!”
“But frequent sexual encounters are not a positive addiction. If you’re having sex compulsively you’re not enjoying it.”
“I’ve never had any sex that I didn’t enjoy.”
“If you’re increasing the amount, and your sexual aggression is escalating, doesn’t that interfere with your ability to function normally?”
“I don’t know. I think we’re designed for sex, and it’s a natural and healthy thing.”
“Sex is a good thing, but becoming a sex addict isn’t a good thing. It may be pleasurable in the heat of the moment. Some people misappropriate Tantra for Tantric sex.”
“Sex gluttons?”
“Yes. The idea is mindfulness. It’s part of being in a healthy relationship with a person.”
“Are you saying any kind of drug is out of the question for me? Say for example I get a wild idea to take a trip to do peyote with Mexican Indians or Amanta mushrooms with the Siberians? I read about professional people who occasionally do such consciousness-raising experiments.”
“Why would Mexican Indians or indigenous Siberians want you, some westerner, sharing their sacred rites or rituals?”
“I see what you’re saying: they’d be doing it for commercial reasons.”
“Which leads to problems. You’re assuming you can buy a cheap thrill through a mystical experience. A mystical experience is supposed to give you a profound understanding of the universe.”
“Timothy Leary claimed he got that through LSD.”
“Maybe he did, but my answer for you is a resounding no. There are no short cuts for you. Ahead of you is a journey down a long hard road that’s going to get you where you need to be. If you do drugs once, you’ll want to test yourself again and again. You’ll think, I can do this and this. When in actuality your will power is fucked up by drugs. Your neurotransmitters are screwed up by huge chemical loads in the brain. You’ll have to become like a teetotaller who learns to appreciate tea, or a highly-sexual person who learns to have sex with one partner, allowing your partner to look into yourself, and letting her look in synthesis.
Yoga will help you. Yoga was developed by people who sat outside, in isolated situations, and developed ideas that took place over 5000 years of tradition. You need to find things that make sense to you and explore those to achieve unity."
“Writing and creativity make sense to me.”
“There are many authors who have done drugs and done well. But on closer examination they did drugs to address internal turmoil, and when they look back after doing drugs they saw they had natural writing skills irregardless of whether they did drugs or not.”
“I’ve had internal turmoil.”
“It’s something you need to figure out.”
“How?”
“By paying attention to how you talk to yourself.”
“Like with the thought journal?”
“Yes. But also you need to go back, way back and ask yourself what were you telling yourself from the ages of 12 to 25. That’s when your personality solidified and you chose certain paths in life. There was something about you you were not happy with."
To be continued.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
12 August 06
Do I have a Haemorrhoid? (Part 3)
A few days later the cream was delivered: Formulation R Hemorrhoidal Ointment.
What's this skinny black tube with holes in it for? I thought. How bizarre. I'b better read the instructions. Attach applicator to tube. Lubricate applicator well, and then gently insert applicator into the rectum. Thoroughly cleanse applicator after each use and replace protective cover. They’ve got to be kidding. That's not happening. Not in this lifetime. The lump is on the outside. I'll just smear it on and hope for the best. There we go, that did it. It was easy enough to find. Let's get the grease washed off. Whoa. What's that tickling sensation? Active ingredients. My goodness - it's getting stronger and stronger. The last time I experienced this was after Thai food. How am I going to be able to keep a straight face on the yard?
Do I have a Haemorrhoid? (Part 3)
A few days later the cream was delivered: Formulation R Hemorrhoidal Ointment.
What's this skinny black tube with holes in it for? I thought. How bizarre. I'b better read the instructions. Attach applicator to tube. Lubricate applicator well, and then gently insert applicator into the rectum. Thoroughly cleanse applicator after each use and replace protective cover. They’ve got to be kidding. That's not happening. Not in this lifetime. The lump is on the outside. I'll just smear it on and hope for the best. There we go, that did it. It was easy enough to find. Let's get the grease washed off. Whoa. What's that tickling sensation? Active ingredients. My goodness - it's getting stronger and stronger. The last time I experienced this was after Thai food. How am I going to be able to keep a straight face on the yard?
11 August 06
Two Tonys On Drugs
“I’m thinking about asking the shrink for advice about staying away from drugs when I get out,” I told Two Tonys.
“Whaddya wanna know about drugs?” Two Tonys said, “I’ve done 'em, sold 'em, and killed for 'em – in a roundabout way, drug debts and shit like that.”
“I’m going to ask for some general advice. Dr. O seems really intelligent.”
“How the fuck's he gonna tell ya to stay the fuck away from drugs? What does he know? Has he ever been hooked on drugs? Ask him that next time you see him. Does he know the thrill of drivin’ down the highway after you’ve just blown a motherfucker's jaw off, high on speed, your mind's trippin’ 45 million milligatts per minute and you’re listenin’ to Pink Floyd’s 'Another Brick In The Wall' thinkin’ you just made the most intelligent decision in yer life 'cause you’re so fuckin’ smart on drugs. You’re fuckin high. You’re fuckin’ John Wayne, Gary Cooper, Arnie and Sylvester Stallone all rolled into one.”
“I see what you’re saying: the shrink’s an academic. But he seems to know his stuff.”
“All he can tell ya is there’s nerve-endin’s in yer head like a little clit that twitches when ya do drugs and makes ya think, Man, I’m havin’ a great time. How can I get more of this stuff 'cause I really like this feelin’. I’m so smart. I’m so handsome. I’m so tough. They’re all looking’ at me in this nightclub sayin’, man, who’s that guy?”
“So what advice do you have for me?”
“Don’t fuckin’ do it. Not only don’t do it, don’t hang around with people who are doin’ it or else you’ll end up doin’ it. I don’t care how fine a woman who wants to do drugs with you is, you’ve gotta understand that all your values and the decision-makin’ processes you’ve acquired along the road of life that parents, aunts, uncles, schoolteachers have taught you – right from wrong, good from bad, smart from stuu-pid – you’re gonna throw out the fuckin’ window on drugs.”
“Doing drugs was fun for me but look where I ended up.”
“Oh man, I remember bein’ in those discothèques back in the day with a bad-ass three-piece Armani suit on, gold chains around my neck, packin’ a five-shot Smith & Wesson .38, my Rolex, my pinkie rings, as high as Ike Turner on coke, and that’s a motherfucker who grew a moustache just so he could catch the coke rocks fallin’ outta his fuckin’ nose. I knew everybody in the place was lookin’ at me thinkin’, Man oh man, boy is he cool. And the reason I knew that is 'cause the drugs told me so.
It started out recreationally for me. It turned into a dependency. Lemmetellyasomethin’ - 'cause you’re gettin’ out soon - I guarantee you that you’ll be right back in here if you go poppin’ that Ecstasy or tootin’ that Special K or sippin’ that GHB. That is if you live long enough, if someone doesn’t kill you, if you don’t OD. Like I’ve told ya before there’s a BD, a DD, and an AD. Before drugs, during drugs, and after drugs. The most horrendous and costly decisions I ever made in my life happened during drugs. People lost their lives. I lost my decision-makin’ processes. How the fuck can a guy like me go from livin’ in a five-level house in a beautiful subdivision in Anchorage, Alaska, drivin’ a gold Cadillac Eldorado and a silver Jaguar, with people around me who cared about me, end up on the back of a Greyhound bus at a food stop watchin’ people eat their fuckin’ hamburgers 'cause I haven’t got any money in my pocket?”
“So you don’t think some people do a little bit of drugs and function fine?”
“Not if you’re weak. It could be alcohol. It could be marijuana. One leads to others. Supposedly Cary Grant took plenty of acid after he was 60. That’s OK if you’re Cary Grant, and you’ve gotta manager and motherfuckers who can protect you from your fucked-up decision-makin' processes. But if you’re just out there climbin' the ladder, don’t do it.”
“What about drug-addicted celebrities?”
“They’re a bunch of fuck-ups too. Look at Whitney Houston or Kurt Cobain. What possessed him to climb up to his loft and blow his brains out when he had the number one band in the world?”
“Smack.”
“And Robert Downey Junior. He crashed and burned. He ran into a cliff. And then there’s motherfuckers who turn into monsters. Look at Charlie Manson with the broads on LSD, drivin’ around L.A. puttin’ turkey forks in peoples bellies, cuttin’ pregnant women open to look at their foetuses and then gigglin’ while they did it. They weren’t insane. Those chicks were from Iowa and Nebraska. Their daddies were grocery-store managers and shit like that. How did Charles Manson control them? With drugs. They’re bad man. Back in the '70s – when coke was chic – they lied to us. They told us we couldn’t get addicted. Cocaine wasn’t like that scumbag heroin that made you wanna lie around all day, pukin’, and scratchin’ your ass and balls. They were wrong.”
“So what’s your advice for me when I get out?”
“Listen, Jon. I like you. You’re a nice guy. The cards turned on you and you wound up in this motherfucker. Not because you’re bad or evil but because you made bad decisions due to takin’ drugs. Get outta here and just don’t take 'em anymore. Stay the fuck away from 'em. It’s that fuckin’ simple. You can spend all the money in the world on shrinks, drug counsellors, and thirty-grand-a-month rehab centres, but, the bottom line is just like Nancy Reagan said, you’ve just gotta fuckin’ say no!”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Two Tonys On Drugs
“I’m thinking about asking the shrink for advice about staying away from drugs when I get out,” I told Two Tonys.
“Whaddya wanna know about drugs?” Two Tonys said, “I’ve done 'em, sold 'em, and killed for 'em – in a roundabout way, drug debts and shit like that.”
“I’m going to ask for some general advice. Dr. O seems really intelligent.”
“How the fuck's he gonna tell ya to stay the fuck away from drugs? What does he know? Has he ever been hooked on drugs? Ask him that next time you see him. Does he know the thrill of drivin’ down the highway after you’ve just blown a motherfucker's jaw off, high on speed, your mind's trippin’ 45 million milligatts per minute and you’re listenin’ to Pink Floyd’s 'Another Brick In The Wall' thinkin’ you just made the most intelligent decision in yer life 'cause you’re so fuckin’ smart on drugs. You’re fuckin high. You’re fuckin’ John Wayne, Gary Cooper, Arnie and Sylvester Stallone all rolled into one.”
“I see what you’re saying: the shrink’s an academic. But he seems to know his stuff.”
“All he can tell ya is there’s nerve-endin’s in yer head like a little clit that twitches when ya do drugs and makes ya think, Man, I’m havin’ a great time. How can I get more of this stuff 'cause I really like this feelin’. I’m so smart. I’m so handsome. I’m so tough. They’re all looking’ at me in this nightclub sayin’, man, who’s that guy?”
“So what advice do you have for me?”
“Don’t fuckin’ do it. Not only don’t do it, don’t hang around with people who are doin’ it or else you’ll end up doin’ it. I don’t care how fine a woman who wants to do drugs with you is, you’ve gotta understand that all your values and the decision-makin’ processes you’ve acquired along the road of life that parents, aunts, uncles, schoolteachers have taught you – right from wrong, good from bad, smart from stuu-pid – you’re gonna throw out the fuckin’ window on drugs.”
“Doing drugs was fun for me but look where I ended up.”
“Oh man, I remember bein’ in those discothèques back in the day with a bad-ass three-piece Armani suit on, gold chains around my neck, packin’ a five-shot Smith & Wesson .38, my Rolex, my pinkie rings, as high as Ike Turner on coke, and that’s a motherfucker who grew a moustache just so he could catch the coke rocks fallin’ outta his fuckin’ nose. I knew everybody in the place was lookin’ at me thinkin’, Man oh man, boy is he cool. And the reason I knew that is 'cause the drugs told me so.
