22nd July 04 Deadly diseases
My cellmate, David, responded to his hepatitis C result by popping a cocktail of pharmaceutical pills. Shortly after, he had a seizure. His contorted trembling body was carted away, but he survived.
The jail staff did not teach inmates about how diseases are spread. Diseased inmates are housed with healthy inmates. They share nail clippers (1 per 100 plus inmates), hair clippers, tattoo guns, syringes and other personal effects. I witnesses inmates with diseases serving chow. David would probably not have contracted this disease – which may shorten his lifespan – if some simple preventative measures had been in place. David is coming to terms with possibly having to die before his time.
The small amount of money that it would take to put preventative measures in place is surely worth less than David’s life. The average taxpayer may complain about paying for the upkeep of the jails, but the medical bills incurred by David and many other inmates in his situation will add far more to the taxpayers’ burden in the long run. It sickens me that this is being allowed to happen.
Today, I watched an inmate refuse to give a DNA sample. He was surrounded and strapped into a chair. The sample was taken.
18th July 04 Reception Centre
I am a "fish" – someone new to the prison system. Here at Alhambra Unit, I’ve been strip-searched, blood tested, TB tested, questioned, photographed, and ordered to give a DNA sample from the inside of my left cheek. I am temporarily housed in a four-man cell that, unlike my jail cell, actually receives cool air. When I see cockroaches, I know they are imaginary ones. Now that the cockroach torture is over, I am sleeping better.
I have two Hispanic and one white cellmates. They sing a lot. Two of them have hepatitis C. One of them just found out yesterday. He thinks he contracted it during his one-year stay at Durango (one of Sheriff Joe Arpaio's jails). The other contracted it by sharing a needle. He is detoxing from heroin use. They sing their blues away. I joined in with some Beatle songs. A fellow in the cell next door slit his wrist this morning. He was discovered and taken to the Medical Unit.
Everyone here is astounded that I was locked up in the jail’s harshest quarters for so long. They are perplexed as to why I am finding things here so comfortable. I feel sorry for the inmates I left behind. I hope to see some of them – including Frankie – come through here soon. After enduring the jail, those inmates can make it anywhere.
*********************
31st Aug 04 Thanks Ste
Thanks Ste Wilkinson (computer whiz kid and family friend) for renovating my blog, inserting my mum’s favourite photo of me from my stockbroking days, and for adding links to Mothers Against Arpaio and a site about Sheriff Joe’s misdemeanours. Ste has also put a comments link into the blog, making it easy for you to give feedback.
I haven’t got access to a computer or the Internet. With a pen refill (we're not allowed a pen as it could be weaponized) I scribble away until my hand hurts. The pen refill is a step up from the jail's golf pencil. I send the blog entries to my parents for typing up and posting. They will forward any emails or comments back to me. It may take a little time for my reply, but I will write back and appreciate hearing from you.
Thanks again Ste, Good lookin’ out, dawg!
I am a "fish" – someone new to the prison system. Here at Alhambra Unit, I’ve been strip-searched, blood tested, TB tested, questioned, photographed, and ordered to give a DNA sample from the inside of my left cheek. I am temporarily housed in a four-man cell that, unlike my jail cell, actually receives cool air. When I see cockroaches, I know they are imaginary ones. Now that the cockroach torture is over, I am sleeping better.
I have two Hispanic and one white cellmates. They sing a lot. Two of them have hepatitis C. One of them just found out yesterday. He thinks he contracted it during his one-year stay at Durango (one of Sheriff Joe Arpaio's jails). The other contracted it by sharing a needle. He is detoxing from heroin use. They sing their blues away. I joined in with some Beatle songs. A fellow in the cell next door slit his wrist this morning. He was discovered and taken to the Medical Unit.
Everyone here is astounded that I was locked up in the jail’s harshest quarters for so long. They are perplexed as to why I am finding things here so comfortable. I feel sorry for the inmates I left behind. I hope to see some of them – including Frankie – come through here soon. After enduring the jail, those inmates can make it anywhere.
*********************
31st Aug 04 Thanks Ste
Thanks Ste Wilkinson (computer whiz kid and family friend) for renovating my blog, inserting my mum’s favourite photo of me from my stockbroking days, and for adding links to Mothers Against Arpaio and a site about Sheriff Joe’s misdemeanours. Ste has also put a comments link into the blog, making it easy for you to give feedback.
I haven’t got access to a computer or the Internet. With a pen refill (we're not allowed a pen as it could be weaponized) I scribble away until my hand hurts. The pen refill is a step up from the jail's golf pencil. I send the blog entries to my parents for typing up and posting. They will forward any emails or comments back to me. It may take a little time for my reply, but I will write back and appreciate hearing from you.
Thanks again Ste, Good lookin’ out, dawg!
13 Jul 04
Sweat, suicide and death
I am still at the jail. A sudden spate of tragedies has compelled me to write this entry.
At the weekend, two inmates on my floor attempted to commit suicide. One threw himself off the balcony and survived. The other was discovered trying to hang himself.
Sadder still, an inmate housed in a medium-security pod was found dead in the shower. Inmates are often "smashed" in the shower area because it is out of view of the cameras. The jail has refused to release the cause of his death.
The temperature outside is 114 degrees. The trickle of air into our cells feels like hot air blowing from a hair dryer. We are soaked in sweat all day and night. It is difficult to write on this sweat-moistened paper. The majority now have skin infections and rashes, which persistently itch. My skin is so soggy from perspiration that when I scratch it the skin detaches and I end up with clumps of it under my fingernails. Between the sweat trickling down my body and the cockroaches tickling my limbs, it is impossible to sleep properly. Last night, while sleeping on my side, my ear filled up with sweat, and when I moved my head, the sweat spilled onto my face. I woke up, startled. It felt like someone was touching my cheek.
I once asked a guard how the jail’s administration gets away with this and his response was, "The world has no idea what really goes on in here."
When I was a small child, I imagined hell consisted of caves in which the damned were trapped, tortured and burnt. I imagined serpents and indescribable creepy crawlies tormenting the captives. I never imagined man's nature could be so hateful as to recreate these conditions on earth.
Sweat, suicide and death
I am still at the jail. A sudden spate of tragedies has compelled me to write this entry.
At the weekend, two inmates on my floor attempted to commit suicide. One threw himself off the balcony and survived. The other was discovered trying to hang himself.
Sadder still, an inmate housed in a medium-security pod was found dead in the shower. Inmates are often "smashed" in the shower area because it is out of view of the cameras. The jail has refused to release the cause of his death.
The temperature outside is 114 degrees. The trickle of air into our cells feels like hot air blowing from a hair dryer. We are soaked in sweat all day and night. It is difficult to write on this sweat-moistened paper. The majority now have skin infections and rashes, which persistently itch. My skin is so soggy from perspiration that when I scratch it the skin detaches and I end up with clumps of it under my fingernails. Between the sweat trickling down my body and the cockroaches tickling my limbs, it is impossible to sleep properly. Last night, while sleeping on my side, my ear filled up with sweat, and when I moved my head, the sweat spilled onto my face. I woke up, startled. It felt like someone was touching my cheek.
I once asked a guard how the jail’s administration gets away with this and his response was, "The world has no idea what really goes on in here."
When I was a small child, I imagined hell consisted of caves in which the damned were trapped, tortured and burnt. I imagined serpents and indescribable creepy crawlies tormenting the captives. I never imagined man's nature could be so hateful as to recreate these conditions on earth.
2 Jul 04
Final Entry from the Madison Street Jail.
Periplaneta Americana, more commonly known as the American cockroach, has an average lifespan of 440 days. As of today, I have been a resident of this crowbar motel for almost two cockroach lifespans. I have endured enough. It is time for me to move on, so I have signed myself over to the Arizona Department of Corrections.
Shortly, I will be shipped to Alhambra Unit, an intake facility, where they will decide which prison in Arizona I am to be housed at.
Parents of inmates, horrified by the conditions in the jail, have directed this blog to local groups who are working to get changes made.
Winston Churchill – once a POW in South Africa – stated, "The treatment of prisoners is a good indicator of how civilized a society is.”
Although I shall soon be gone from here, I hope that changes are made so that other unsentenced inmates – who are supposed to be presumed innocent until proven guilty – do not have to be warehoused like animals in such subhuman conditions. When a society treats its prisoners like animals they will behave like animals when they return to society.
During my stay, I have experienced medium security, maximum security, general population and lockdown housing. Outside of lockdown, inmates are warehoused like battery hens. Intravenous drug use is rife (see blog entry 03.06.04 ‘Wedded to Dope’). Hepatitis C, TB, and MRSA proliferate due to inmates being packed together, the high levels of violence, the sharing of needles and tattoo instruments, the unsanitary conditions, and the lack of medical treatment. A racist thugocracy that controls the drug trade regularly holds kangaroo courts; inmates are "smashed" on a daily basis by goons known as "torpedoes."
Temperatures reach over 100 degrees in the summer months, but the air conditioning is rarely active. Throughout the jail labyrinth inmates are deprived of air. Presently, it is hard to stay conscious because the swamp cooler is barely blowing. Inmates are getting sick and being taken for emergency medical treatment. A fellow pod member collapsed earlier today. Here, filth, squalor and disease are the norm. Utilities that are permanently broken, magically work for a few days when the county health inspectors do a "walk through."