It started out recreationally for me. It turned into a dependency. Lemmetellyasomethin’ - 'cause you’re gettin’ out soon - I guarantee you that you’ll be right back in here if you go poppin’ that Ecstasy or tootin’ that Special K or sippin’ that GHB. That is if you live long enough, if someone doesn’t kill you, if you don’t OD. Like I’ve told ya before there’s a BD, a DD, and an AD. Before drugs, during drugs, and after drugs. The most horrendous and costly decisions I ever made in my life happened during drugs. People lost their lives. I lost my decision-makin’ processes. How the fuck can a guy like me go from livin’ in a five-level house in a beautiful subdivision in Anchorage, Alaska, drivin’ a gold Cadillac Eldorado and a silver Jaguar, with people around me who cared about me, end up on the back of a Greyhound bus at a food stop watchin’ people eat their fuckin’ hamburgers 'cause I haven’t got any money in my pocket?”
“So you don’t think some people do a little bit of drugs and function fine?”
“Not if you’re weak. It could be alcohol. It could be marijuana. One leads to others. Supposedly Cary Grant took plenty of acid after he was 60. That’s OK if you’re Cary Grant, and you’ve gotta manager and motherfuckers who can protect you from your fucked-up decision-makin' processes. But if you’re just out there climbin' the ladder, don’t do it.”
“What about drug-addicted celebrities?”
“They’re a bunch of fuck-ups too. Look at Whitney Houston or Kurt Cobain. What possessed him to climb up to his loft and blow his brains out when he had the number one band in the world?”
“Smack.”
“And Robert Downey Junior. He crashed and burned. He ran into a cliff. And then there’s motherfuckers who turn into monsters. Look at Charlie Manson with the broads on LSD, drivin’ around L.A. puttin’ turkey forks in peoples bellies, cuttin’ pregnant women open to look at their foetuses and then gigglin’ while they did it. They weren’t insane. Those chicks were from Iowa and Nebraska. Their daddies were grocery-store managers and shit like that. How did Charles Manson control them? With drugs. They’re bad man. Back in the '70s – when coke was chic – they lied to us. They told us we couldn’t get addicted. Cocaine wasn’t like that scumbag heroin that made you wanna lie around all day, pukin’, and scratchin’ your ass and balls. They were wrong.”
“So what’s your advice for me when I get out?”
“Listen, Jon. I like you. You’re a nice guy. The cards turned on you and you wound up in this motherfucker. Not because you’re bad or evil but because you made bad decisions due to takin’ drugs. Get outta here and just don’t take 'em anymore. Stay the fuck away from 'em. It’s that fuckin’ simple. You can spend all the money in the world on shrinks, drug counsellors, and thirty-grand-a-month rehab centres, but, the bottom line is just like Nancy Reagan said, you’ve just gotta fuckin’ say no!”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
10 August 2006
Do I have a Haemorrhoid? (Part 2)
It took a week to receive a Master Pass for the Health Unit. Walking to medical I envisioned Odd Job caressing a spatula, a glass rod, and a Jaws of Life.
Don't be silly, I thought. Odd Job will just take a gander and say it's a harmless something that’ll quickly go away, like a canker sore.
"Good morning," I said.
"Howdahellaryadoin'?" Odd Job said. "It's bin a freakin' while."
"Yes. A few months, I believe."
"So dats how ya freakin' do it izzit? You come up with a new complaint every few months to get a free trip to see me?"
"Er ... no." I blushed.
"And don't think for one second that I don't have my bullshit detector on."
Oh no. She does think I'm one of those guys who gets off on showing his behind to staff. Quick. Think. Say something.
"It's ... er ... nothing like that."
She looked at the Health Needs Request form I had submitted, occasionally stopping to scrutinize my reactions. "Hmmm," Odd Job said. "If dats what you think it is then lemmetellyasomethin': I can only identify big ones. The doc's gonna hafta look at it. I'll schedule ya for a full examination next week. In the meantime wouldja like to try the cream?"
Phew. No examination today. I'm off the hook with Odd Job, but what does full examination entail? Please no probing instruments.
I suddenly became aware that everyone there was listening to me and Odd Job.
"Will the cream make it go away?" I whispered.
"No. It'll only reduce the swellin' if it is what you think it is. But it might not be what you think it is?"
Odd Job's euphemisms were stirring up the eavesdroppers. I prayed she wouldn't say, "If it is what you think it is," ever again.
Instead, she said, "Does it itch?"
"Er ... not much. Not... er ... really."
"Which one: not much or not really?"
"I haven't noticed it doing that. How can I make it go away?"
"If it is what you think it is - "
Oh no, here we go again.
" - those things don't ever go away."
"Ever?"
"Ever. It's a protrusion of veins. All ya can do is reduce the swellin'. You don't want big ones cause they itch and bleed."
Worrying about what the onlookers were thinking made it hard to concentrate.
It’ll never go away. Is she saying I'll be carrying this thing around for the rest of my life? That's got to be nonsense. If Magic Johnson can beat AIDS, surely I can beat this. Unless. What if it's cancer?
"Could it be cancer?"
"I've never heard of those things you think it is becomin' cancerous. But until the doctor sees it we can't be sure it is what you think it is. So I'll go ahead and schedule you for next week."
"OK."
Do I have a Haemorrhoid? (Part 2)
It took a week to receive a Master Pass for the Health Unit. Walking to medical I envisioned Odd Job caressing a spatula, a glass rod, and a Jaws of Life.
Don't be silly, I thought. Odd Job will just take a gander and say it's a harmless something that’ll quickly go away, like a canker sore.
"Good morning," I said.
"Howdahellaryadoin'?" Odd Job said. "It's bin a freakin' while."
"Yes. A few months, I believe."
"So dats how ya freakin' do it izzit? You come up with a new complaint every few months to get a free trip to see me?"
"Er ... no." I blushed.
"And don't think for one second that I don't have my bullshit detector on."
Oh no. She does think I'm one of those guys who gets off on showing his behind to staff. Quick. Think. Say something.
"It's ... er ... nothing like that."
She looked at the Health Needs Request form I had submitted, occasionally stopping to scrutinize my reactions. "Hmmm," Odd Job said. "If dats what you think it is then lemmetellyasomethin': I can only identify big ones. The doc's gonna hafta look at it. I'll schedule ya for a full examination next week. In the meantime wouldja like to try the cream?"
Phew. No examination today. I'm off the hook with Odd Job, but what does full examination entail? Please no probing instruments.
I suddenly became aware that everyone there was listening to me and Odd Job.
"Will the cream make it go away?" I whispered.
"No. It'll only reduce the swellin' if it is what you think it is. But it might not be what you think it is?"
Odd Job's euphemisms were stirring up the eavesdroppers. I prayed she wouldn't say, "If it is what you think it is," ever again.
Instead, she said, "Does it itch?"
"Er ... not much. Not... er ... really."
"Which one: not much or not really?"
"I haven't noticed it doing that. How can I make it go away?"
"If it is what you think it is - "
Oh no, here we go again.
" - those things don't ever go away."
"Ever?"
"Ever. It's a protrusion of veins. All ya can do is reduce the swellin'. You don't want big ones cause they itch and bleed."
Worrying about what the onlookers were thinking made it hard to concentrate.
It’ll never go away. Is she saying I'll be carrying this thing around for the rest of my life? That's got to be nonsense. If Magic Johnson can beat AIDS, surely I can beat this. Unless. What if it's cancer?
"Could it be cancer?"
"I've never heard of those things you think it is becomin' cancerous. But until the doctor sees it we can't be sure it is what you think it is. So I'll go ahead and schedule you for next week."
"OK."
09 August 06
Motivating Shane
To qualify for hepatitis C treatment, Shane has to complete a course developed by the Hazelden Foundation. After his most recent class, I found Shane cursing his Criminal and Addictive Behaviour workbook and the course.
“I don’t need," Shane said, “to be in these stupid support groups and courses! How do I know it’s legit? The book says I sacrificed goals because drugs and crime were more exciting, but that’s not true, because after a while, drugs and crime weren’t exciting.”
“I think it’s true. My ex-wife, Amy, was at the U of A, and she really tried to get me to go there to do a master's degree. And what did I do? I sacrificed a positive goal to run round Phoenix partying and raving and doing drugs, which seemed more exciting. If you’re going to reject the whole course because you disagree with some wording, then you’re not going to benefit from what the course has to offer. People who do drugs do it for excitement – especially in the beginning – and they do sacrifice family, education, and work goals. How can you dispute that?”
“But it’s not because those goals are not exciting.”
“Maybe not, but doing drugs and crime is more exciting. Stop fighting the book. Be open-minded. Focus on helping yourself instead of finding small objections to reject the whole course. Cognitive-behavioural therapy can help your mental state. How many disorders are you suffering from right now?”
“Bipolar, antisocial, and borderline personality.”
“Don’t you want to construct a positive mental framework to deal with them?”
“What the hell’s that?”
“Don’t you want to get the most from this course to help you with your mental disorders?”
“Sure. If it’s legit info.”
“There you go, resisting again. You’re familiar with the letter of the law and the spirit of the law, right?” I asked this because Shane does lots of legal work.
“Yeah.”
“Then stop seeking problems with the letter of the course, and go with the spirit of the course.”
“I see what you’re saying.”
“It’s a cop out to focus on the wording.”
“But why should there be double meanings to things?”
“Your mind is creating double meanings. If you choose to get stuck on objections, you’ll never benefit.”
“Maybe that’s why I am who I am?”
“But don’t you want to change that? Isn’t that what this cognitive class is trying to achieve for you?”
“I need a course that’ll teach me not to resist courses. Of course I’d try and resist that course too.”
We laughed.
“The bottom line is, you’ve got to want to help yourself, it’s got to come from your heart.”
“But it’s a joke how they’re doing courses in here. It’s supposed to be done in a live-in community with in-house counsellors where everybody’s doing the same course.”
“But we’re in prison. I’d like to do yoga on a yoga mat instead of the concrete floor. I wish there was enough space in my cell to be able to rotate into the splits from headstand. Do I quit yoga because of these things? No. I adapt. I make the most of the circumstances. You should try and make the most of the course in spite of the environment.”
Shane returned in the evening, and said, “I stand corrected. I am a word quibbler. It says so in a later chapter of the book. I employed a diversion strategy – a way to divert attention rather than understand.”
“It sounds like you’re doing better.”
“Yeah. I’m gonna give it a try.”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Motivating Shane
To qualify for hepatitis C treatment, Shane has to complete a course developed by the Hazelden Foundation. After his most recent class, I found Shane cursing his Criminal and Addictive Behaviour workbook and the course.
“I don’t need," Shane said, “to be in these stupid support groups and courses! How do I know it’s legit? The book says I sacrificed goals because drugs and crime were more exciting, but that’s not true, because after a while, drugs and crime weren’t exciting.”
“I think it’s true. My ex-wife, Amy, was at the U of A, and she really tried to get me to go there to do a master's degree. And what did I do? I sacrificed a positive goal to run round Phoenix partying and raving and doing drugs, which seemed more exciting. If you’re going to reject the whole course because you disagree with some wording, then you’re not going to benefit from what the course has to offer. People who do drugs do it for excitement – especially in the beginning – and they do sacrifice family, education, and work goals. How can you dispute that?”
“But it’s not because those goals are not exciting.”
“Maybe not, but doing drugs and crime is more exciting. Stop fighting the book. Be open-minded. Focus on helping yourself instead of finding small objections to reject the whole course. Cognitive-behavioural therapy can help your mental state. How many disorders are you suffering from right now?”
“Bipolar, antisocial, and borderline personality.”
“Don’t you want to construct a positive mental framework to deal with them?”
“What the hell’s that?”
“Don’t you want to get the most from this course to help you with your mental disorders?”
“Sure. If it’s legit info.”
“There you go, resisting again. You’re familiar with the letter of the law and the spirit of the law, right?” I asked this because Shane does lots of legal work.
“Yeah.”
“Then stop seeking problems with the letter of the course, and go with the spirit of the course.”
“I see what you’re saying.”
“It’s a cop out to focus on the wording.”
“But why should there be double meanings to things?”