Protests were recently held outside of the Madison Street jail because of the conditions. The local news stations countered with some pro-Arpaio propaganda and specifically reported how good the food is. They displayed some carefully-staged fresh and appetising chow. In reality, for the past three weeks, our one lukewarm daily meal has consisted of rotten potato pieces and potato peel (see food blog entry 06.04.04 ‘April Fools Day’ and the incident of the rat’s head, which I saw). I survive by eating nuts that I purchase from the jail, thanks to the generosity of my family and friends who put "money on my books" every week. Most inmates are indigent and have no support from the outside. They exist in a constant state of starvation and are willing to fight over scraps of food.
I have tried to write a frank, first hand account of what I have experienced. Whilst doing so I have also tried to remain upbeat and humorous, and I hope I have not detracted from the suffering here. I would rather cut off my little finger than go through this again.
Suicidal thoughts seem normal for most inmates, including me. But with the support of my family and friends, I have managed to keep such thoughts in the realm of fantasy. Many in here are not so fortunate. They are the lost and forgotten souls you never hear about. Some do take their lives and their voices remain forever unheard of.
Epicurus:
"Pain is neither intolerable nor continuing, provided you remember its limits and do not let your imagination add to it."
Marcus Aurelius:
"Delve within; within is the fountain of good, and it is always ready to bubble up, if you always delve."
Bye for now! When I am resituated in prison, I will resume blogging. Thank you for all of the kind letters of support from all over the world and the visits to the jail I have received. I would like to thank my Aunt Ann for transmitting the blog entries on a weekly basis to my mum who edits and types them out – good lookin' out, Mum! - and my dad, who posts them in as timely a fashion as possible.
Final Entry from the Madison Street Jail.
Periplaneta Americana, more commonly known as the American cockroach, has an average lifespan of 440 days. As of today, I have been a resident of this crowbar motel for almost two cockroach lifespans. I have endured enough. It is time for me to move on, so I have signed myself over to the Arizona Department of Corrections.
Shortly, I will be shipped to Alhambra Unit, an intake facility, where they will decide which prison in Arizona I am to be housed at.
Parents of inmates, horrified by the conditions in the jail, have directed this blog to local groups who are working to get changes made.
Winston Churchill – once a POW in South Africa – stated, "The treatment of prisoners is a good indicator of how civilized a society is.”
Although I shall soon be gone from here, I hope that changes are made so that other unsentenced inmates – who are supposed to be presumed innocent until proven guilty – do not have to be warehoused like animals in such subhuman conditions. When a society treats its prisoners like animals they will behave like animals when they return to society.
During my stay, I have experienced medium security, maximum security, general population and lockdown housing. Outside of lockdown, inmates are warehoused like battery hens. Intravenous drug use is rife (see blog entry 03.06.04 ‘Wedded to Dope’). Hepatitis C, TB, and MRSA proliferate due to inmates being packed together, the high levels of violence, the sharing of needles and tattoo instruments, the unsanitary conditions, and the lack of medical treatment. A racist thugocracy that controls the drug trade regularly holds kangaroo courts; inmates are "smashed" on a daily basis by goons known as "torpedoes."
Temperatures reach over 100 degrees in the summer months, but the air conditioning is rarely active. Throughout the jail labyrinth inmates are deprived of air. Presently, it is hard to stay conscious because the swamp cooler is barely blowing. Inmates are getting sick and being taken for emergency medical treatment. A fellow pod member collapsed earlier today. Here, filth, squalor and disease are the norm. Utilities that are permanently broken, magically work for a few days when the county health inspectors do a "walk through."
Protests were recently held outside of the Madison Street jail because of the conditions. The local news stations countered with some pro-Arpaio propaganda and specifically reported how good the food is. They displayed some carefully-staged fresh and appetising chow. In reality, for the past three weeks, our one lukewarm daily meal has consisted of rotten potato pieces and potato peel (see food blog entry 06.04.04 ‘April Fools Day’ and the incident of the rat’s head, which I saw). I survive by eating nuts that I purchase from the jail, thanks to the generosity of my family and friends who put "money on my books" every week. Most inmates are indigent and have no support from the outside. They exist in a constant state of starvation and are willing to fight over scraps of food.
I have tried to write a frank, first hand account of what I have experienced. Whilst doing so I have also tried to remain upbeat and humorous, and I hope I have not detracted from the suffering here. I would rather cut off my little finger than go through this again.
Suicidal thoughts seem normal for most inmates, including me. But with the support of my family and friends, I have managed to keep such thoughts in the realm of fantasy. Many in here are not so fortunate. They are the lost and forgotten souls you never hear about. Some do take their lives and their voices remain forever unheard of.
Epicurus:
"Pain is neither intolerable nor continuing, provided you remember its limits and do not let your imagination add to it."
Marcus Aurelius:
"Delve within; within is the fountain of good, and it is always ready to bubble up, if you always delve."
Bye for now! When I am resituated in prison, I will resume blogging. Thank you for all of the kind letters of support from all over the world and the visits to the jail I have received. I would like to thank my Aunt Ann for transmitting the blog entries on a weekly basis to my mum who edits and types them out – good lookin' out, Mum! - and my dad, who posts them in as timely a fashion as possible.
24 Jun 04
AK’s Karma
Frustration with AK climaxed on Monday morning. No one could sleep thanks to our resident cantante singing musica romantica for hours on end, interspersed with gunshot sound effects and feminine shrieks of "Sinaloa!" Enough was enough.
At the behest of the majority, Frankie implemented a plan to oust AK from our pod.
He had Cupcake borrow AK’s most valuable possession: a new radio. When Cupcake refused to return it, a dispute ensued. Frankie and Cupcake cackled at AK’s invective, and AK exploded. Pounding on his cell door, he yowled at the two unsympathetic guards, “They stole my fuckin’ radio!”
“Why’d you lend it to 'em?” enquired Officer Bloch.
“I thought they’d give it back,” AK said, emphasising each word.
“Lending your stereo to other inmates is against the Inmate Rules and Regulations!”
“Roll yer stuff up! You’re being moved!” Officer Perez ordered.
Walking toward the pod door, AK suddenly dropped his mattress. Before the guards could stop him, he dashed to Cupcake’s cell and yelled, "Gimme my fuckin' stereo back, you scheming fuckas!”
The guards restrained him. As they briskly steered AK out of the pod, applause from the cells rose to the ceiling of the day room.
My right shin looks like I spilled battery acid on it. A cluster of thirty or so red sores emerged last week when we were denied showers for four days. Some are bleeding, but I’m reluctant to make an appointment with the penis-grabbing Filipino doctor.
Half of the shower area is refusing to drain. Hair matted with semen has clogged it up. To shower, I had to step into the puddle of scum. This disturbed the multitude of tiny black flies ensconced on the white clumps and they formed a cloud around my head. Fortunately, they bolted when the shower was turned on and migrated to the dried fruit peel in the trashcan. When the water was turned off, they abandoned the fruit peel and returned to the shower. The flies prefer the semen.
AK’s Karma
Frustration with AK climaxed on Monday morning. No one could sleep thanks to our resident cantante singing musica romantica for hours on end, interspersed with gunshot sound effects and feminine shrieks of "Sinaloa!" Enough was enough.
At the behest of the majority, Frankie implemented a plan to oust AK from our pod.
He had Cupcake borrow AK’s most valuable possession: a new radio. When Cupcake refused to return it, a dispute ensued. Frankie and Cupcake cackled at AK’s invective, and AK exploded. Pounding on his cell door, he yowled at the two unsympathetic guards, “They stole my fuckin’ radio!”
“Why’d you lend it to 'em?” enquired Officer Bloch.
“I thought they’d give it back,” AK said, emphasising each word.
“Lending your stereo to other inmates is against the Inmate Rules and Regulations!”
“Roll yer stuff up! You’re being moved!” Officer Perez ordered.
Walking toward the pod door, AK suddenly dropped his mattress. Before the guards could stop him, he dashed to Cupcake’s cell and yelled, "Gimme my fuckin' stereo back, you scheming fuckas!”
The guards restrained him. As they briskly steered AK out of the pod, applause from the cells rose to the ceiling of the day room.
My right shin looks like I spilled battery acid on it. A cluster of thirty or so red sores emerged last week when we were denied showers for four days. Some are bleeding, but I’m reluctant to make an appointment with the penis-grabbing Filipino doctor.
Half of the shower area is refusing to drain. Hair matted with semen has clogged it up. To shower, I had to step into the puddle of scum. This disturbed the multitude of tiny black flies ensconced on the white clumps and they formed a cloud around my head. Fortunately, they bolted when the shower was turned on and migrated to the dried fruit peel in the trashcan. When the water was turned off, they abandoned the fruit peel and returned to the shower. The flies prefer the semen.
17 Jun 04
Frankie’s Proposal
On Friday morning, the guards thwarted an escape attempt by two inmates, and the jail administration decided to punish everyone. We were placed on security override for four days, confined to our cells, unable to shower, make phone calls, dispose of our trash and dinner trays. Soaring temperatures and a purposefully low trickle of swamp-cooled air quickly caused us to reek like wet dogs. Our cell soon stunk like a cheap restaurant's dumpster on a hot day. The filthy conditions were received enthusiastically by las cucarachas. They launched their most aggressive offensive yet. Around the clock, they plundered the red death Mark had left. At night, they crunched under my shower sandles when I visited the toilet.
The lockdown and AK’s bop-bop-bopping undoubtedly contributed to the nervous breakdown of Eric (AK’s fifty-year-old cellmate).
Early Monday morning, Eric yelled, “Get me outta here!" repeatedly for fifteen minutes. His voice inflection ranged from that of a demonically-possessed man - worse than something from The Exorcist - to that of a sobbing child. The guards removed Eric from AK's cell, and after undergoing a psychiatric evaluation, he was moved in with Blueberry.
On Wednesday morning, I was summoned to the Medical Unit. I had entered a Correctional Health Services Inmate Medical Request on the 1st of June:
“Blisters have formed on the bedsore on my left buttock. Requesting cream.”
Due to the amount of bedsores I've had while jailed, the medical staff regularly inspect my behind. But Wednesday morning's encounter with the new Filipino doctor was somewhat disturbing. After dropping my pants, the doctor perused my foresty posterior and stated, “You have scaling on both left and right sides.”
I thought the exam was over, but the doctor said, “How about the front?”
”The front?” I asked.
“Yes, the front. Just turn around,” he said, his eyes animating.
Wondering, Who am I to question a professional? I turned around. I was expecting a positive comment on the health of my reproductives, but he suddenly lunged forward as if to grab my them. I automatically jerked backwards. To fend him off, I grabbed and raised my scrotum. Shaking it at him, I yelled, “Look! The front's fine!”
”Yes. They look quite OK to me,” he replied, softening his voice.
I emerged from the doctor's with Clotrimazole Anti-Fungal Cream.
After seeing the doctor, the next patient returned to the Medical Unit holding cell and blurted out, “That doctor just grabbed my dick without any gloves on!"
”He tried to do the same to me,” I said.
The rest of the inmates either sniggered or exchanged nervous looks as the prospect of receiving the same treatment dawned on them.
On Wednesday night, Frankie peeped through my cell window when I was rubbing the anti-fungal cream on my left buttock. His eyes smouldered with desire. I received a love letter from him the next morning: "...looking forward to our upcoming gay marriage in San Francisco, and shampooing your hairy ass on our honeymoon.”
Frankie was delighted that the solitary witness in his double-homicide case was recently deemed "mentally incompetent" causing his proposed sentencing range to drop from twenty-five years to life, to six to ten years.
Frankie’s Proposal
On Friday morning, the guards thwarted an escape attempt by two inmates, and the jail administration decided to punish everyone. We were placed on security override for four days, confined to our cells, unable to shower, make phone calls, dispose of our trash and dinner trays. Soaring temperatures and a purposefully low trickle of swamp-cooled air quickly caused us to reek like wet dogs. Our cell soon stunk like a cheap restaurant's dumpster on a hot day. The filthy conditions were received enthusiastically by las cucarachas. They launched their most aggressive offensive yet. Around the clock, they plundered the red death Mark had left. At night, they crunched under my shower sandles when I visited the toilet.
The lockdown and AK’s bop-bop-bopping undoubtedly contributed to the nervous breakdown of Eric (AK’s fifty-year-old cellmate).
Early Monday morning, Eric yelled, “Get me outta here!" repeatedly for fifteen minutes. His voice inflection ranged from that of a demonically-possessed man - worse than something from The Exorcist - to that of a sobbing child. The guards removed Eric from AK's cell, and after undergoing a psychiatric evaluation, he was moved in with Blueberry.
On Wednesday morning, I was summoned to the Medical Unit. I had entered a Correctional Health Services Inmate Medical Request on the 1st of June:
“Blisters have formed on the bedsore on my left buttock. Requesting cream.”
Due to the amount of bedsores I've had while jailed, the medical staff regularly inspect my behind. But Wednesday morning's encounter with the new Filipino doctor was somewhat disturbing. After dropping my pants, the doctor perused my foresty posterior and stated, “You have scaling on both left and right sides.”
I thought the exam was over, but the doctor said, “How about the front?”
”The front?” I asked.
“Yes, the front. Just turn around,” he said, his eyes animating.
Wondering, Who am I to question a professional? I turned around. I was expecting a positive comment on the health of my reproductives, but he suddenly lunged forward as if to grab my them. I automatically jerked backwards. To fend him off, I grabbed and raised my scrotum. Shaking it at him, I yelled, “Look! The front's fine!”
”Yes. They look quite OK to me,” he replied, softening his voice.
I emerged from the doctor's with Clotrimazole Anti-Fungal Cream.
After seeing the doctor, the next patient returned to the Medical Unit holding cell and blurted out, “That doctor just grabbed my dick without any gloves on!"
”He tried to do the same to me,” I said.
The rest of the inmates either sniggered or exchanged nervous looks as the prospect of receiving the same treatment dawned on them.
On Wednesday night, Frankie peeped through my cell window when I was rubbing the anti-fungal cream on my left buttock. His eyes smouldered with desire. I received a love letter from him the next morning: "...looking forward to our upcoming gay marriage in San Francisco, and shampooing your hairy ass on our honeymoon.”
Frankie was delighted that the solitary witness in his double-homicide case was recently deemed "mentally incompetent" causing his proposed sentencing range to drop from twenty-five years to life, to six to ten years.
10 Jun 04
AK and Blueberry
Young AK was arrested after pointing an AK-47 at his stepfather. He is now my noisy neighbour. From Sinaloa, Mexico, he fancies himself as a troubadour. In Spanish, he is constantly singing romantic songs, but he ends each verse with:
Bop! Bop! Bop!
Gimme liberty or gimme death!
Bop! Bop! Bop! Bop!
His bop-bop-bopping has annoyed everyone. And usually, when everyone gets annoyed, someone gets hurt. I suspect he will be getting bopped soon.
On Saturday morning, the jail was placed on "security override," and all of our cells were searched. We later found out that a drug ring was arrested here at the Madison Street jail. It included one guard, one nurse and ten inmates. Supposedly a Mexican Mafia operation. The Mexican Mafia is one of the most powerful prison gangs in Arizona.
On Tuesday morning, Frankie hollered into the vent,"Got any jelly, cell 15?"
"I do not,” I said.
"Does your celly?" Frankie asked.
"I do," Mark said.
"He does," I yelled.
"Slide it under your door and I'll send Blueberry up to get it," Frankie said.
"OK," I said.
Blueberry climbed the stairs to get the jelly.
"Thanks, cell 15," Frankie shouted.
"You're welcome,” I said.
"Look out of yer window. Someone else wants to thank you," Frankie said.
Through the window, I saw young Blueberry bent over with his pants pulled down, his hands spreading his buttocks as wide as they'd go.
“Do you like it?" Frankie asked.
Silence.
“Do you like it?" Blueberry said, imitating a woman's voice.
“No me gusta,” I responded in Spanish to Frankie, so as not to dampen Blueberry's spirit.
Frankie cackled impishly.
AK and Blueberry
Young AK was arrested after pointing an AK-47 at his stepfather. He is now my noisy neighbour. From Sinaloa, Mexico, he fancies himself as a troubadour. In Spanish, he is constantly singing romantic songs, but he ends each verse with:
Bop! Bop! Bop!
Gimme liberty or gimme death!
Bop! Bop! Bop! Bop!
His bop-bop-bopping has annoyed everyone. And usually, when everyone gets annoyed, someone gets hurt. I suspect he will be getting bopped soon.
On Saturday morning, the jail was placed on "security override," and all of our cells were searched. We later found out that a drug ring was arrested here at the Madison Street jail. It included one guard, one nurse and ten inmates. Supposedly a Mexican Mafia operation. The Mexican Mafia is one of the most powerful prison gangs in Arizona.
On Tuesday morning, Frankie hollered into the vent,"Got any jelly, cell 15?"
"I do not,” I said.
"Does your celly?" Frankie asked.
"I do," Mark said.
"He does," I yelled.
"Slide it under your door and I'll send Blueberry up to get it," Frankie said.
"OK," I said.
Blueberry climbed the stairs to get the jelly.
"Thanks, cell 15," Frankie shouted.
"You're welcome,” I said.
"Look out of yer window. Someone else wants to thank you," Frankie said.
Through the window, I saw young Blueberry bent over with his pants pulled down, his hands spreading his buttocks as wide as they'd go.
“Do you like it?" Frankie asked.
Silence.
“Do you like it?" Blueberry said, imitating a woman's voice.
“No me gusta,” I responded in Spanish to Frankie, so as not to dampen Blueberry's spirit.
Frankie cackled impishly.
3 Jun 04
Wedded to Dope
In this Hades, the hobby of the majority is injecting drugs. Dozens of men eagerly share one syringe. Diseases, especially hepatitis C, are commonly transferred. They store ("keyster") their drugs, mostly heroin and crystal meth, in Saran Wrap, balloons or condoms shoved in their behinds.
The illegal drug use is only half of the story. Three times a day, a crotchety nurse goes from door to door dispensing "meds." Up to one third of the inmates are recipients of these pills. The most common are Wellbutrin, Klonapin, Prozac, Cojetin, Loxieen, Paxil, Haldol, Elovil and Seroquil.
The inmates snigger at how easy it is to obtain these free drugs. They simply tell the "psych doctor" they are hearing voices or are unable to sleep. Inmates use the pills to vary their highs, or trade for food and illegal drugs. Sheriff Joe Arpaio regularly appears on TV boasting that it costs the taxpayer a pittance to feed us society’s refuse, but he never mentions the millions of dollars being spent on expensive medications, which the drug companies are profiting handsomely from. I wonder whether these companies make political contributions to Arpaio.