“Your mind is creating double meanings. If you choose to get stuck on objections, you’ll never benefit.”
“Maybe that’s why I am who I am?”
“But don’t you want to change that? Isn’t that what this cognitive class is trying to achieve for you?”
“I need a course that’ll teach me not to resist courses. Of course I’d try and resist that course too.”
We laughed.
“The bottom line is, you’ve got to want to help yourself, it’s got to come from your heart.”
“But it’s a joke how they’re doing courses in here. It’s supposed to be done in a live-in community with in-house counsellors where everybody’s doing the same course.”
“But we’re in prison. I’d like to do yoga on a yoga mat instead of the concrete floor. I wish there was enough space in my cell to be able to rotate into the splits from headstand. Do I quit yoga because of these things? No. I adapt. I make the most of the circumstances. You should try and make the most of the course in spite of the environment.”
Shane returned in the evening, and said, “I stand corrected. I am a word quibbler. It says so in a later chapter of the book. I employed a diversion strategy – a way to divert attention rather than understand.”
“It sounds like you’re doing better.”
“Yeah. I’m gonna give it a try.”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
09 August
A Xena Day
“Can you describe a typical Xena day?” I asked Xena.
“When I wake up, I think about my dreams. I feed bread to the pigeons and go coo-coo. I make coffee, and don’t go to breakfast. Usually, I go to work on the farm crew, mowin’ and weedin’ grass, sweepin’ sidewalks, washin’ bird doo-doo off sidewalks, and pickin’ and shovelin’ – it’s ass-bustin’ hard work for four to nine hours. But I get to kick back and watch the birds and the bees, it’s invigoratin’. And passers-by all yell ‘Xena!’ and I never get a moments peace.
When I get home, I take off my boots outside, and get my clothes, soap and shampoo and stuff, and go take a shower. After showerin’, I put on deodorant, and cover my entire body with lotion, and usually I wait for my hair to dry before I comb it out.
At chow, I make fun of people, and they make fun of me, while my celly, Savage, looks at me thinkin’, Oh God, why me? Why this again?
At nightime rec I DM.”
“What’s DM?”
“I am a Dungeon Master in Dungeons and Dragons. I’m obsessed with D&D. My NPCs (Non Player Characters) rip heads off, rip guts out, flay Player Characters one piece of skin at a time while keepin’ them alive, inject veins with fire….
Sometimes I bug you and Frankie when you’re tryin’ to play a serious game of chess. I run around the yard sayin’ and doin’ crazy things, and watch people’s reactions, includin’ showin’ them my wasp - the tattoo on my penis.”
“Why did you get a wasp tattooed on your penis?”
“’Cause I don’t use it, so I figured I’d decorate it.”
“What do you do at night after lockdown?”
“Eat and talk with Savage. Read D&D books. I usually go bed between midnight and two in the mornin’”
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
A Xena Day
“Can you describe a typical Xena day?” I asked Xena.
“When I wake up, I think about my dreams. I feed bread to the pigeons and go coo-coo. I make coffee, and don’t go to breakfast. Usually, I go to work on the farm crew, mowin’ and weedin’ grass, sweepin’ sidewalks, washin’ bird doo-doo off sidewalks, and pickin’ and shovelin’ – it’s ass-bustin’ hard work for four to nine hours. But I get to kick back and watch the birds and the bees, it’s invigoratin’. And passers-by all yell ‘Xena!’ and I never get a moments peace.
When I get home, I take off my boots outside, and get my clothes, soap and shampoo and stuff, and go take a shower. After showerin’, I put on deodorant, and cover my entire body with lotion, and usually I wait for my hair to dry before I comb it out.
At chow, I make fun of people, and they make fun of me, while my celly, Savage, looks at me thinkin’, Oh God, why me? Why this again?
At nightime rec I DM.”
“What’s DM?”
“I am a Dungeon Master in Dungeons and Dragons. I’m obsessed with D&D. My NPCs (Non Player Characters) rip heads off, rip guts out, flay Player Characters one piece of skin at a time while keepin’ them alive, inject veins with fire….
Sometimes I bug you and Frankie when you’re tryin’ to play a serious game of chess. I run around the yard sayin’ and doin’ crazy things, and watch people’s reactions, includin’ showin’ them my wasp - the tattoo on my penis.”
“Why did you get a wasp tattooed on your penis?”
“’Cause I don’t use it, so I figured I’d decorate it.”
“What do you do at night after lockdown?”
“Eat and talk with Savage. Read D&D books. I usually go bed between midnight and two in the mornin’”
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
08 August 06
Los Betos Burritos
A benefits fundraiser for Homicide Survivors Inc. enabled us to buy burritos for $6 each.
We could choose from bean and cheese, chicken, and carne asada.
When the delivery van arrived at Yard 3, inmates mobbed Yard 4’s gate. The mob looked dangerous, so, I sat by Building A.
When the van arrived at Yard 4, Slingblade, who hadn’t ordered any burritos, began to circle the mob. Each time an inmate tried to return to his cell with his burritos, Slingblade, topless and wild eyed, stopped in front of him, and blocked his path. Slingblade, unable to form words, would howl in the inmate's face. Then the inmate, clinging to his burritos, would sidestep Slingblade and hurry home.
“Do you know why Slingblade’s going mad like that?” I asked George.
“No. Why?”
“’Cause I told him you were gonna give him some burrito.”
“It was nice of you to volunteer my food.” George said, his face turning stern.
“I’m just kidding. But I think you should give him some anyway.”
“Did George give you any burrito?” I asked Slingblade.
“Hell yeah!” Slingblade said.
"Here's some more burrito," I said.
"Gee thanks." Slingblade took the burrito and stuffed it into his pocket as if it were a secret that needed hiding.
"I like the guacamole," I said.
Slingblade grunted, took the burrito out of his pocket, and I left him to it.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Los Betos Burritos
A benefits fundraiser for Homicide Survivors Inc. enabled us to buy burritos for $6 each.
We could choose from bean and cheese, chicken, and carne asada.
When the delivery van arrived at Yard 3, inmates mobbed Yard 4’s gate. The mob looked dangerous, so, I sat by Building A.
When the van arrived at Yard 4, Slingblade, who hadn’t ordered any burritos, began to circle the mob. Each time an inmate tried to return to his cell with his burritos, Slingblade, topless and wild eyed, stopped in front of him, and blocked his path. Slingblade, unable to form words, would howl in the inmate's face. Then the inmate, clinging to his burritos, would sidestep Slingblade and hurry home.
“Do you know why Slingblade’s going mad like that?” I asked George.
“No. Why?”
“’Cause I told him you were gonna give him some burrito.”
“It was nice of you to volunteer my food.” George said, his face turning stern.
“I’m just kidding. But I think you should give him some anyway.”
“Did George give you any burrito?” I asked Slingblade.
“Hell yeah!” Slingblade said.
"Here's some more burrito," I said.
"Gee thanks." Slingblade took the burrito and stuffed it into his pocket as if it were a secret that needed hiding.
"I like the guacamole," I said.
Slingblade grunted, took the burrito out of his pocket, and I left him to it.
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
07 August 06
Peanut Butter Fart Thoughts
Now that Smoker is here my days of basking in the odour of peanut-butter farts are over. As I write this I’m holding several strong ones in. Prison etiquette requires that I don’t launch them off the top bunk onto my cellmate. I’ll liberate them when I next take a leak. It seems to be an accepted practice to fart while peeing. Sometimes you can’t stop this from happening. I’m assuming its an accepted practice to fart while peeing because of all my cellmates I’ve heard do it. It seems to happen more times than normal gas slippage could account for. After hearing it happen so many times it became an accepted practice of mine. What is not an accepted practice is lying on the top bunk and running my feet along the ceiling in a kind of yoga position with my posterior close to my face then letting one rip. I won’t be doing any of that with Smoker here.
Smoker is taking a leak right now, and he farted. I took advantage of the situation by following suit with a silent one that is redolent of peanut butter.
I think I’d better concentrate on writing the philosphical piece I started yesterday…
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Peanut Butter Fart Thoughts
Now that Smoker is here my days of basking in the odour of peanut-butter farts are over. As I write this I’m holding several strong ones in. Prison etiquette requires that I don’t launch them off the top bunk onto my cellmate. I’ll liberate them when I next take a leak. It seems to be an accepted practice to fart while peeing. Sometimes you can’t stop this from happening. I’m assuming its an accepted practice to fart while peeing because of all my cellmates I’ve heard do it. It seems to happen more times than normal gas slippage could account for. After hearing it happen so many times it became an accepted practice of mine. What is not an accepted practice is lying on the top bunk and running my feet along the ceiling in a kind of yoga position with my posterior close to my face then letting one rip. I won’t be doing any of that with Smoker here.
Smoker is taking a leak right now, and he farted. I took advantage of the situation by following suit with a silent one that is redolent of peanut butter.
I think I’d better concentrate on writing the philosphical piece I started yesterday…
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
06 August 06
Coming to Prison
“Arriving at jail and then prison were two of the most nerve-wracking experiences of my life,” I told Two Tonys.
“I remember,” Two Tonys said, “at the Walls when the big grey bus drove up with the fish in it. Twenty-five guys from Alhambra would get off the bus, get their chains undone, and walk to Cell Block 1 for orientation. Everybody – the white gang members, the eses, and the blacks – would be lookin’ at the herd of fish. Checkin’ out who’s who, who’s weak, who’s fearful, who’s strong. A fish with fear radiatin' from his eyes, with his shoulders humped and his head down, they’d know they could prey on. A swaggerin’ motherfucker, with his head held high, and all tatted down would be a potential comrade. The gang leaders are always lookin’ for new gang members. If I’m Dubya, I want more Christian conservative Republican members, but I’m not gonna just let anyone in. It’s just the same in here.”
Bomba, a Chicano friend of Two Tonys who’s almost completed a twenty-year sentence, said, “The gang members look at fish as furniture for all corners of the room. Each fish fits in somewhere, whether he’s a chair or a table. A fish may get punked out and be a piece of ass. If he’s comin’ in with jewellery or a Sony Trinatron TV then he’s a source of money.”
“Imagine,” Two Tonys said, “the gang members watchin’ the fish come in as wolves on the side of a grassy hill on the plains of South Dakota watchin’ a herd of elk. The wolves are layin’ there lookin’ for any signs of weakness in potential prey. Maybe a limp in an elk, an old-timer trottin’ behind the herd, or a young elk that’s strayed too far from its mother. Gang members are lookin’ for the same. Maybe a guy with an aura of fear who won’t make eye contact is a cho-mo they’re gonna shank. They’ll approach the fish friendly at first. A probate from the same race will roll up to the newcomer and say shit like, ‘Wassup! Where you from? Let’s go eat.’ Over days and weeks the fish will divulge certain information to his new friend. Whether he’s in for murder, rape, burglary. Whether he’s doin’ two years, five, or life. Whether he likes or hates the other races. If he’s a white guy with a Mexican wife, they’ll know he’s not for them. But maybe he has other uses. Does he get a weekly visit from some sweathog in Chandler who’ll bring in to the prison a pussy full of dope? How much money does he have on his books? And they’re always lookin’ for sexual prey, punks, someone to turn out. At the Walls they were lookin’ for bleeders, people who could bleed twice a week for $6.50 from Cutter Lab International.”
“What if you refused to give blood?” I asked.
“They’d bust your fuckin’ head in.”
“So what kind of body language would you recommend a fish portrays when he arrives at prison?” I asked.
“Make eye contact. Talk to motherfuckers. Keep your head up. Try not to show fear or apprehension – although everyone feels it. Don’t be too polite, but don’t be too disrespectful. If somebody fucks with you, get busy.”
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Coming to Prison
“Arriving at jail and then prison were two of the most nerve-wracking experiences of my life,” I told Two Tonys.