It's been an infernally normal week. Outdoor temperatures are approaching 110 degrees. At night, I watch las cucarachas scurrying to and fro, convinced they are waiting for me to go to sleep to get at my earwax. Mark and I now catch one another chasing imaginary cockroaches.
The dirty potato peelings are back in the evening chow. Dry citrus fruit are the new additions to breakfast. The stench of filth and sweat pervades the air. The bedsore on my left buttock cheek is blistered and bleeding. My mouth and tongue are ulcerated. These conditions were designed to break the human spirit. As the periodic suicides indicate, death is a more attractive place for some inmates.
"What is important in life is life and not a result of life."
Goethe (1749-1832)
Wedded to Dope
In this Hades, the hobby of the majority is injecting drugs. Dozens of men eagerly share one syringe. Diseases, especially hepatitis C, are commonly transferred. They store ("keyster") their drugs, mostly heroin and crystal meth, in Saran Wrap, balloons or condoms shoved in their behinds.
The illegal drug use is only half of the story. Three times a day, a crotchety nurse goes from door to door dispensing "meds." Up to one third of the inmates are recipients of these pills. The most common are Wellbutrin, Klonapin, Prozac, Cojetin, Loxieen, Paxil, Haldol, Elovil and Seroquil.
The inmates snigger at how easy it is to obtain these free drugs. They simply tell the "psych doctor" they are hearing voices or are unable to sleep. Inmates use the pills to vary their highs, or trade for food and illegal drugs. Sheriff Joe Arpaio regularly appears on TV boasting that it costs the taxpayer a pittance to feed us society’s refuse, but he never mentions the millions of dollars being spent on expensive medications, which the drug companies are profiting handsomely from. I wonder whether these companies make political contributions to Arpaio.
It's been an infernally normal week. Outdoor temperatures are approaching 110 degrees. At night, I watch las cucarachas scurrying to and fro, convinced they are waiting for me to go to sleep to get at my earwax. Mark and I now catch one another chasing imaginary cockroaches.
The dirty potato peelings are back in the evening chow. Dry citrus fruit are the new additions to breakfast. The stench of filth and sweat pervades the air. The bedsore on my left buttock cheek is blistered and bleeding. My mouth and tongue are ulcerated. These conditions were designed to break the human spirit. As the periodic suicides indicate, death is a more attractive place for some inmates.
"What is important in life is life and not a result of life."
Goethe (1749-1832)
27 May 04
On Sunday morning, I awoke to find two cockroach corpses crushed on my mattress. I must have rolled on top of them in my sleep.
Two more inmates collapsed and were stretchered to the Medical Unit. Including Jose from cell 1, who, during a shootout over drugs with fellow Mexican Nationals, had received seventeen bullet wounds. The stitches holding his stomach in had loosened, and it appeared his internal organs were about to spill out.
Rumour has it the diabetic who entered a coma last week died, and the jail is under investigation.
We have been told for the past three months that the swamp cooler is "broken" and that a "work order" has been entered, but when the County Health Department inspected the jail on Tuesday and Wednesday, the air was blowing at gale force and the water in the shower was running hot enough to redden my skin. After the inspectors left the building someone immediately switched the air back to the broken setting. And it didn’t take long for the inmates to replace the semen that had been cleaned up from the shower floor.
Frankie is always in a high state of sexual arousal. He has solicited most members of our pod, including me, to be "boned down" and "turned out." His boldness has increased due to his followers egging him on. I am convinced that if all of our cell doors were simultaneously opened, half of the inmates would form an orgy.
Frankie now proclaims, "I'm takin' us back to the fuckin' Roman days! Call me Caeser the booty teaser!” One of Frankie’s new tricks is to have a neighbour throw him a "fishing line" (a long piece of string which inmates use to pass contraband from cell to cell with) so that he can tie it to his penis while his neighbour pulls on the string.
I received a large photograph in the mail. It exceeded the 4 x 6 inches allowed by the jail, so I was pleasantly surprised that it was not rejected by the mail officer. It was a picture of a bespectacled President Bush signing some documents. In the lower margin was a personalized message with my name on it: "Thank you for your support of the Republican National Committee. Grassroots leaders like you are the key to building a better, stronger, more secure future for our nation and all Americans... Best Wishes, George. W. Bush."
Now that the president has discerned my true nature, I am hopeful for a pardon!
On Sunday morning, I awoke to find two cockroach corpses crushed on my mattress. I must have rolled on top of them in my sleep.
Two more inmates collapsed and were stretchered to the Medical Unit. Including Jose from cell 1, who, during a shootout over drugs with fellow Mexican Nationals, had received seventeen bullet wounds. The stitches holding his stomach in had loosened, and it appeared his internal organs were about to spill out.
Rumour has it the diabetic who entered a coma last week died, and the jail is under investigation.
We have been told for the past three months that the swamp cooler is "broken" and that a "work order" has been entered, but when the County Health Department inspected the jail on Tuesday and Wednesday, the air was blowing at gale force and the water in the shower was running hot enough to redden my skin. After the inspectors left the building someone immediately switched the air back to the broken setting. And it didn’t take long for the inmates to replace the semen that had been cleaned up from the shower floor.
Frankie is always in a high state of sexual arousal. He has solicited most members of our pod, including me, to be "boned down" and "turned out." His boldness has increased due to his followers egging him on. I am convinced that if all of our cell doors were simultaneously opened, half of the inmates would form an orgy.
Frankie now proclaims, "I'm takin' us back to the fuckin' Roman days! Call me Caeser the booty teaser!” One of Frankie’s new tricks is to have a neighbour throw him a "fishing line" (a long piece of string which inmates use to pass contraband from cell to cell with) so that he can tie it to his penis while his neighbour pulls on the string.
I received a large photograph in the mail. It exceeded the 4 x 6 inches allowed by the jail, so I was pleasantly surprised that it was not rejected by the mail officer. It was a picture of a bespectacled President Bush signing some documents. In the lower margin was a personalized message with my name on it: "Thank you for your support of the Republican National Committee. Grassroots leaders like you are the key to building a better, stronger, more secure future for our nation and all Americans... Best Wishes, George. W. Bush."
Now that the president has discerned my true nature, I am hopeful for a pardon!
20 May 04
The news reported hue and cry outside of the jailhouse on Saturday morning - a public protest about the conditions. Sheriff Joe Arpaio's swift response was to have us served with tasty mashed potatoes instead of the usual rotten potato peelings. On Sunday night, we actually received a scoop of ice cream. Unfortunately, the ice cream was served on top of warm cabbage, transmuting it into cabbage soup. Anyhow, we appreciated the gesture, and we are still receiving mashed potatoes - but for how long?
The daily temperature highs are in excess of a hundred degrees and rising. The air is stale and debilitating. On Monday, an inmate told a guard he felt ill and requested medical treatment. The guard told him to drink plenty of water and to lie down. The inmate persisted, stating he was a diabetic and he really needed to see a doctor, but the guard continued to fob him off. On Monday night, the inmate slipped into a coma and was rushed to the hospital. He has not been seen since.
Frankie paid Yum-Yum's $225 bond. Before Yum-Yum departed, I learned he has "fifty wigs at home," and that he had been arrested when the police forced their way into a hotel bathroom: “I was tweaked out o' my mind and gettin' fucked by my friend." Sadly, Frankie did not land a cell with Yum-Yum, but his investment will probably enhance his reputation among prison transsexuals.
I was awoken this morning by a small cockroach heading toward my face up my arm.
Mark still refuses to eat the jail food. He had a nightmare about giant cockroaches dressed in guard uniforms chaining him to a bunk and force-feeding him red death.
The news reported hue and cry outside of the jailhouse on Saturday morning - a public protest about the conditions. Sheriff Joe Arpaio's swift response was to have us served with tasty mashed potatoes instead of the usual rotten potato peelings. On Sunday night, we actually received a scoop of ice cream. Unfortunately, the ice cream was served on top of warm cabbage, transmuting it into cabbage soup. Anyhow, we appreciated the gesture, and we are still receiving mashed potatoes - but for how long?
The daily temperature highs are in excess of a hundred degrees and rising. The air is stale and debilitating. On Monday, an inmate told a guard he felt ill and requested medical treatment. The guard told him to drink plenty of water and to lie down. The inmate persisted, stating he was a diabetic and he really needed to see a doctor, but the guard continued to fob him off. On Monday night, the inmate slipped into a coma and was rushed to the hospital. He has not been seen since.
Frankie paid Yum-Yum's $225 bond. Before Yum-Yum departed, I learned he has "fifty wigs at home," and that he had been arrested when the police forced their way into a hotel bathroom: “I was tweaked out o' my mind and gettin' fucked by my friend." Sadly, Frankie did not land a cell with Yum-Yum, but his investment will probably enhance his reputation among prison transsexuals.
I was awoken this morning by a small cockroach heading toward my face up my arm.
Mark still refuses to eat the jail food. He had a nightmare about giant cockroaches dressed in guard uniforms chaining him to a bunk and force-feeding him red death.
13 May 04
Chess Moves
Frankie, a Mexican Mafia contract killer – his fee is $50,000 per hit – instigates most of the hullabaloo in our pod. He is a recent arrival from the jail's infirmary. Last month he was playing cards in a maximum-security pod when someone stuck an eight-inch shank into the back of his neck. Unfazed, he extracted the shank, and was about to return the gesture, but a guard blinded him with pepper spray. Frankie was dragged from the pod with blood gushing from the wound. He was promoted to our pod – an area where inmates are confined to tiny cells for twenty-three hours each day.
Frankie looks and acts like Joe Pesci playing Tommy DeVito in Goodfellas. He wears his thick, black hair slicked back, and his arms are heavily prison-tattooed. He overcompensates for his Napoleonic height with a cocksure manner, but the inmates have warmed to his lewd wittiness. During a seventeen-year sentence, he became a chess heavyweight. On my hour out, I usually play a game with him by holding the board up in front of his cell window. His piercing hazel eyes and fiendish grin animate when he attempts intimidation tactics:
"Eat dat fuckin' pawn!"
"Let me fuckin' teach ya somethin'!"
"Eat dat fuckin' bishop!"
"Watch dis! Check! Trick move! What'd I fuckin' tell ya!"
"Don't do it!"
"Move my bitch [Queen] all da way up!"
"Check-fuckin'-mate! Boo-yah!"
"Nobody fucks wiv da champ!"
Hearing my rapping neighbour whimpering to his grandmother on the phone in the day room, begging her to bail him out, the inmates lambasted him for being a crybaby. Nevertheless, his grandma followed through and he was released.
He was replaced by Yum-Yum, an eighteen-year-old transsexual who looks like a malnourished teenage girl. Yum-Yum has black, curly hair, speaks like a female, and has stirred up the love-starved inmates. Frankie is leading the pack. Every day, Frankie has offered Yum-Yum sweets to move into his cell to “make ma cell look good.” Frankie complains that his eighteen-year-old cellmate, Cup Cake, will not participate in "sword fights" (sexual acts) with him. He seems confident that Yum-Yum will be more obliging. I sense a love triangle.
The heat is making it difficult to sleep. Las cucarachas are getting more adventurous. They wake me up as they explore my limbs.
The inmates are speculating that the foul-smelling breakfast meat is ostrich.
My green onion, that had sprouted six inches, suddenly wilted and died.
I found a quote by Jon Adams (1756.) that is helping me ignore the madness that I am surrounded with:
"May I blush whenever I suffer one hour to pass unimproved."
Chess Moves
Frankie, a Mexican Mafia contract killer – his fee is $50,000 per hit – instigates most of the hullabaloo in our pod. He is a recent arrival from the jail's infirmary. Last month he was playing cards in a maximum-security pod when someone stuck an eight-inch shank into the back of his neck. Unfazed, he extracted the shank, and was about to return the gesture, but a guard blinded him with pepper spray. Frankie was dragged from the pod with blood gushing from the wound. He was promoted to our pod – an area where inmates are confined to tiny cells for twenty-three hours each day.
Frankie looks and acts like Joe Pesci playing Tommy DeVito in Goodfellas. He wears his thick, black hair slicked back, and his arms are heavily prison-tattooed. He overcompensates for his Napoleonic height with a cocksure manner, but the inmates have warmed to his lewd wittiness. During a seventeen-year sentence, he became a chess heavyweight. On my hour out, I usually play a game with him by holding the board up in front of his cell window. His piercing hazel eyes and fiendish grin animate when he attempts intimidation tactics:
"Eat dat fuckin' pawn!"
"Let me fuckin' teach ya somethin'!"
"Eat dat fuckin' bishop!"
"Watch dis! Check! Trick move! What'd I fuckin' tell ya!"
"Don't do it!"
"Move my bitch [Queen] all da way up!"
"Check-fuckin'-mate! Boo-yah!"
"Nobody fucks wiv da champ!"
Hearing my rapping neighbour whimpering to his grandmother on the phone in the day room, begging her to bail him out, the inmates lambasted him for being a crybaby. Nevertheless, his grandma followed through and he was released.
He was replaced by Yum-Yum, an eighteen-year-old transsexual who looks like a malnourished teenage girl. Yum-Yum has black, curly hair, speaks like a female, and has stirred up the love-starved inmates. Frankie is leading the pack. Every day, Frankie has offered Yum-Yum sweets to move into his cell to “make ma cell look good.” Frankie complains that his eighteen-year-old cellmate, Cup Cake, will not participate in "sword fights" (sexual acts) with him. He seems confident that Yum-Yum will be more obliging. I sense a love triangle.
The heat is making it difficult to sleep. Las cucarachas are getting more adventurous. They wake me up as they explore my limbs.
The inmates are speculating that the foul-smelling breakfast meat is ostrich.
My green onion, that had sprouted six inches, suddenly wilted and died.
I found a quote by Jon Adams (1756.) that is helping me ignore the madness that I am surrounded with:
"May I blush whenever I suffer one hour to pass unimproved."
6 May 04
Sex in Jail
Most inmates agree that the hardest part of incarceration is the absence of female company. There are various ways in here to address sexual frustration. The most common occurs in the shower. Some inmates even tape sexy pictures to the shower wall. Unfortunately, the shower I share with twenty-nine men drains poorly. A puddle of semen and pubic hair swirls around my feet as I wash. In the shower, I wear pink socks for protection, and quickly rinse them off afterwards.
The more innovative methods of gratification are often bragged about. That's how I heard of a "fee-fee bag," a hot, wet sock, lubricated with soap or lotion. A creatively-folded towel can also be used.
For homosexuals, it's business as usual. I have noticed three types of gays in jail: those openly gay before and after their arrest, those who are temporarily openly gay in jail but do not tell their wives and girlfriends, and those in the closet. The first two groups boast about their conquests and ultimately reveal the members of the latter group.
Transsexuals, known as "cheetolins" are in high demand. Most of our resident cheetos are Native American or Mexican American. Some inmates cannot resist an opportunity to receive oral sex. Cheetos are known to convert many inmates who once thought they were straight.
A recently sentenced cheeto in our pod yelled out, "I can't wait to get to prison for all that sausage!"
I could be having so much fun in here, if only I were gay!
29 Apr 04
A Forgotten Hero Named Duke
In court, I watched the sentencing hearing for fifty-four-year-old Duke. Most of the onlookers wept with him as he listed his mitigating factors. Duke had joined the military at age nineteen and was quickly dispatched to Vietnam. He served as a supply clerk in the thick of some of the goriest battles. After three years of being in "hell," and watching “many peoples' faces gettin' blown off,” Duke was shot in the head. Comatose for three months, his eventual survival was deemed a miracle. For serving his country, Duke was awarded the Purple Heart and Silver Star.
Duke discovered drugs in Vietnam. Upon returning home, he was prescribed painkillers, psychiatric drugs and seizure medication. He suffered from various mental problems, including PTSD. He was in and out of the Veterans' Hospital for three decades. During his most recent visit, the surgeon reattached his foot, which had been torn from his leg by a hit-and-run driver. Duke's foot is presently held on by a thirteen-inch metal rod, and he limps.
Duke shed tears as he apologized for his drug problem, which he referred to as his "disease". He apologized to his children and grandchildren for letting them down. Duke's final cry for leniency was, "Please help me get help for my disease."
From Judge Wilkinson, Duke received a four-and-a-half-year prison sentence for possession of .02 grams of cocaine, found on the floor of his car. His attorney said Duke's long history of drug use and the fact he owned a new car had aggravated the sentence. The prosecutor claimed Duke's car could only have been paid for by dealing drugs. A concession granted by the judge was that Duke would be housed in a prison with a good drug-rehabilitation program.
Duke was sullen as he exited the courtroom.
A Forgotten Hero Named Duke
In court, I watched the sentencing hearing for fifty-four-year-old Duke. Most of the onlookers wept with him as he listed his mitigating factors. Duke had joined the military at age nineteen and was quickly dispatched to Vietnam. He served as a supply clerk in the thick of some of the goriest battles. After three years of being in "hell," and watching “many peoples' faces gettin' blown off,” Duke was shot in the head. Comatose for three months, his eventual survival was deemed a miracle. For serving his country, Duke was awarded the Purple Heart and Silver Star.
Duke discovered drugs in Vietnam. Upon returning home, he was prescribed painkillers, psychiatric drugs and seizure medication. He suffered from various mental problems, including PTSD. He was in and out of the Veterans' Hospital for three decades. During his most recent visit, the surgeon reattached his foot, which had been torn from his leg by a hit-and-run driver. Duke's foot is presently held on by a thirteen-inch metal rod, and he limps.
Duke shed tears as he apologized for his drug problem, which he referred to as his "disease". He apologized to his children and grandchildren for letting them down. Duke's final cry for leniency was, "Please help me get help for my disease."
From Judge Wilkinson, Duke received a four-and-a-half-year prison sentence for possession of .02 grams of cocaine, found on the floor of his car. His attorney said Duke's long history of drug use and the fact he owned a new car had aggravated the sentence. The prosecutor claimed Duke's car could only have been paid for by dealing drugs. A concession granted by the judge was that Duke would be housed in a prison with a good drug-rehabilitation program.
Duke was sullen as he exited the courtroom.
Easter Eggs
15 Apr 04
I received lots of eggs on Easter Sunday – cockroach eggs. I noticed what looked like a piece of a worm glued to my dictionary – it was full of cockroach babies. I discovered two more empty egg containers, and more nests in my commissary bag and legal file. In my Manila envelopes, large and tiny cockroaches were running wild. I poured the cockroaches out of one envelope into the toilet, but in the time it took to press the flusher button, they had scurried out of the toilet bowl at warp speed and were scrambling around my feet.