“I remember,” Two Tonys said, “at the Walls when the big grey bus drove up with the fish in it. Twenty-five guys from Alhambra would get off the bus, get their chains undone, and walk to Cell Block 1 for orientation. Everybody – the white gang members, the eses, and the blacks – would be lookin’ at the herd of fish. Checkin’ out who’s who, who’s weak, who’s fearful, who’s strong. A fish with fear radiatin' from his eyes, with his shoulders humped and his head down, they’d know they could prey on. A swaggerin’ motherfucker, with his head held high, and all tatted down would be a potential comrade. The gang leaders are always lookin’ for new gang members. If I’m Dubya, I want more Christian conservative Republican members, but I’m not gonna just let anyone in. It’s just the same in here.”
Bomba, a Chicano friend of Two Tonys who’s almost completed a twenty-year sentence, said, “The gang members look at fish as furniture for all corners of the room. Each fish fits in somewhere, whether he’s a chair or a table. A fish may get punked out and be a piece of ass. If he’s comin’ in with jewellery or a Sony Trinatron TV then he’s a source of money.”
“Imagine,” Two Tonys said, “the gang members watchin’ the fish come in as wolves on the side of a grassy hill on the plains of South Dakota watchin’ a herd of elk. The wolves are layin’ there lookin’ for any signs of weakness in potential prey. Maybe a limp in an elk, an old-timer trottin’ behind the herd, or a young elk that’s strayed too far from its mother. Gang members are lookin’ for the same. Maybe a guy with an aura of fear who won’t make eye contact is a cho-mo they’re gonna shank. They’ll approach the fish friendly at first. A probate from the same race will roll up to the newcomer and say shit like, ‘Wassup! Where you from? Let’s go eat.’ Over days and weeks the fish will divulge certain information to his new friend. Whether he’s in for murder, rape, burglary. Whether he’s doin’ two years, five, or life. Whether he likes or hates the other races. If he’s a white guy with a Mexican wife, they’ll know he’s not for them. But maybe he has other uses. Does he get a weekly visit from some sweathog in Chandler who’ll bring in to the prison a pussy full of dope? How much money does he have on his books? And they’re always lookin’ for sexual prey, punks, someone to turn out. At the Walls they were lookin’ for bleeders, people who could bleed twice a week for $6.50 from Cutter Lab International.”
“What if you refused to give blood?” I asked.
“They’d bust your fuckin’ head in.”
“So what kind of body language would you recommend a fish portrays when he arrives at prison?” I asked.
“Make eye contact. Talk to motherfuckers. Keep your head up. Try not to show fear or apprehension – although everyone feels it. Don’t be too polite, but don’t be too disrespectful. If somebody fucks with you, get busy.”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
04 August 06
Guida asked the following questions:
Do you have any plans for when you get out?
I intend to live with my parents in Cheshire, England. I'd like to back to university.
How does it feel as you approach the end of your sentence?
Exciting. I feel as if I’ve accomplished a lot, and I can’t wait to apply what I've learned. It’s as if I’ve been shaped into a new person by this experience. I view things differently. I realise how precious things are that I previously took for granted. I want to make the most of the life I have remaining. Thinking about being around my family puts a smile on my face. As my release date nears, I’m sure my excitement will grow. Although there is some anxiety over the prospect of being in a different country, I’m confident that the euphoria of freedom will override my anxiety when the time comes. The day I am free of living under this microscope, and I can exercise my free will again, will be one of the best days of my life.
If you could do absolutely anything you wanted when you get out (after seeing your family and stuff) what would you do (money no object)?
With unlimited wealth and power, I’d retire all world leaders and replace them with yoga-practicing women. That would make the world a safer place for all of us.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Guida asked the following questions:
Do you have any plans for when you get out?
I intend to live with my parents in Cheshire, England. I'd like to back to university.
How does it feel as you approach the end of your sentence?
Exciting. I feel as if I’ve accomplished a lot, and I can’t wait to apply what I've learned. It’s as if I’ve been shaped into a new person by this experience. I view things differently. I realise how precious things are that I previously took for granted. I want to make the most of the life I have remaining. Thinking about being around my family puts a smile on my face. As my release date nears, I’m sure my excitement will grow. Although there is some anxiety over the prospect of being in a different country, I’m confident that the euphoria of freedom will override my anxiety when the time comes. The day I am free of living under this microscope, and I can exercise my free will again, will be one of the best days of my life.
If you could do absolutely anything you wanted when you get out (after seeing your family and stuff) what would you do (money no object)?
With unlimited wealth and power, I’d retire all world leaders and replace them with yoga-practicing women. That would make the world a safer place for all of us.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
02 August 06
Two Tonys Responds to One Tony and Native Lou
Two Tonys and I were discussing the reaction to the blog Two Tonys Philosophizes.
“We were accused of whiny-arsed, left-wing claptrap straight from the factory," I said. "For the record: I think that most politicians, left and right, are liars, and should be replaced by yoga-practicing women.”
“First of all,” Two Tonys began, “whodafucks this One Tony think he is throwin’ out words like arsed and tosspot? Arsed is spelt assed, and if this motherfucker ever ends up as my celly, I’ll show him tosspot. He’ll be washing my boxers, and I’ll be Mr. Tosspot to him. He’d better pray that he don’t get caught doin’ nothin’ wrong. Who is this One Tony guy any fuckin’ way?”
“He’s a Brit. A Cockney living in Phoenix. His family own the George & Dragon pub. He’s actually a cool bloke, and he can give as good as he gets, so I don’t think he’ll be too phased by anything you throw at him.”
“If he’s such a fuckin’ patriot how come he isn’t with the British SAS or paratroopers in Basra shakin’ down Muslims on the way to the mosque, tearin’ off burqhas and burnooses lookin’ for AK-47s? Why isn’t One Tony defendin’ the Empire that the sun never sets on? Whoops. That was last century. Or was it two centuries ago? Why isn’t he chargin’ with Tony Blair’s light brigade? He’s probably kickin’ back in Phoenix while the British boys are holdin’ back the Muslim tide from invadin’ Cockneyland. He sounds like the type of Brit who has pictures of Tony Blair, Dubya, and Rush Limbaugh strategically placed around his home. Not to mention a portrait of Rummy Rumsfeld on the wall above his British loo. He’s probably the kinda guy who’d go on a campin’ trip with John Ashcroft and Donald Rumsfeld, and want to clean their latrine and .44s. So One Tony works in a pub does he?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m wonderin’ what pictures he has on the dart boards. Lemme guess: Hilary Rodham Clinton.”
“So how do you feel about Native Lou’s comment?”
“He wasn’t real vicious.”
“He said some positive stuff as well as calling us lefties.”
“If Native Lou wants some facts why doesn’t he just jump in his pickup truck with the AMERICA LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT sticker on the bumper and ride to the nearest Veterans Affairs hospital and check out the no-nuts section. There’s the true facts. Does this guy really think we are fighting for free speech in the Middle East? If he thinks Iraqis and Kuwaitis are enjoyin’ free speech he should talk to the sheikhs of the government of Saad al-Abdallah al-Salim Al Sabah who, during Operation Desert Storm, were hunkered in the bunkers of London by which I mean eatin’ tea and crumpets at the Ritz Hotel. Ask the sheikh what freedom of speech he allows his poor camel herders. Just like the Iraqis they have never had and probably never will have freedom of speech unless they check in with General Casey or Premier Maliki first, who are puppets for the US who probably call Rummy Rumsfeld to get top secret clearance to take a crap. Maybe Native Lou should check a few facts himself. I’m sure his nuts weren’t lost to an IED."
“You do have some good points about freedom of speech. And it’s clear that oil is a big factor in the equation. At the end of World War 2, Churchill claimed that peace would be held for fifty years, and that the next world war would be over natural resources. The UK and the US rely heavily on foreign resource extraction. It’s that policy that has generated such high standards of living in the West. And I appreciate our standards of living. But we have so much now. People in poorer countries should be benefiting from their own resources. They’re worried about food and survival, whereas our minds are on iPods and what Paris Hilton is up to. When the USSR invaded Germany they wondered why the wealthy Germans had ever wanted to occupy their poor country. It’s the greed that we’re seeing signs of in Big Oil and Big Defence that leads to much bigger problems for everybody when war escalates.”
“And Bush is pushin’ us that way in the name of oil. I hope Native Lou pities the poor eighteen- year olds who have left their nuts on Saddam Hussein Boulevard, duped to fight in the names of Iraqi free speech and democracy.”
Two Tonys Responds to One Tony and Native Lou
Two Tonys and I were discussing the reaction to the blog Two Tonys Philosophizes.
“We were accused of whiny-arsed, left-wing claptrap straight from the factory," I said. "For the record: I think that most politicians, left and right, are liars, and should be replaced by yoga-practicing women.”
“First of all,” Two Tonys began, “whodafucks this One Tony think he is throwin’ out words like arsed and tosspot? Arsed is spelt assed, and if this motherfucker ever ends up as my celly, I’ll show him tosspot. He’ll be washing my boxers, and I’ll be Mr. Tosspot to him. He’d better pray that he don’t get caught doin’ nothin’ wrong. Who is this One Tony guy any fuckin’ way?”
“He’s a Brit. A Cockney living in Phoenix. His family own the George & Dragon pub. He’s actually a cool bloke, and he can give as good as he gets, so I don’t think he’ll be too phased by anything you throw at him.”
“If he’s such a fuckin’ patriot how come he isn’t with the British SAS or paratroopers in Basra shakin’ down Muslims on the way to the mosque, tearin’ off burqhas and burnooses lookin’ for AK-47s? Why isn’t One Tony defendin’ the Empire that the sun never sets on? Whoops. That was last century. Or was it two centuries ago? Why isn’t he chargin’ with Tony Blair’s light brigade? He’s probably kickin’ back in Phoenix while the British boys are holdin’ back the Muslim tide from invadin’ Cockneyland. He sounds like the type of Brit who has pictures of Tony Blair, Dubya, and Rush Limbaugh strategically placed around his home. Not to mention a portrait of Rummy Rumsfeld on the wall above his British loo. He’s probably the kinda guy who’d go on a campin’ trip with John Ashcroft and Donald Rumsfeld, and want to clean their latrine and .44s. So One Tony works in a pub does he?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m wonderin’ what pictures he has on the dart boards. Lemme guess: Hilary Rodham Clinton.”
“So how do you feel about Native Lou’s comment?”
“He wasn’t real vicious.”
“He said some positive stuff as well as calling us lefties.”
“If Native Lou wants some facts why doesn’t he just jump in his pickup truck with the AMERICA LOVE IT OR LEAVE IT sticker on the bumper and ride to the nearest Veterans Affairs hospital and check out the no-nuts section. There’s the true facts. Does this guy really think we are fighting for free speech in the Middle East? If he thinks Iraqis and Kuwaitis are enjoyin’ free speech he should talk to the sheikhs of the government of Saad al-Abdallah al-Salim Al Sabah who, during Operation Desert Storm, were hunkered in the bunkers of London by which I mean eatin’ tea and crumpets at the Ritz Hotel. Ask the sheikh what freedom of speech he allows his poor camel herders. Just like the Iraqis they have never had and probably never will have freedom of speech unless they check in with General Casey or Premier Maliki first, who are puppets for the US who probably call Rummy Rumsfeld to get top secret clearance to take a crap. Maybe Native Lou should check a few facts himself. I’m sure his nuts weren’t lost to an IED."
“You do have some good points about freedom of speech. And it’s clear that oil is a big factor in the equation. At the end of World War 2, Churchill claimed that peace would be held for fifty years, and that the next world war would be over natural resources. The UK and the US rely heavily on foreign resource extraction. It’s that policy that has generated such high standards of living in the West. And I appreciate our standards of living. But we have so much now. People in poorer countries should be benefiting from their own resources. They’re worried about food and survival, whereas our minds are on iPods and what Paris Hilton is up to. When the USSR invaded Germany they wondered why the wealthy Germans had ever wanted to occupy their poor country. It’s the greed that we’re seeing signs of in Big Oil and Big Defence that leads to much bigger problems for everybody when war escalates.”