They were none too happy about their encampment being besieged on a holy day, and as darkness came they struck back. Numerous baby cockroaches, tinier than ants, started the demonstration by zigzagging on the walls like miniscule bumper cars. They were soon joined by the adult members of their community. One about the size of an almond nut crawled onto my bare foot. Some larger ones invaded the blanket near my right shoulder, and I had to sleep with a sheet wrapped around my head because I feared they were coming after the earwax they love so much.
The bug activity perturbed Mark. Staying awake for most of the night until his eyelids finally closed, he then dreamt they were crawling all over him. He awoke in a terrible sweat, scratching his body, and discovered his dream had come true.
Federal law states that inmates have the right not to live in an insect-infested environment, but the jail flouts the law by showing the external referees its insecticide spraying records. As you are aware, the insecticide is sprayed upon the inmates and the only effect it has upon the cockroaches is as a temporary intoxicant. On spray day they act like drunkards, stumbling home from the pub, but they quickly sober up.
My new neighbour's behaviour has upset the whole pod. He’s young and he boasts he is a rapper and a "shit talka." Every day he uses his cell walls, door and table as drums. He likes to tell passersby to "fuck themselves" and he is recklessly hostile to the guards. What upsets the inmates most of all is his nighttime soliloquizing. He has received numerous threats upon his good health. Presently, he is rapping:
Da roaches,
Da roaches,
Da roaches on da wall,
We don’t need no water,
Let the motherfuckers fall!
Now he’s clicking his fingers and cackling to himself, “I’d have my shit on motherfucking billboards by now if it wuzn’t for deeze assholes! I should be a fucking millionaire! Please, I wanna get out of here! I wanna go home!"
I placed a green onion from my dinner into a polystyrene cup. I half filled it with water and to my delight it started to grow roots. Now I have a plant of my own to love and care for. I haven’t seen a plant in years! Mark said he suspects I’ve been here for too long.
Quote of the month:
"For the secret of a man is not his Oedipus complex or his inferiority complex: it is the limit of his own liberty, his capacity for resisting torture and death."
John Paul Sartre
Thanks for all the letters of support I’ve received since the blog began.
15 Apr 04
I received lots of eggs on Easter Sunday – cockroach eggs. I noticed what looked like a piece of a worm glued to my dictionary – it was full of cockroach babies. I discovered two more empty egg containers, and more nests in my commissary bag and legal file. In my Manila envelopes, large and tiny cockroaches were running wild. I poured the cockroaches out of one envelope into the toilet, but in the time it took to press the flusher button, they had scurried out of the toilet bowl at warp speed and were scrambling around my feet.
They were none too happy about their encampment being besieged on a holy day, and as darkness came they struck back. Numerous baby cockroaches, tinier than ants, started the demonstration by zigzagging on the walls like miniscule bumper cars. They were soon joined by the adult members of their community. One about the size of an almond nut crawled onto my bare foot. Some larger ones invaded the blanket near my right shoulder, and I had to sleep with a sheet wrapped around my head because I feared they were coming after the earwax they love so much.
The bug activity perturbed Mark. Staying awake for most of the night until his eyelids finally closed, he then dreamt they were crawling all over him. He awoke in a terrible sweat, scratching his body, and discovered his dream had come true.
Federal law states that inmates have the right not to live in an insect-infested environment, but the jail flouts the law by showing the external referees its insecticide spraying records. As you are aware, the insecticide is sprayed upon the inmates and the only effect it has upon the cockroaches is as a temporary intoxicant. On spray day they act like drunkards, stumbling home from the pub, but they quickly sober up.
My new neighbour's behaviour has upset the whole pod. He’s young and he boasts he is a rapper and a "shit talka." Every day he uses his cell walls, door and table as drums. He likes to tell passersby to "fuck themselves" and he is recklessly hostile to the guards. What upsets the inmates most of all is his nighttime soliloquizing. He has received numerous threats upon his good health. Presently, he is rapping:
Da roaches,
Da roaches,
Da roaches on da wall,
We don’t need no water,
Let the motherfuckers fall!
Now he’s clicking his fingers and cackling to himself, “I’d have my shit on motherfucking billboards by now if it wuzn’t for deeze assholes! I should be a fucking millionaire! Please, I wanna get out of here! I wanna go home!"
I placed a green onion from my dinner into a polystyrene cup. I half filled it with water and to my delight it started to grow roots. Now I have a plant of my own to love and care for. I haven’t seen a plant in years! Mark said he suspects I’ve been here for too long.
Quote of the month:
"For the secret of a man is not his Oedipus complex or his inferiority complex: it is the limit of his own liberty, his capacity for resisting torture and death."
John Paul Sartre
Thanks for all the letters of support I’ve received since the blog began.
22 Apr 04
Books
My brain is feeding from literature at rates faster than the jailhouse booklice. I've read twenty-nine books in three months, some over 1,000 pages long. I read for over twelve hours a day, and depending upon the size of the print I can manage over two-hundred pages.
Bookworms face two difficulties in here. Bleeding bedsores - I have one on my left buttock. And dealing with the mail staff, who periodically frustrate my book deliveries.
Last year, the mail officer rejected Security Analysis, a thick hardback book. The Mail Rejection Notification stated the book was not a book, but "a weapon." Last autumn, I was initially denied The Communist Manifesto by Marx and Engels. The Mail Rejection Notification stated I was "jeopardizing the safety of the jail operation." Last week, I was denied three books my aunt Ann ordered from www.traderspress.com. The Mail Rejection Notification stated "books must be delivered directly from the publisher or on-line dist [sic]." As www.traderspress.com is both a publisher and online distributor, I lodged a complaint, using an Inmate Grievance Form. I was visited by a friendly hearing officer who stated that the mail officer had made an error and that the jail would accept redelivery. I reordered the books at the cost of an additional redelivery fee and I thought that would be the end of the matter. Unfortunately the mail officer had been offended by my complaint and I received a threatening note taped to my Wall St Journal. The note stated, "You need to contact the Wall St. Journal and advise them of your new facility /bunk No. All papers from now on will be thrown away...Mail Officer."
Upon analysing all of my Mail Rejection Notifications, it's obvious the mail officer has determined I am a weapon-seeking revolutionary. The threat to throw away my newspapers seems to be a call to arms. I never imagined that an affinity for books could be so dangerous. Hopefully, my newspapers will not be thrown away and the three financial books will be successfully redelivered this week. Without something to read, I would be reduced to playing with las cucarachas, which can be hazardous to one's mental health - not that I've ever been well-stocked in that department.
Books
My brain is feeding from literature at rates faster than the jailhouse booklice. I've read twenty-nine books in three months, some over 1,000 pages long. I read for over twelve hours a day, and depending upon the size of the print I can manage over two-hundred pages.
Bookworms face two difficulties in here. Bleeding bedsores - I have one on my left buttock. And dealing with the mail staff, who periodically frustrate my book deliveries.
Last year, the mail officer rejected Security Analysis, a thick hardback book. The Mail Rejection Notification stated the book was not a book, but "a weapon." Last autumn, I was initially denied The Communist Manifesto by Marx and Engels. The Mail Rejection Notification stated I was "jeopardizing the safety of the jail operation." Last week, I was denied three books my aunt Ann ordered from www.traderspress.com. The Mail Rejection Notification stated "books must be delivered directly from the publisher or on-line dist [sic]." As www.traderspress.com is both a publisher and online distributor, I lodged a complaint, using an Inmate Grievance Form. I was visited by a friendly hearing officer who stated that the mail officer had made an error and that the jail would accept redelivery. I reordered the books at the cost of an additional redelivery fee and I thought that would be the end of the matter. Unfortunately the mail officer had been offended by my complaint and I received a threatening note taped to my Wall St Journal. The note stated, "You need to contact the Wall St. Journal and advise them of your new facility /bunk No. All papers from now on will be thrown away...Mail Officer."
Upon analysing all of my Mail Rejection Notifications, it's obvious the mail officer has determined I am a weapon-seeking revolutionary. The threat to throw away my newspapers seems to be a call to arms. I never imagined that an affinity for books could be so dangerous. Hopefully, my newspapers will not be thrown away and the three financial books will be successfully redelivered this week. Without something to read, I would be reduced to playing with las cucarachas, which can be hazardous to one's mental health - not that I've ever been well-stocked in that department.
8 Apr 04
Fasting
On Saturday evening, I resolved to fast on Sunday. What caused this? A combination of factors including general boredom, sympathy with my atrophying cell mate, being inspired by Gandhi after reading one of his biographies, reading yoga teachings advocating overcoming our desire for food and letting the digestive system rest, and getting to shock my neighbours by offering them my chow.
Over the past two years, I have slimmed thanks to jail food. But bear in mind, I was slim to begin with. Since my arrest, my trips to the toilet have more than halved.
On Sunday, I donated my Ladmo bag to my neighbours.
"Good lookin' out, dawg!" they both said, and fought over the food.
At noon, my stomach roared nonstop. I drank plenty of water, sucked on a few slices of grapefruit, and told Mark I was determined to make it through the day.
"You're not enjoying fasting, are you?" Mark asked.
"Its quality suffering" I said, unable to offer a relaxed smile.
By 6pm, my hunger subsided and I felt better.