“And Bush is pushin’ us that way in the name of oil. I hope Native Lou pities the poor eighteen- year olds who have left their nuts on Saddam Hussein Boulevard, duped to fight in the names of Iraqi free speech and democracy.”
30 July 06
New Arrivals
July saw the return of Long Island who has been housed with Ogre. I am unable to blog his adventures outside of prison until he has resolved certain legal issues.
Today I received a new celly, Smoker, a mild-mannered 49-year old with two years left on a 20 year sentence for fraudulent schemes and artifices.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
New Arrivals
July saw the return of Long Island who has been housed with Ogre. I am unable to blog his adventures outside of prison until he has resolved certain legal issues.
Today I received a new celly, Smoker, a mild-mannered 49-year old with two years left on a 20 year sentence for fraudulent schemes and artifices.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
28 July 06
Relentless George
“What do you think about the comment following the Pitch-Black Orgy blog a while back, saying ‘good old George,’ and noting your perseverance?” I asked George.
“That was very nice. It’s the only positive comment I’ve had.”
“What do you expect with your sinister and perverse ways?”
“Oh, I’m Mr. Sinister now, am I? Puh-leeze!”
“If you’re not sinister, what are you then?”
“Practical.”
“And you’re wrong about getting only one positive comment. The glory hole blog had some lengthy comments on your side, suggesting I be more open-minded.”
“Well, that’s true, somebody has to be more open-minded, you close-minded British bigot, you!”
“Why am I a bigot?”
“’Cause you’re a sanctimonious hypocrite.”
“Because I don’t sleep with men?”
“You don’t need to sleep with men, just frolicking around a little bit would work fine.”
“Sexually speaking, males don’t do anything for me. I like curvy bodies."
“Look right here buddy!” George ripped his top off, and cupped his left breast with his hand. “You want curvaceous, I can give you curvaceous. Have a closer look, feel them. Come on! Be willing to try new things. Stop sticking your nose up in the air like a bald-headed British snob.”
“Put your saggy waps away, George. You’re putting me off lunch.”
“What are you talking about! I’ve got at least B-cups. Mine are bigger than Xena’s and you’re fuckin’ in love with her.”
“We’re platonic friends. That’s all.”
“Yeah. That’s your story.”
“What’s wrong with you? Are you in heat or something? Haven’t you been laid lately?”
“No.”
“Perhaps if you had a regular partner, you wouldn’t be so sensual.”
“Sensual! There you go misdescribing me again.”
“You need to get your pent-up sexual energy out.”
“You need to have a fit of bisexual rage, and instead of sticking your nose up in the air, you should stick your butt up in the air for Frankie and me.”
“You’re out of your mind. I’m not into men, or shemales, like that.”
“You’re into male midgets though aren’t you?”
“You can’t say that just because I’m a Bridget the Midget fan.”
George was getting too worked up, so I said, “Bugger off and leave me alone!”
“I’m leaving anyway. You’re abusing my good-heartedness.”
Am I being too mean to George? Does he deserve positive comments?
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Relentless George
“What do you think about the comment following the Pitch-Black Orgy blog a while back, saying ‘good old George,’ and noting your perseverance?” I asked George.
“That was very nice. It’s the only positive comment I’ve had.”
“What do you expect with your sinister and perverse ways?”
“Oh, I’m Mr. Sinister now, am I? Puh-leeze!”
“If you’re not sinister, what are you then?”
“Practical.”
“And you’re wrong about getting only one positive comment. The glory hole blog had some lengthy comments on your side, suggesting I be more open-minded.”
“Well, that’s true, somebody has to be more open-minded, you close-minded British bigot, you!”
“Why am I a bigot?”
“’Cause you’re a sanctimonious hypocrite.”
“Because I don’t sleep with men?”
“You don’t need to sleep with men, just frolicking around a little bit would work fine.”
“Sexually speaking, males don’t do anything for me. I like curvy bodies."
“Look right here buddy!” George ripped his top off, and cupped his left breast with his hand. “You want curvaceous, I can give you curvaceous. Have a closer look, feel them. Come on! Be willing to try new things. Stop sticking your nose up in the air like a bald-headed British snob.”
“Put your saggy waps away, George. You’re putting me off lunch.”
“What are you talking about! I’ve got at least B-cups. Mine are bigger than Xena’s and you’re fuckin’ in love with her.”
“We’re platonic friends. That’s all.”
“Yeah. That’s your story.”
“What’s wrong with you? Are you in heat or something? Haven’t you been laid lately?”
“No.”
“Perhaps if you had a regular partner, you wouldn’t be so sensual.”
“Sensual! There you go misdescribing me again.”
“You need to get your pent-up sexual energy out.”
“You need to have a fit of bisexual rage, and instead of sticking your nose up in the air, you should stick your butt up in the air for Frankie and me.”
“You’re out of your mind. I’m not into men, or shemales, like that.”
“You’re into male midgets though aren’t you?”
“You can’t say that just because I’m a Bridget the Midget fan.”
George was getting too worked up, so I said, “Bugger off and leave me alone!”
“I’m leaving anyway. You’re abusing my good-heartedness.”
Am I being too mean to George? Does he deserve positive comments?
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
26 July 06
What Royo Girl and Some Sexy Others Wrote
What Royo Girl and Some Sexy Others Wrote
Click here for the previous Royo Girl post.
Excerpts, with Royo Girl’s permission, from a letter she wrote after our first visit:
I can’t describe in words how great it was to see you and spend time with you. As nerve-wracking as it all was in the beginning, it was worth any trouble. I could never have imagined how much I would miss you until I had to leave you behind there. I was overwhelmed with unexpected emotions upon my departure. I was incredibly happy and there was gleeful anticipation of seeing you again and determination to make it happen. I even sat there thinking that I need to go shopping to find the perfect top for the next visit. I couldn’t stop thinking about you and wishing you were out and hanging out with me. I have missed you intensely since the visit.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I am still in the process of analysing and sorting my thoughts and emotions on the matter. I apologize if this letter and its contents are somewhat incoherent and muddled up. I hope you understand the loop you have put me in.
Regardless of a bit of awkwardness due to the irregular circumstances, I still felt the sexual chemistry.
It seems appropriate to remind myself and you that although we could have some wicked times together and that there is definitely something there between us, it is something that shouldn’t happen. I could easily list why you are so wrong for me, but maybe that is counterproductive. At the same time, I feel like you have lit a spark inside me and I’m even happier than I was before.
I will undoubtedly be thinking of you and wanting you so much more than I should. Missing you loads! Hope you miss me too.
Excerpts from Royo Girl’s second letter following the visit:
…and then suddenly I saw you. My heart began to beat faster and I could feel my stupid cold sweaty palms. I tried to wipe them off to no avail. It made no difference.
I watched you walk in my direction and noted you weren’t actually looking at me while you walked. I was thankful for this, as it would have made my already high level of anxiety higher. Then you came over and gave me a hug and kiss. I was incredibly nervous the first fifteen minutes we were sat together at the table. I was acutely aware of what was going on, but my mind was strangely blank. There were no extra thoughts other than I needed to calm down.
We moved to a table away from the guards and began our long conversation. It was odd how normal it felt to sit and chat with you. I felt like we weren’t in prison at all. It was almost as if we were having coffee in some small café catching up on old times. I can remember thinking that you had not really changed at all and I loved it. You were the same Englishman that I remembered and was quite fond of. I am still amazed at how remarkable our conversation felt given the circumstances.
The rest of our visit does not need retelling to you. I cannot wait for you to get out of prison and see you in the outside world. I am looking forward to our future conversation and banter. Hopefully your prison exit is sooner rather than later. I miss you and will be waiting for you on the outside. Until then, keep safe and stay healthy.
Can any of you help translate Royo Girl’s statements? She wrote that getting together with me “is something that shouldn’t happen,” but she also wrote that she “will be waiting for [me] on the outside.” What’s going on here?
Addendum
Here are some excerpts from letters I’ve recently received from women other than Royo Girl.
When you get out, I’ve arranged my sis to meet you and me, then we are going to strip into thongs and step into a container, and my sis will pour jelly and water over us. We will wait for it to set, and then the task is to be the first person to fight their way out of the jelly. When we get out of the jelly we will blow up an inflatable couch and look at naked pictures of my mother. Then me and my sis will lick the remaining jelly off your body and you will return the favour before we settle down in our flannel PJs watching Last of the Summer Wine, drinking Scrumpy Jacks.
That came from a lady in Norfolk.
I am writing you because your story has touched my heart. I want to get to know you no matter what you done in the past. I am a 6 feet 1 inch tall single white attractive mom of two boys. If you want a good girl in public and a whore in the bedroom, I’m her. I am looking for a long-term thing and I hope you like kids…I want more.
That came from a 26-year-old blond in Nevada.
On the bed lay the items she was planning on wearing for him tonight. A thick steel collar engraved with line drawings from the Karma Sutra, heavily padded on the inside so as not to damage the skin around her neck. A pair of vibrating nipple clamps joined with a fine chain. A pair of thigh-high boots with impossibly high spike heels. And her perfume.
That came from Sweetest Sin in Essex who should be freelancing her stories to Hustler, Penthouse and Playboy. She has given me permission to share her stories with the inmates.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Postscript, Jon’s address has changed slightly to:
ASPC-Tucson
Santa Rita Unit
Shaun Attwood ADC#187160, 1-B-10
PO BOX 24406
Tucson, 85734, Az.
U.S.A
(All mail in the pipeline will still get there)
24 Jul 06
Do I have a Haemorrhoid? (Part 1)
While wiping with one-ply, I felt something that set off the voices in my mind: Oh no. What's that? It can't be. A lump? Not a lump. It's definitely a lump. Your run of having a flawless south side is over. What type of lump could it be? A haemorrhoid? A cyst? Cancer? Please not cancer. Is it really there? Touch it again. Gross. The nurse, Odd Job, is going to have fun with this. I can't report it. But you must get it seen to before it gets out of hand. True. It might get bigger if you don't have it seen. But they might want to look at it, and do things to it. Ewww. Face facts, sooner or later someone would be taking a good look down there anyway. Don't be controlled by the lump. Take control of the lump. How? Get a mirror and take a look. It might just be something you can pop.
I had to wait for the count to do an inspection as I didn't want passers-by catching me in a naked yoga position, or to receive a major disciplinary ticket for violation B10: Engaging in any sexual act, including indecent exposure and sexual advances or stalking another person.
Officer Lewalski looked through my window, and ticked my name on her clipboard. As she continued down the run, I sprang into action. Where the toilet met the wall, I placed a sock. On the sock, I slanted a mirror. Using an extension cord, I positioned my reading lamp on the floor, so it would shine upward.
I took a few deep breaths, and thought, It's now or never. Look down the run to make sure no guards are approaching. Ok, all clear. Here goes.
Topless, I lowered myself into a half-squat position above the toilet. With my ears on alert for walkie-talkies, I yanked my pants and boxers down. I was about to part my cheeks when a wasp flew into the cell. The mud dauber buzzed and swooped and had me doing the Macarena so quickly there was no time to pull up my pants. As a defensive measure I grabbed a book. The wasp zigged and I swung. The wasp zagged and I dipped and prayed that the security camera aimed a Building D wasn't filming my performance. The seconds we spent failing to resolve our differences stretched into an eternity, during which the reading lamp soothingly warmed my behind. The wasp radiated perseverance, so I dropped to the floor and pulled up my pants. It then briefly established a holding pattern in the center of the cell before flying out of the window.
It took several minutes of yogic breathing to manifest the courage to resume the inspection. Lights. Mirror. Action. I almost fainted when I saw a blue lump in a place it didn't belong.