The frequency of my urination increased and it became clearer.
I slept fine.
I was satisfied with the books I received from the library. The Prince by Machiavelli, The Trial and Death of Socrates by Plato, and I Ching.
Fasting
On Saturday evening, I resolved to fast on Sunday. What caused this? A combination of factors including general boredom, sympathy with my atrophying cell mate, being inspired by Gandhi after reading one of his biographies, reading yoga teachings advocating overcoming our desire for food and letting the digestive system rest, and getting to shock my neighbours by offering them my chow.
Over the past two years, I have slimmed thanks to jail food. But bear in mind, I was slim to begin with. Since my arrest, my trips to the toilet have more than halved.
On Sunday, I donated my Ladmo bag to my neighbours.
"Good lookin' out, dawg!" they both said, and fought over the food.
At noon, my stomach roared nonstop. I drank plenty of water, sucked on a few slices of grapefruit, and told Mark I was determined to make it through the day.
"You're not enjoying fasting, are you?" Mark asked.
"Its quality suffering" I said, unable to offer a relaxed smile.
By 6pm, my hunger subsided and I felt better.
The frequency of my urination increased and it became clearer.
I slept fine.
I was satisfied with the books I received from the library. The Prince by Machiavelli, The Trial and Death of Socrates by Plato, and I Ching.
April Fools' Day 04
Chow
Being fairly new to this game, Mark is stuck at the unable-to-eat-the-jail-food stage. Never in trouble before, he was arrested three months ago for conspiracy to commit murder. Since then, he has shed thirty pounds and no longer resembles his booking photo. If it wasn't for the Cheez-Its, chips, granola bars and mixed nuts available from the store, he would be skeletal.
The prisoners call their meals chow. Chow is served twice daily. Breakfast is delivered around 8:30 in what we call a "Ladmo bag." It includes six slices of stale white bread. The mould on the bread comes in a range of beautiful colours, and most of us just scrape it off because we are starving all of the time. Raw breakfast meat, usually green bologna. Rotten grapefruits or oranges collected from rat-infested neighbourhoods during clean-up campaigns/publicity stunts for Sheriff Joe Arpaio who runs this jail. Slices of cheese that melt into oil if you don't eat them immediately. A half pint of fat-free milk.
The warm meal in the evening is cold by the time it gets here. We call it “red death.” It’s a mystery-meat slop that looks like carroty blood mixed with vomit. It comes on boiled potatoes – often just a mound of potato peel encrusted with rot and hairs. At Towers jail in 2002, dead rats were sometimes served in the red death. The vegetable is the same every day for months on end – the worst being the leathery eggplant. The salad is stale, as is the bread. Sometimes the mould on the bread comes in fantastic colours, and looks like works of art.
Being a yoga-practising vegetarian, I receive peanut butter and veggie burgers instead of meat. The peanut butter often has the foul taste of burnt peanuts, and the veggie burgers are as hard as discuses.
This week, more of my neighbours became ill due to the heat. On Sunday morning, a diabetic collapsed and was stretchered from the pod. As temperatures rose, so did the tempers of the inmates and guards. Two fights broke out as a result of guards shoving inmates.
Library books are delivered next week. As some of my neighbours can't read, I've purchased their allowances - three books each, payable in cookies upon delivery. An Inmate Request Form only allows topics of interest to be selected, so I requested philosophy. I am hoping for a repeat of last month's success when I received a Gandhi biography, Plato's Republic and the third volume of Winston Churchill’s The Second World War, which includes the ferocious North African desert battles, in which my Grenadier Guardsman grandfather sustained life-threatening shrapnel injuries fighting the Nazis to preserve our freedom.
Chow
Being fairly new to this game, Mark is stuck at the unable-to-eat-the-jail-food stage. Never in trouble before, he was arrested three months ago for conspiracy to commit murder. Since then, he has shed thirty pounds and no longer resembles his booking photo. If it wasn't for the Cheez-Its, chips, granola bars and mixed nuts available from the store, he would be skeletal.
The prisoners call their meals chow. Chow is served twice daily. Breakfast is delivered around 8:30 in what we call a "Ladmo bag." It includes six slices of stale white bread. The mould on the bread comes in a range of beautiful colours, and most of us just scrape it off because we are starving all of the time. Raw breakfast meat, usually green bologna. Rotten grapefruits or oranges collected from rat-infested neighbourhoods during clean-up campaigns/publicity stunts for Sheriff Joe Arpaio who runs this jail. Slices of cheese that melt into oil if you don't eat them immediately. A half pint of fat-free milk.
The warm meal in the evening is cold by the time it gets here. We call it “red death.” It’s a mystery-meat slop that looks like carroty blood mixed with vomit. It comes on boiled potatoes – often just a mound of potato peel encrusted with rot and hairs. At Towers jail in 2002, dead rats were sometimes served in the red death. The vegetable is the same every day for months on end – the worst being the leathery eggplant. The salad is stale, as is the bread. Sometimes the mould on the bread comes in fantastic colours, and looks like works of art.
Being a yoga-practising vegetarian, I receive peanut butter and veggie burgers instead of meat. The peanut butter often has the foul taste of burnt peanuts, and the veggie burgers are as hard as discuses.
This week, more of my neighbours became ill due to the heat. On Sunday morning, a diabetic collapsed and was stretchered from the pod. As temperatures rose, so did the tempers of the inmates and guards. Two fights broke out as a result of guards shoving inmates.
Library books are delivered next week. As some of my neighbours can't read, I've purchased their allowances - three books each, payable in cookies upon delivery. An Inmate Request Form only allows topics of interest to be selected, so I requested philosophy. I am hoping for a repeat of last month's success when I received a Gandhi biography, Plato's Republic and the third volume of Winston Churchill’s The Second World War, which includes the ferocious North African desert battles, in which my Grenadier Guardsman grandfather sustained life-threatening shrapnel injuries fighting the Nazis to preserve our freedom.
Mar 25 04
Sufferer Of The Week
I am allowed out of my cell for one hour each day to make a phone call and to take a shower. During my first "hour out" in the new pod, I was serenaded by the inmates, who performed a husky version of "A Yellow Submarine." I was touched by their demonstration of high spirits in a part of the jail known for extreme suffering.
My new neighbours are enduring the twin evils of a broken swamp cooler and a cockroach infestation. They are proving to be the crème de le crème of good sufferers.
A seventy-year old downstairs became the first victim of the soaring temperatures. He was stretchered from the pod after suffering chest pains. Before he collapsed, he became delusional and made a variety of bizarre comments that disturbed his young cellmate:
"Take me to the hospital, so I can put on my clothes."
"Take me out to the desert and shoot me."
"Let's go! Grab the key to the front door."
"I have a broken back. I can't walk!"
A neighbour who is asthmatic happily described his experience with a cockroach that had crept into his inhaler during the night. When he woke up, he grabbed the inhaler and blasted the insect down his throat. Feeling the cockroach moving around, he promptly vomited his stomach contents. Unfortunately, the cockroach was not ejected, as it was lodged inside of him. He was subsequently awarded “sufferer of the week,” a title I came up with to entertain my neighbours.
Mark and I have used six tubes of AmerFresh toothpaste and six ounces of Razorless Beard Remover cementing cracks in the walls. The cockroaches still flood our cell every night and I have awoken numerous times this week to observe my hair stood on end and a cockroach crawling on my body. I previously considered my apelike fur coating as one of nature's cruel jokes, but now I have discovered it to be a useful defensive shield against verminous insects. My upright hairs must seem like an unwelcoming forest to the little foragers.
I once read about a lady in Australia whose ear was entered by a cockroach as she slept. It chose not to come out. She was hospitalised, operated on, and she successfully sued the Australian government for failing to eradicate the cockroaches from her council home. She came to mind this week when a cockroach climbed a pink flannel I had hung below our tiny steel table to dry. It gravitated toward some earwax residue on the flannel, stopped, and breakfasted on it excitedly. I told my cellmate about the Australian lady and he now sleeps with his pink towel wrapped around his head.
Chicken Wing is in a neighbouring pod and I am trying to find out if Church on the Street will accept him when he leaves.
Sufferer Of The Week
I am allowed out of my cell for one hour each day to make a phone call and to take a shower. During my first "hour out" in the new pod, I was serenaded by the inmates, who performed a husky version of "A Yellow Submarine." I was touched by their demonstration of high spirits in a part of the jail known for extreme suffering.
My new neighbours are enduring the twin evils of a broken swamp cooler and a cockroach infestation. They are proving to be the crème de le crème of good sufferers.
A seventy-year old downstairs became the first victim of the soaring temperatures. He was stretchered from the pod after suffering chest pains. Before he collapsed, he became delusional and made a variety of bizarre comments that disturbed his young cellmate:
"Take me to the hospital, so I can put on my clothes."
"Take me out to the desert and shoot me."
"Let's go! Grab the key to the front door."
"I have a broken back. I can't walk!"
A neighbour who is asthmatic happily described his experience with a cockroach that had crept into his inhaler during the night. When he woke up, he grabbed the inhaler and blasted the insect down his throat. Feeling the cockroach moving around, he promptly vomited his stomach contents. Unfortunately, the cockroach was not ejected, as it was lodged inside of him. He was subsequently awarded “sufferer of the week,” a title I came up with to entertain my neighbours.