There was no holding back the voices in my mind: Gross. What is that? It’s nothing pimple-like you can squeeze. Pop that and you’ll bleed to death. Is that what a haemorrhoid looks like? You've definitely got to go to Medical now. You'd better get rid of it before it gets bigger. But how? Will they lance it? Or freeze it? Ouch, that's got to hurt. Get it seen to before it multiplies. There could be more lurking deeper inside. And what if they can't do anything about it? No one will ever want to marry me while I've got such a grotesque thing on my behind. And I can't blame them. Would I marry someone who had such a lump? What have I done to deserve this? How do I describe it to the nurse? You’ll be the laughing stock of the Health Unit. Don't be a wuss. Man up. Fill out a Health Needs Request form.
Draft 1: When wiping my behind, I noticed a lump. Upon visual inspection, I saw a blue protrusion on the rim of my anus.
Anus sounds too obscene, I thought. I've got to mellow this out a little. Wiping is superfluous. Try again.
Draft 2: Requesting haemorrhoid cream. I have discerned a lump.
Too brief. How do you know it's a haemorrhoid? But if you sound unsure they're going to want to look, and we know what that means: out come the probing instruments. Add more detail.
Draft 3: There is a blue pea-sized lump that I suspect is a haemorrhoid. Requesting cream or whatever will make it go away.
There you go. That sounds better. Far more professional. None of that anus talk. Let's hope they don't think I'm joking, or even worse: that I'm one of those prisoners who gets jollies from coming out of his cell every once in a while to show his behind to somebody - to anybody. Surely they'll know I'd never pull a stunt like that. I'm an ex-stockbroker. I'm a professional. Everything's going to be just fine.
Do I have a Haemorrhoid? (Part 1)
While wiping with one-ply, I felt something that set off the voices in my mind: Oh no. What's that? It can't be. A lump? Not a lump. It's definitely a lump. Your run of having a flawless south side is over. What type of lump could it be? A haemorrhoid? A cyst? Cancer? Please not cancer. Is it really there? Touch it again. Gross. The nurse, Odd Job, is going to have fun with this. I can't report it. But you must get it seen to before it gets out of hand. True. It might get bigger if you don't have it seen. But they might want to look at it, and do things to it. Ewww. Face facts, sooner or later someone would be taking a good look down there anyway. Don't be controlled by the lump. Take control of the lump. How? Get a mirror and take a look. It might just be something you can pop.
I had to wait for the count to do an inspection as I didn't want passers-by catching me in a naked yoga position, or to receive a major disciplinary ticket for violation B10: Engaging in any sexual act, including indecent exposure and sexual advances or stalking another person.
Officer Lewalski looked through my window, and ticked my name on her clipboard. As she continued down the run, I sprang into action. Where the toilet met the wall, I placed a sock. On the sock, I slanted a mirror. Using an extension cord, I positioned my reading lamp on the floor, so it would shine upward.
I took a few deep breaths, and thought, It's now or never. Look down the run to make sure no guards are approaching. Ok, all clear. Here goes.
Topless, I lowered myself into a half-squat position above the toilet. With my ears on alert for walkie-talkies, I yanked my pants and boxers down. I was about to part my cheeks when a wasp flew into the cell. The mud dauber buzzed and swooped and had me doing the Macarena so quickly there was no time to pull up my pants. As a defensive measure I grabbed a book. The wasp zigged and I swung. The wasp zagged and I dipped and prayed that the security camera aimed a Building D wasn't filming my performance. The seconds we spent failing to resolve our differences stretched into an eternity, during which the reading lamp soothingly warmed my behind. The wasp radiated perseverance, so I dropped to the floor and pulled up my pants. It then briefly established a holding pattern in the center of the cell before flying out of the window.
It took several minutes of yogic breathing to manifest the courage to resume the inspection. Lights. Mirror. Action. I almost fainted when I saw a blue lump in a place it didn't belong.
There was no holding back the voices in my mind: Gross. What is that? It’s nothing pimple-like you can squeeze. Pop that and you’ll bleed to death. Is that what a haemorrhoid looks like? You've definitely got to go to Medical now. You'd better get rid of it before it gets bigger. But how? Will they lance it? Or freeze it? Ouch, that's got to hurt. Get it seen to before it multiplies. There could be more lurking deeper inside. And what if they can't do anything about it? No one will ever want to marry me while I've got such a grotesque thing on my behind. And I can't blame them. Would I marry someone who had such a lump? What have I done to deserve this? How do I describe it to the nurse? You’ll be the laughing stock of the Health Unit. Don't be a wuss. Man up. Fill out a Health Needs Request form.
Draft 1: When wiping my behind, I noticed a lump. Upon visual inspection, I saw a blue protrusion on the rim of my anus.
Anus sounds too obscene, I thought. I've got to mellow this out a little. Wiping is superfluous. Try again.
Draft 2: Requesting haemorrhoid cream. I have discerned a lump.
Too brief. How do you know it's a haemorrhoid? But if you sound unsure they're going to want to look, and we know what that means: out come the probing instruments. Add more detail.
Draft 3: There is a blue pea-sized lump that I suspect is a haemorrhoid. Requesting cream or whatever will make it go away.
There you go. That sounds better. Far more professional. None of that anus talk. Let's hope they don't think I'm joking, or even worse: that I'm one of those prisoners who gets jollies from coming out of his cell every once in a while to show his behind to somebody - to anybody. Surely they'll know I'd never pull a stunt like that. I'm an ex-stockbroker. I'm a professional. Everything's going to be just fine.
22 July 06
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Copyright S.P. Attwood 2005-2006
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Copyright S.P. Attwood 2005-2006
20 July 06
Jealous George
“I got to hug and kiss a young woman at visitation, George,” I said.
“But governor, governor, what about me?” George said. “Have you traded me in for a little floozy?”
“She is in no way, shape or form a floozy. She’s an intellectual force to be reckoned with.”
“Then let her come and do your fuckin’ laundry, tidy up your room, wipe your royal arse, and count your scrotal moles!”
“What’s that got to do with anything? Aren’t you happy that I’ve had some female company?”
“You’ve got female company: Xena and Mochalicious! What’s wrong with them?”
“There’s nothing wrong with them except the fact that they have penises.”
“But neither of them want their penises, so, it’s like not having one.”
“It’s not the same, George.”
“So that’s why you spent thirty minutes in the shower when you came back from visitation!”
“Actually, I didn’t shower until the next day.”
“Then during lockdown you whacked your tallywacker. I bet you went to town on it, you little perv.”
“It wasn’t about that.”
“Puh-leeze! I bet you got a boner out their.”
“I must admit when she leaned towards the vending machine, I couldn’t help but admire – .”
“Huh! That musta pumped up your Prince Harry. What would the Queen Mum think if she knew you were running around visitation with a trouser tent pitched? She’d cut off your monthly stipend and British Consulate privileges.”
“The visit wasn’t about sex, George. Royo Girl is really intelligent, and wonderful to talk to.”
“If she’s such a good conversationalist, why were you gawking at her ass?”
“’Cause I’m only human, and she’s an attractive woman.”
“You make me sick! What kind of a woman likes pale, bald-headed, persnickety Englishmen?”
“I’m hurt, George. I thought you’d be happy for me, but instead you’re trying to put my good day down.”
“I wish you all the happiness in the world, but I don’t wanna be hearing about her all the time, or to find you staring into space, daydreaming about her ass, getting boners, pitching trouser tents.”
“I’ll try not to. It’s hard not thinking about her though. I certainly won’t bring her up around you again.”
"All kidding aside, I’m happy for you. It’s nice a person visited you who floats your boat. I would never stand in the way of the governor’s happiness.”
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Jealous George
“I got to hug and kiss a young woman at visitation, George,” I said.
“But governor, governor, what about me?” George said. “Have you traded me in for a little floozy?”
“She is in no way, shape or form a floozy. She’s an intellectual force to be reckoned with.”
“Then let her come and do your fuckin’ laundry, tidy up your room, wipe your royal arse, and count your scrotal moles!”
“What’s that got to do with anything? Aren’t you happy that I’ve had some female company?”
“You’ve got female company: Xena and Mochalicious! What’s wrong with them?”
“There’s nothing wrong with them except the fact that they have penises.”
“But neither of them want their penises, so, it’s like not having one.”
“It’s not the same, George.”
“So that’s why you spent thirty minutes in the shower when you came back from visitation!”
“Actually, I didn’t shower until the next day.”
“Then during lockdown you whacked your tallywacker. I bet you went to town on it, you little perv.”
“It wasn’t about that.”
“Puh-leeze! I bet you got a boner out their.”
“I must admit when she leaned towards the vending machine, I couldn’t help but admire – .”
“Huh! That musta pumped up your Prince Harry. What would the Queen Mum think if she knew you were running around visitation with a trouser tent pitched? She’d cut off your monthly stipend and British Consulate privileges.”
“The visit wasn’t about sex, George. Royo Girl is really intelligent, and wonderful to talk to.”
“If she’s such a good conversationalist, why were you gawking at her ass?”
“’Cause I’m only human, and she’s an attractive woman.”
“You make me sick! What kind of a woman likes pale, bald-headed, persnickety Englishmen?”
“I’m hurt, George. I thought you’d be happy for me, but instead you’re trying to put my good day down.”
“I wish you all the happiness in the world, but I don’t wanna be hearing about her all the time, or to find you staring into space, daydreaming about her ass, getting boners, pitching trouser tents.”
“I’ll try not to. It’s hard not thinking about her though. I certainly won’t bring her up around you again.”
"All kidding aside, I’m happy for you. It’s nice a person visited you who floats your boat. I would never stand in the way of the governor’s happiness.”
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
19th July 06
Frankie Spies Royo Girl
Frankie Spies Royo Girl
Click here for the previous Royo Girl post.
“Dog 11, you’ve gotta visit.”
It’s been eight days since I saw Royo Girl, I thought. Enough time to shake my infatuation. I can feel the excitement building again. But there’s no point in getting too excited when I’m stuck in here.
Walking to visitation, I was stopped by Frankie.
“Where do you think you’re goin’, Englandman?”
“Visitation.”
“Whattcha got crackalackin at visitation?”
“It’s kiss time again.”
“I thought I told you, I’ll dee-cide who you kiss and who you don’t kiss.”
“You’ve got it wrong, I’ll dee-cide who I kiss and who I don’t kiss!”
Frankie’s entourage laughed at my imitation of Frankie.
“I’ll tell you what, Englandman,” Frankie said. “I’m gonna do laps around the big field. If you guys walk Lovers' Lane, I’ll be able to scope her out, and then I can see if she has my approval.”
“I’ll dee-cide whose approval she needs or doesn’t need,” I said and walked away.
My heart leaped when I saw Royo Girl. We hugged, kissed, and sat down. While she busied my prefrontal cortex with intelligent conversation, I became so enchanted that she needn't have said a word. She could have sat there in silence and I still would have been the happiest person in the world.
Outdoors, Frankie and his crew, reconnoitering the visitation for Royo Girl, eventually spotted us holding hands on Lovers' Lane.
“I’m givin’ ya,” Frankie yelled, “a thumbs-up, Englandman. But I still wanna bathin’-suit shot…no…let’s make that a G-string shot. I’m also gonna need a letter from her askin’ for permission for any more kisses.”
“That’s Frankie,” I told Royo Girl. “But I can’t yell to him from visitation because I’ll get in trouble. I think he approves of you.”
Royo Girl laughed.
“Did Englandman tell you,” Frankie said, “we’ve been doin’ these tongue exercises together? I showed him how to kiss you behind the neck with my magic tongue. Ask him how Frankie tastes?”
“I worry about you and Frankie sometimes,” Royo Girl said.
“He’s bonkers. But he’s got a good heart,” I said.
“Mmmm-mmmm-mmmmmm! Englandman knows what time it is!”
“What time it is!” Royo Girl frowned. “What does that mean?”
“That I’ve got it going on because I’m with you.”
“How funny,” Royo Girl said. “Why do I feel like I’m being paraded around prison?”
“I can’t deny there’s an element of that to Lovers' Lane. You don’t mind do you?”
“No. It just feels strange.”
“There’s Xena.” I pointed. “She’s the long-haired giant playing volleyball with tattoos all over her body.”
“Xena’s my favourite blog character,” Royo Girl said.
We eavesdropped on the volleyball players.
“Come on, Miss Priss,” Little Wood said to Xena, “hit the ball. Dontcha like playin’ with balls?”
“That’s fuckin’ queer stuff,” Xena said.
“You’re a fuckin’ queer,” someone yelled.
Xena yanked up his shorts and wiggled his hips, revealing his enormous penis (with a tattoo of a wasp on it) to the players. Xena yelled, “Queer this!”
“Are they the balls you practice on?” Little Wood said.
“Come to a cell with me,” Xena said, “and I’ll show ya how to hold balls. The only difference is mine are hot and sweaty.”
Royo Girl's hand was sweating, so I suggested we go indoors.
Our parting kiss was longer than the others. And more passionate. It left me hungry for her next visit.
The visit was fun, I thought, and I'm all excited again. So much for keeping cool. She’s so intelligent and charming and I feel so good around her. Why can't I feel like this all of the time? I'd better just make the most of it while it lasts.
Descriptions of Royo Girl were circulating on the yard. Some young homies approached me.
“That’s Big Pimpin right there.”
“A fine-ass ruca’s been comin’ to see him.” ( ruca is pronounced rookah.)
“Big Pimpin’s no joke, homey. You shoulda seen him mackin’ out with his ruca.”
“You’ve got it like that Big Pimpin?”
“I’m working on it,” I said.
“Englandman’s mine,” Frankie said, “and he knows he is.”
“I’ll dee-cide whose I am,” I said, “and its gonna be a ruca I get together with, not a guy.”
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
18 July 06
Frankie Reacts to Royo Girl
Frankie Reacts to Royo Girl
Click here for Kissed Part 1.
“Englandman,” Frankie said, “I’ll dee-cide who you kiss and who you don’t kiss. This Royo Girl has to have my approval. I wanna see a picture of her in a swimsuit.”
“So you’re not jealous?” I asked.
“Why should I be? I’ve gotcha real close by. And it’s only a kiss.”
“Good to hear it.”
“I’m not a bad guy, Englandman. I’m a nice guy. I’m into open relationships. But you betta recognise: I’m always the man in the relationship. I like your reader’s idea.”
“Which one?”
“About practicin’ kissin with me. I’m down to practice, Englandman. I’m game. You know it ain't my first rodeo. I know how to do these things. I’m easy to please. Besides, homey, I’m gonna practice on the back of your neck while I poke you at the same time.”
“You only get to do that when you dream of Yum-Yum.”
“My friend just saw Yum-Yum back at county jail, and she’s lookin’ fine, dude.”
“Well, you stick with Yum-Yum, I’ll stick with Royo Girl.”
“Englandman, you know you’re gonna give it up one of these days.”
“Never.”
Frankie seems to be playing it too cool, I thought. I wonder what he’s up to.
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
17th July 06
T-Bone V Ponytail (Part 1)
T-Bone stopped by and I asked him for another fight story.
“I had a problem,” T-Bone began, “with a biker dude named Ponytail 'cause a white chick was visitin’ me, and there was a lotta racial tension on the yard.”
“What did Ponytail look like?”
“He was 6 foot 6 and 310 pounds. He was doin’ steroids.
I was in the chow line, Ponytail bumped into me, and people thought I was weak 'cause I didn’t do anythin’. After chow, I hit the weight pile. I had 315 on the bench, rippin’ it, doin’ sets of 10. Ponytail came over to the black bench and started takin’ my weights. I said, ‘Hey man. I’m not finished with that yet.’ He said, ‘You are now, boy.’ I said, ‘Wait a minute. All that name callin’ ain’t necessary, man.’ Then Squeeze said, ‘Check this out, young brother. There’s an old sayin’ about prison we have in here: you don’t lay down for nobody and they won’t punk you.’ I said, ‘Ain’t nobody gonna punk me.’ He said, ‘We hope not.’ Then they called one of the leaders of the whites over, Two-Step Willy."
“What a name!”
“It comes from a snake in Vietnam. If you take two steps near it you’re dead. Squeeze told Two-Step Willy, ‘We’re aware of what happened in the chow hall between this young brother and Ponytail. We’re gonna put the young brother in there with him to handle his business.’ More whites came but a sergeant yelled, ‘Break it up!’ and started pattin’ people down. The sergeant found dope and weapons, so they paid him $20 to turn his head.
I got another visit from my girlfriend. Ponytail and his girlfriend were there, and he started makin’ comments outta the side of his neck.”
“Such as?”
“Sayin’ stuff like, ‘monkey’, and ‘ape’, and ‘anybody with a monkey or an ape is one too.’ He called my girlfriend ‘a nigger lover.’ People at visitation were lookin’, and they started speakin’ up. One said, ‘Hey Ponytail, we’re out here with our families just visitin’. This stuff shouldn’t be comin’ out here unless you wanna start a race riot between everybody on this yard.’ Ponytail said, ‘To hell with him. And to hell with you.’
After the visit, I went back to the yard. White dudes and eses were sayin’ how messed up it was, how they were gonna speak to their people, and if I’m not man enough to handle it they will. They were talkin’ outta the side of their necks too. They didn’t wanna see that dude one on one.
At the weight pile, I was reppin’ 225, when big old meathead Ponytail picked up a dirt clog and threw it. It hit the side of a 45 pound weight, broke up and went on me. The weight pile went quiet. Ponytail was tellin’ me he wanted to kill me. He had no respect for me. I was less than dirt. It was a death move. Within 45 seconds he and I were nose to nose. I couldn’t swing 'cause the cops in the gun tower drew down on me with a mini 14 – a rifle. The cop was a racist. The blacks ran out sayin’ ‘Chill out, T-Bone. Let it go.' I mellowed out 'cause of the weapon on me, but Ponytail made a move. So I extended my arm – a football move – straight up into his chest, and knocked him back. He fell over the bench onto the weights. I was hopin’ he’d realised he’d bit off more that he could chew. A yard sergeant came runnin’ with four goons – seasoned veterans. He gave us two choices, ‘Y’all can take it to the ring, put gloves on, and settle it like men or go to the hole for six months.’
Find out what happens next in part two of T-Bone v Ponytail.
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
T-Bone V Ponytail (Part 1)
T-Bone stopped by and I asked him for another fight story.
“I had a problem,” T-Bone began, “with a biker dude named Ponytail 'cause a white chick was visitin’ me, and there was a lotta racial tension on the yard.”
“What did Ponytail look like?”
“He was 6 foot 6 and 310 pounds. He was doin’ steroids.
I was in the chow line, Ponytail bumped into me, and people thought I was weak 'cause I didn’t do anythin’. After chow, I hit the weight pile. I had 315 on the bench, rippin’ it, doin’ sets of 10. Ponytail came over to the black bench and started takin’ my weights. I said, ‘Hey man. I’m not finished with that yet.’ He said, ‘You are now, boy.’ I said, ‘Wait a minute. All that name callin’ ain’t necessary, man.’ Then Squeeze said, ‘Check this out, young brother. There’s an old sayin’ about prison we have in here: you don’t lay down for nobody and they won’t punk you.’ I said, ‘Ain’t nobody gonna punk me.’ He said, ‘We hope not.’ Then they called one of the leaders of the whites over, Two-Step Willy."
“What a name!”
“It comes from a snake in Vietnam. If you take two steps near it you’re dead. Squeeze told Two-Step Willy, ‘We’re aware of what happened in the chow hall between this young brother and Ponytail. We’re gonna put the young brother in there with him to handle his business.’ More whites came but a sergeant yelled, ‘Break it up!’ and started pattin’ people down. The sergeant found dope and weapons, so they paid him $20 to turn his head.
I got another visit from my girlfriend. Ponytail and his girlfriend were there, and he started makin’ comments outta the side of his neck.”
“Such as?”
“Sayin’ stuff like, ‘monkey’, and ‘ape’, and ‘anybody with a monkey or an ape is one too.’ He called my girlfriend ‘a nigger lover.’ People at visitation were lookin’, and they started speakin’ up. One said, ‘Hey Ponytail, we’re out here with our families just visitin’. This stuff shouldn’t be comin’ out here unless you wanna start a race riot between everybody on this yard.’ Ponytail said, ‘To hell with him. And to hell with you.’
After the visit, I went back to the yard. White dudes and eses were sayin’ how messed up it was, how they were gonna speak to their people, and if I’m not man enough to handle it they will. They were talkin’ outta the side of their necks too. They didn’t wanna see that dude one on one.
At the weight pile, I was reppin’ 225, when big old meathead Ponytail picked up a dirt clog and threw it. It hit the side of a 45 pound weight, broke up and went on me. The weight pile went quiet. Ponytail was tellin’ me he wanted to kill me. He had no respect for me. I was less than dirt. It was a death move. Within 45 seconds he and I were nose to nose. I couldn’t swing 'cause the cops in the gun tower drew down on me with a mini 14 – a rifle. The cop was a racist. The blacks ran out sayin’ ‘Chill out, T-Bone. Let it go.' I mellowed out 'cause of the weapon on me, but Ponytail made a move. So I extended my arm – a football move – straight up into his chest, and knocked him back. He fell over the bench onto the weights. I was hopin’ he’d realised he’d bit off more that he could chew. A yard sergeant came runnin’ with four goons – seasoned veterans. He gave us two choices, ‘Y’all can take it to the ring, put gloves on, and settle it like men or go to the hole for six months.’
Find out what happens next in part two of T-Bone v Ponytail.
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
15 July 06
Question Time
KR asked if I am suffering much and what I miss most.
After having your head in a vise for a long time, you forget the vise is there.
The worst I had it was at Joe Arpaio’s cockroach-infested jail. It was hard to sleep in those conditions. But it was while I was there that the blog began. Nietzsche claimed that suffering makes noble. I don’t know about noble but it has had a profound effect on me. Suffering has been a real education. Prison has better conditions than in the jail. It's bearable. Things could be worse.
The closeness of a woman is what I miss most. Many prisoners would answer the same. I miss not being able to see my family whenever I want to. Good food and music. Being able to do exactly what I want to do whenever I want to do it. Everything is scheduled here. But still, I’ve developed a routine to channel my manic energy into, from which I obtain a lot of satisfaction.
I’d like to add: I broke the law and put myself in prison. Poor conditions and suffering are part of my fate. I’d hate for anyone to misconstrue from my blogs that I’m complaining about what’s happened to me. As mortified as I was in the beginning, incarceration has worked out to be a blessing.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Question Time
KR asked if I am suffering much and what I miss most.
After having your head in a vise for a long time, you forget the vise is there.
The worst I had it was at Joe Arpaio’s cockroach-infested jail. It was hard to sleep in those conditions. But it was while I was there that the blog began. Nietzsche claimed that suffering makes noble. I don’t know about noble but it has had a profound effect on me. Suffering has been a real education. Prison has better conditions than in the jail. It's bearable. Things could be worse.
The closeness of a woman is what I miss most. Many prisoners would answer the same. I miss not being able to see my family whenever I want to. Good food and music. Being able to do exactly what I want to do whenever I want to do it. Everything is scheduled here. But still, I’ve developed a routine to channel my manic energy into, from which I obtain a lot of satisfaction.
I’d like to add: I broke the law and put myself in prison. Poor conditions and suffering are part of my fate. I’d hate for anyone to misconstrue from my blogs that I’m complaining about what’s happened to me. As mortified as I was in the beginning, incarceration has worked out to be a blessing.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
13 July 06
Psychotherapy With Dr. O’Malley (Part 4)
On Dr O’s desk were Principles of Neurology, The Human Mind Explained, and a copy of Scientific American Mind.