Mark and I have used six tubes of AmerFresh toothpaste and six ounces of Razorless Beard Remover cementing cracks in the walls. The cockroaches still flood our cell every night and I have awoken numerous times this week to observe my hair stood on end and a cockroach crawling on my body. I previously considered my apelike fur coating as one of nature's cruel jokes, but now I have discovered it to be a useful defensive shield against verminous insects. My upright hairs must seem like an unwelcoming forest to the little foragers.
I once read about a lady in Australia whose ear was entered by a cockroach as she slept. It chose not to come out. She was hospitalised, operated on, and she successfully sued the Australian government for failing to eradicate the cockroaches from her council home. She came to mind this week when a cockroach climbed a pink flannel I had hung below our tiny steel table to dry. It gravitated toward some earwax residue on the flannel, stopped, and breakfasted on it excitedly. I told my cellmate about the Australian lady and he now sleeps with his pink towel wrapped around his head.
Chicken Wing is in a neighbouring pod and I am trying to find out if Church on the Street will accept him when he leaves.
18 Mar 04
Roach Attack
One of the unsettling things about cellular living is that the jail can randomly uproot you and transplant you to a new environment at any time. During my two-year stay, I've been "rolled-up" (moved) numerous times. A new cell equals a new garrison of cockroaches to battle, and I have learned to travel armed with enough AmerFresh toothpaste to block cockroach entry points effectively.
On Tuesday, our pod was moved to a different floor and I used my entire stock of AmerFresh to seal the cracks in the walls. The cell was quickly and expertly fortified against the enemy. That night, I admired the bug-free environment, relished the room's minty-fresh aroma and slept soundly. Little did I know the jail was about to sabotage my hard work.
On Wednesday, I was moved back to my original floor, into one of the most infested pods in the building. Completely unarmed with AmerFresh, I watched helplessly as the cockroaches sized me up from the myriad cracks in the walls. I knew as soon as the lights went off I was doomed. My cellmate, Mark, and I didn’t get much sleep. We stayed awake watching the legions of cockroaches conquer the room. Slowly gathering into larger numbers around us, they swarmed the floor. The walls. The ceiling. Our commissary bags. And finally, our bunks.
After Wednesday's defeat, I obtained a 170-gram tube of Mild Magic Fragrant Cream Shave Razorless Beard Remover, and I spent two hours filling in the cracks. The enemy emerge like clockwork when the lights go out, so I shall update tonight’s skirmish in next week’s blog.
My new cellmate, Mark, is mellow. The swamp cooler is not working properly and my favourite Radio show Coast 2 Coast hardly tunes in.
Roach Attack
One of the unsettling things about cellular living is that the jail can randomly uproot you and transplant you to a new environment at any time. During my two-year stay, I've been "rolled-up" (moved) numerous times. A new cell equals a new garrison of cockroaches to battle, and I have learned to travel armed with enough AmerFresh toothpaste to block cockroach entry points effectively.
On Tuesday, our pod was moved to a different floor and I used my entire stock of AmerFresh to seal the cracks in the walls. The cell was quickly and expertly fortified against the enemy. That night, I admired the bug-free environment, relished the room's minty-fresh aroma and slept soundly. Little did I know the jail was about to sabotage my hard work.
On Wednesday, I was moved back to my original floor, into one of the most infested pods in the building. Completely unarmed with AmerFresh, I watched helplessly as the cockroaches sized me up from the myriad cracks in the walls. I knew as soon as the lights went off I was doomed. My cellmate, Mark, and I didn’t get much sleep. We stayed awake watching the legions of cockroaches conquer the room. Slowly gathering into larger numbers around us, they swarmed the floor. The walls. The ceiling. Our commissary bags. And finally, our bunks.
After Wednesday's defeat, I obtained a 170-gram tube of Mild Magic Fragrant Cream Shave Razorless Beard Remover, and I spent two hours filling in the cracks. The enemy emerge like clockwork when the lights go out, so I shall update tonight’s skirmish in next week’s blog.
My new cellmate, Mark, is mellow. The swamp cooler is not working properly and my favourite Radio show Coast 2 Coast hardly tunes in.
4 Mar 04
Chicken Wing
Chicken Wing lives in cell 6. At age eleven, a car crash left him with brain damage and partial handicapping of his left side. His left arm was mangled and now sticks up uselessly in the air.
In a holding cell at Medical, he once divulged to me that a convict named Bacon had repeatedly raped him at a federal prison. Chicken Wing is institutionalized and does not have any outside support. Using the Inmate Canteen Order Form, I buy him cookies every Thursday. When he receives his cookies, he barks excitedly. Like a dog anticipating a walk.
On Tuesday morning, Chicken Wing had a seizure.
“Man down! Man down! Man down!” yelled Chicken Wing’s cellmate, Leprechaun.
"Man down! Man Down! Man Down!” boomed a chorus of voices until the guards finally responded.
“He’s not breathing!” screamed a female guard.
Guards swarmed the day room. They stretchered Chicken Wing to Medical.
Later in the evening, Chicken Wing returned looking somewhat better.
"Are you OK?" I asked him during my hour out.
“Am I still good for cookies?” he replied.
I laughed.
“I’m sentenced now. I got probation,” he said in a sad voice.
“That’s good. You’ll be out of here soon.”
“But where will I go? I have nowhere to stay. How will I be able to do probation?”
"You should see if Pastor Walt at Church on the Street has any beds available."
The jail’s psychiatric examiner recently decreed that Chicken Wing has sufficient mental competency to take care of himself, so after his release he will get no help from the State of Arizona. The majority of the inmates here expect him to rejoin us soon. I doubt anyone would have cared if Chicken Wing had died last Tuesday morning.
11 Mar 04
The temperature suddenly rose this week. We are lounging in our cells wearing only the jail's standard-issue pink boxers. Each cell receives a trickle of swamp-cooled air, which does little to alleviate our suffering in the summer months when we feel like we are being baked alive in concrete ovens.
On Sunday, our drinking water turned orange-brown, and had particles of rust in it. The discolouration lasted for three days. I relied on the small carton of milk served with breakfast to quench my thirst.
On Tuesday I was sitting on the toilet, about to wipe, when the door slid open.
"Get on your mattress!" said the armed member of the "goon squad" accompanying the bug-spray man.
“We’d like to refuse being sprayed," I said, waving the roll of toilet paper I was about to use at him.
“Get on your mattress!” he yelled, raising his weapon.
Suppressing the urge to pelt him with the toilet roll, I pulled up my pants and retreated to my mattress.
Our cell is sprayed every month, against our wishes, with us in it. We inevitably ingest some of the spray, and we feel sick and dizzy afterwards. Spraying has zero effect on the cockroach population. Inmates have a right not to live in an environment infested with insects, but spraying enables the jail to flout the law by claiming on paper they are addressing the problem.
Chicken Wing
Chicken Wing lives in cell 6. At age eleven, a car crash left him with brain damage and partial handicapping of his left side. His left arm was mangled and now sticks up uselessly in the air.
In a holding cell at Medical, he once divulged to me that a convict named Bacon had repeatedly raped him at a federal prison. Chicken Wing is institutionalized and does not have any outside support. Using the Inmate Canteen Order Form, I buy him cookies every Thursday. When he receives his cookies, he barks excitedly. Like a dog anticipating a walk.
On Tuesday morning, Chicken Wing had a seizure.
“Man down! Man down! Man down!” yelled Chicken Wing’s cellmate, Leprechaun.
"Man down! Man Down! Man Down!” boomed a chorus of voices until the guards finally responded.
“He’s not breathing!” screamed a female guard.
Guards swarmed the day room. They stretchered Chicken Wing to Medical.
Later in the evening, Chicken Wing returned looking somewhat better.
"Are you OK?" I asked him during my hour out.
“Am I still good for cookies?” he replied.
I laughed.
“I’m sentenced now. I got probation,” he said in a sad voice.
“That’s good. You’ll be out of here soon.”
“But where will I go? I have nowhere to stay. How will I be able to do probation?”
"You should see if Pastor Walt at Church on the Street has any beds available."
The jail’s psychiatric examiner recently decreed that Chicken Wing has sufficient mental competency to take care of himself, so after his release he will get no help from the State of Arizona. The majority of the inmates here expect him to rejoin us soon. I doubt anyone would have cared if Chicken Wing had died last Tuesday morning.
11 Mar 04
The temperature suddenly rose this week. We are lounging in our cells wearing only the jail's standard-issue pink boxers. Each cell receives a trickle of swamp-cooled air, which does little to alleviate our suffering in the summer months when we feel like we are being baked alive in concrete ovens.
On Sunday, our drinking water turned orange-brown, and had particles of rust in it. The discolouration lasted for three days. I relied on the small carton of milk served with breakfast to quench my thirst.
On Tuesday I was sitting on the toilet, about to wipe, when the door slid open.
"Get on your mattress!" said the armed member of the "goon squad" accompanying the bug-spray man.
“We’d like to refuse being sprayed," I said, waving the roll of toilet paper I was about to use at him.
“Get on your mattress!” he yelled, raising his weapon.
Suppressing the urge to pelt him with the toilet roll, I pulled up my pants and retreated to my mattress.
Our cell is sprayed every month, against our wishes, with us in it. We inevitably ingest some of the spray, and we feel sick and dizzy afterwards. Spraying has zero effect on the cockroach population. Inmates have a right not to live in an environment infested with insects, but spraying enables the jail to flout the law by claiming on paper they are addressing the problem.
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