The session began with Dr O reading my thought journal, which detailed the joy I felt on seeing my sister and father, and the disappointment and tension surrounding the special visits being cancelled due to the hostage situation.
“How did you deal with these feelings during that time?” Dr O asked.
“Using cognitive techniques,” I said. “I tried to look at it as an activating event over which I had no control, something I shouldn’t get stressed about.”
“Did that work?”
“No. When it comes to things that upset my family, I get upset myself.”
“Is that normal or abnormal?”
“Normal for most people.”
“You were looking forward to those visits for a long time. Then something happened and you had no control over events. Your hormones responded. Did you cope with it?”
“My anxiety was up. My thoughts became depressed. I felt lousy. But I wrote and wrote and wrote. I felt better towards the end of it. I guess I tried to go with the flow after the shock wore off.”
“It’s more than just going with the flow. Going with the flow is what put you in prison. It’s about increased self-awareness. It’s about how you express your energy.”
“How so?”
“Let’s take a pilot as an example. If a pilot gets into a conflict at home, he’s going to take that negative energy with him. If he gets in a conflict day after day then that negative energy is going to compromise his ability to fly a plane safely.”
“I see. So did I express the negative energy of the hostage situation in a good or bad way?”
“What did you do with the energy?”
“I wrote.”
“There you go. You answered your own question. Didn’t you thrive on chaotic energy in the past? Isn’t uncertainty a theme of the stock market? And partying? Couldn’t that have blown up in your face at any time?”
“I do enjoy the wild fluctuations of the stock market. You said that a reason for my partying was the need for cheap thrills. But the hostage situation was different. My family suffered. And that was upsetting.”
“And how do you feel about that now?”
“I accept what’s happened, and because I didn’t get to see Dad for as long as we'd planned, he is coming back in October with my mum and aunt. So now I’ve got something to look forward to again.”
“When do you get out of prison?”
“I’m eligible for deportation in November, 2007.”
“A year and a half. It’s time for you to start planning.”
“The prospect of getting out is comforting. During the hostage situation it was in the back of my mind that I’ll be out soon, and not have to deal with all of this.”
“All this what? The torrent of absurdities? If someone on the street had to deal with what you’re dealing with they’d be running down the street screaming. ‘This can’t be! Someone can surely fix this!’ Yet in here, things that may be difficult for outsiders to deal with happen all the time. Because of this environment you’ve gained skills that will help you when you are released. Your level of resilience is way up. You’ve matured. You now have an ability to bounce back from all sorts of things. You’ve learnt these things the hard way, but what’s important is that you’ve learned them. Some people may go through life never having learned the things you’ve learned in here. Something you have to consider for when you hit the streets is that issues you had to deal with before your arrest have been on hold.”
“Viktor Frankl compared the released prisoner’s experience to divers' bends.”
“But his experience was in the late 30s and early 40s. He used his prison experience to help people when he got out. His techniques were nothing new. That knowledge has been around for millenniums.”
“Reading the ancient Greeks, I see how they have been recycled by various contemporary schools of thought.”
“Which Greeks have you read?”
“More than I can remember or pronounce. The preSocratics and plenty of Plato and Aristotle.”
“And how does studying them work for you?”
“I think it enhances my critical-thinking skills.”
“Excellent.”
“The atomists seemed to be early physicists. The principle of conservation of energy, in that it cannot be created, destroyed or divided, ties in with the Hindu belief that everything just is.”
“But there’s still plenty we don’t know. When we thought atoms were the smallest particles along came electrons, protons and neutrons – and then stuff like quarks, neutrinos, muons, gluons, bosons, and all kinds of obscure little elements. We revised Newton. We’re revising Einstein. It’s an evolving process. At least what you’re learning will help you when you get out. Most people go out with what they learn here, and they don’t have a lot. If you are willing to accept a broad-based view of yourself and take it to the outside world, you’re going to have a lot of potential to do well. It’s about accepting yourself, knowing when to hold your head up, and knowing when to be careful.”
“I’m used to going overboard.”
“But you’re learning to affect yourself, to modulate who you are most days. You’re not trying to change the lives of thousands of people, which is what got you in prison.”
“Isn’t that under control because of the environment I’m in? I keep myself to myself here.”
“That’s here. If you ran around grandiosely inside here the thugs would just as soon crush you. It’s a good adaption you have reached. You blend in. You are learning to remain humble, which wasn’t your previous inclination.”
“I still have to work on my humility.”
“We all do. You have to allow yourself to have humility. You have to put it into practice and not struggle with it. Looking at your thought journal, I can see you are making progress with this. You’re getting a grip on your natural inclination towards grandiosity. When you’re on the streets do you want to be the person who runs to a window and jumps out or the person who walks to a window, relaxes, and enjoys the view?”
“I want to stay sane if that’s what you mean.”
“Keep focussed, day to day, on your ups and downs, realising your emotional shifts like you did during the hostage situation, when the world was screwed up. When there was a crisis. And a response, and a crisis for everyone else. Look at what DOC did. They stopped everything. They assessed the situation - is it safe or unsafe? They determined it was safe and eased up a little bit at a time, gradually. It’s the same for you, your gradual ease, your slowly increased ability to think more broadly. And you’re starting to do it. The results are clear in your thought journal. You’re showing a willingness to be who you are, without having to dress yourself up.”
“How far have I got to go?”
“The rest of your life. We all continue to evolve, to observe and learn from life’s plusses and minuses. Take Viktor Frankl. He got out. Not unscathed, but he took what he learned to help others. Everything you do affects your brain – including this talk therapy.
Until next time, I want you to keep up the thought journal. You’re making progress. You’re reshaping your brain. And I’d like you to consider the dynamic interplay of energy when you’re doing yoga.”
“OK. Thanks for that. I feel I’m learning a great deal from you. You’re taking everything I’ve learned to deeper levels.”
"No. The person taking it to deeper levels is you.”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Psychotherapy With Dr. O’Malley (Part 4)
On Dr O’s desk were Principles of Neurology, The Human Mind Explained, and a copy of Scientific American Mind.
The session began with Dr O reading my thought journal, which detailed the joy I felt on seeing my sister and father, and the disappointment and tension surrounding the special visits being cancelled due to the hostage situation.
“How did you deal with these feelings during that time?” Dr O asked.
“Using cognitive techniques,” I said. “I tried to look at it as an activating event over which I had no control, something I shouldn’t get stressed about.”
“Did that work?”
“No. When it comes to things that upset my family, I get upset myself.”
“Is that normal or abnormal?”
“Normal for most people.”
“You were looking forward to those visits for a long time. Then something happened and you had no control over events. Your hormones responded. Did you cope with it?”
“My anxiety was up. My thoughts became depressed. I felt lousy. But I wrote and wrote and wrote. I felt better towards the end of it. I guess I tried to go with the flow after the shock wore off.”
“It’s more than just going with the flow. Going with the flow is what put you in prison. It’s about increased self-awareness. It’s about how you express your energy.”
“How so?”
“Let’s take a pilot as an example. If a pilot gets into a conflict at home, he’s going to take that negative energy with him. If he gets in a conflict day after day then that negative energy is going to compromise his ability to fly a plane safely.”
“I see. So did I express the negative energy of the hostage situation in a good or bad way?”
“What did you do with the energy?”
“I wrote.”
“There you go. You answered your own question. Didn’t you thrive on chaotic energy in the past? Isn’t uncertainty a theme of the stock market? And partying? Couldn’t that have blown up in your face at any time?”
“I do enjoy the wild fluctuations of the stock market. You said that a reason for my partying was the need for cheap thrills. But the hostage situation was different. My family suffered. And that was upsetting.”
“And how do you feel about that now?”
“I accept what’s happened, and because I didn’t get to see Dad for as long as we'd planned, he is coming back in October with my mum and aunt. So now I’ve got something to look forward to again.”
“When do you get out of prison?”
“I’m eligible for deportation in November, 2007.”
“A year and a half. It’s time for you to start planning.”
“The prospect of getting out is comforting. During the hostage situation it was in the back of my mind that I’ll be out soon, and not have to deal with all of this.”
“All this what? The torrent of absurdities? If someone on the street had to deal with what you’re dealing with they’d be running down the street screaming. ‘This can’t be! Someone can surely fix this!’ Yet in here, things that may be difficult for outsiders to deal with happen all the time. Because of this environment you’ve gained skills that will help you when you are released. Your level of resilience is way up. You’ve matured. You now have an ability to bounce back from all sorts of things. You’ve learnt these things the hard way, but what’s important is that you’ve learned them. Some people may go through life never having learned the things you’ve learned in here. Something you have to consider for when you hit the streets is that issues you had to deal with before your arrest have been on hold.”
“Viktor Frankl compared the released prisoner’s experience to divers' bends.”
“But his experience was in the late 30s and early 40s. He used his prison experience to help people when he got out. His techniques were nothing new. That knowledge has been around for millenniums.”
“Reading the ancient Greeks, I see how they have been recycled by various contemporary schools of thought.”
“Which Greeks have you read?”
“More than I can remember or pronounce. The preSocratics and plenty of Plato and Aristotle.”
“And how does studying them work for you?”
“I think it enhances my critical-thinking skills.”
“Excellent.”
“The atomists seemed to be early physicists. The principle of conservation of energy, in that it cannot be created, destroyed or divided, ties in with the Hindu belief that everything just is.”
“But there’s still plenty we don’t know. When we thought atoms were the smallest particles along came electrons, protons and neutrons – and then stuff like quarks, neutrinos, muons, gluons, bosons, and all kinds of obscure little elements. We revised Newton. We’re revising Einstein. It’s an evolving process. At least what you’re learning will help you when you get out. Most people go out with what they learn here, and they don’t have a lot. If you are willing to accept a broad-based view of yourself and take it to the outside world, you’re going to have a lot of potential to do well. It’s about accepting yourself, knowing when to hold your head up, and knowing when to be careful.”
“I’m used to going overboard.”
“But you’re learning to affect yourself, to modulate who you are most days. You’re not trying to change the lives of thousands of people, which is what got you in prison.”
“Isn’t that under control because of the environment I’m in? I keep myself to myself here.”
“That’s here. If you ran around grandiosely inside here the thugs would just as soon crush you. It’s a good adaption you have reached. You blend in. You are learning to remain humble, which wasn’t your previous inclination.”
“I still have to work on my humility.”
“We all do. You have to allow yourself to have humility. You have to put it into practice and not struggle with it. Looking at your thought journal, I can see you are making progress with this. You’re getting a grip on your natural inclination towards grandiosity. When you’re on the streets do you want to be the person who runs to a window and jumps out or the person who walks to a window, relaxes, and enjoys the view?”
“I want to stay sane if that’s what you mean.”
“Keep focussed, day to day, on your ups and downs, realising your emotional shifts like you did during the hostage situation, when the world was screwed up. When there was a crisis. And a response, and a crisis for everyone else. Look at what DOC did. They stopped everything. They assessed the situation - is it safe or unsafe? They determined it was safe and eased up a little bit at a time, gradually. It’s the same for you, your gradual ease, your slowly increased ability to think more broadly. And you’re starting to do it. The results are clear in your thought journal. You’re showing a willingness to be who you are, without having to dress yourself up.”
“How far have I got to go?”
“The rest of your life. We all continue to evolve, to observe and learn from life’s plusses and minuses. Take Viktor Frankl. He got out. Not unscathed, but he took what he learned to help others. Everything you do affects your brain – including this talk therapy.
Until next time, I want you to keep up the thought journal. You’re making progress. You’re reshaping your brain. And I’d like you to consider the dynamic interplay of energy when you’re doing yoga.”
“OK. Thanks for that. I feel I’m learning a great deal from you. You’re taking everything I’ve learned to deeper levels.”
"No. The person taking it to deeper levels is you.”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
11 July 06
Shopping
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Shopping
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
9 July 06
Kissed (Part 2)
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
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.”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
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.”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
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.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
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
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