07 March 06
Bars to Education
For over a year, I’ve been trying to do a prison-approved correspondence course through Rio Salado College.
Problems started at Buckeye when my scholarship applications were rejected over and over again. The reasons included not having a GED (General Education Diploma or High School diploma, similar to UK GCSE), being educated overseas, and having no college courses completed while in prison. I tried to meet each obstacle but got nowhere. I produced my British certificates, including my BA Honours degree, and was told it meant nothing unless I paid an international transcript translator to state its US equivalency. For having no prior college courses completed in prison, I was told to do a woodwork class. As having a bachelor’s degree didn’t meet the GED requirement, I sat the ASSET test and achieved the highest score – causing glimmers of hope – but then I was moved to Tucson, which is in Pima County and scholarships were only available in Maricopa County.
After witnessing my struggle for a scholarship, my parents put money on my books to pay for Psychology 101 – a three credit course costing $336. The forms were filled out and sent for approval and the money was deducted, but the forms got lost. I’m now back to square one, but down $336, so things have regressed.
Undaunted, I obtained the Psychology 101 course material from a prisoner friend, and I’m doing in on my own volition.
Further education helps prisoners get jobs and reintegrate with society. DOC claims to be making progress with GEDs - they should also remove the needless obstacles to higher learning.
With the money deducted from my books, I’m seeking approval to apply it to a course titled Modern Fiction. Wish me luck.
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
06 March 06
Xena’s Sex Toys
Silent and hungry we were, awaiting our chow, when Xena suddenly announced, “I made a vibrator once – called the Bumblebee.”
“How’d you make it?" I asked.
“I put the motor from a Walkman into the round plastic bottom of a stick deodorant, and turned it on by taping a wire to it from two double-A batteries.”
“So you made your own pocket rocket,” I said.
“How big was it?” Repo asked.
“Six inches,” Xena said, “But it wasn’t that big around. I didn’t like it that much: it didn’t hit the anal G-spot. After usin’ it a few times, I destroyed it. It was nowhere near as good as the dildo I made.”
“Lets hear how you made the dildo,” Repo said.
“I rolled the cardboard back of a notepad into a mould, and melted strips of plastic bag onto it until I had a nice smooth piece of ten inch plastic -”
Ten inches! I thought.
“- and then I removed the cardboard. To make it more realistic, I wrapped copper wire from co-ax cable around the plastic, and melted more plastic around that. When it was set, I pulled the copper out, giving it hard veins. To give it a penis head, I melted plastic around a deodorant lid until it was bulbous shaped. After takin’ it off its mould, I melted it onto the dildo, so the shaft had a penis-shaped head attached to it.”
Ouch, I thought.
Repo seemed to be deep in thought: “Could you see in your ass when you used it?”
“Yeah,” said Xena. “I was by myself in a cell, so, I’d turn off the TV and lights, and watch myself gettin' freaky in the reflection of the TV screen.”
“You’ve got serious issues, bitch,” Repo said. “Did you write your own manual about its length and girth?”
“I didn’t get round to that,” Xena said.
It seemed like as good a time as any to ask Xena a question inspired by Ann Rice’s Sleeping Beauty Trilogy: “Xena did you ever make yourself a butt plug with a pony tail?”
“A butt plug – no. I can’t put somethin’ in my ass and walk around. Stuff like that makes me feel like I’ve constantly gotta take a dump. Do you ever feel like that, Repo?
Onlookers laughed.
“No,” Repo said.
“If you’d like, Repo, I’ll write down step-by-step instructions for fuckin’ yourself in the ass?”
“Nope,” Repo said. “My ass is strictly a one-way street.”
“I find that hard to believe. Surely you’ve keystered somethin’ or had a thermometer shoved in it when you were a kid?” Xena said with conviction.
“To the best of my knowledge, no! Repo said.
“No dildos?
“No, definitely not. But I’ll lend you my toothbrush holder if you wanna make yourself another big one.”
“What happened to your dildo?” I asked.
“After a month of pure pleasure, there were some random cell searches, and the cops found it.”
“Did you get a ticket for having a sex toy?” I asked.
“No, but the guards freaked out. They had no idea how to write it up as a ticket. There’s no mention of dildos in DOC policy. A sergeant put my name on it, and displayed it in his office window. That fuelled me and made me more exhilarated. I was really freaky back then. It was in his window at SMU1 for over a year."
What other kinky items have you made? I asked.
“Handcuffs, whips, leather G-strings, and a beaded G-string, and makeup,” Xena said.
“Which was the kinkiest?”
“The beaded G-string.”
“You’ll have to tell me about it someday.”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Xena’s Sex Toys
Silent and hungry we were, awaiting our chow, when Xena suddenly announced, “I made a vibrator once – called the Bumblebee.”
“How’d you make it?" I asked.
“I put the motor from a Walkman into the round plastic bottom of a stick deodorant, and turned it on by taping a wire to it from two double-A batteries.”
“So you made your own pocket rocket,” I said.
“How big was it?” Repo asked.
“Six inches,” Xena said, “But it wasn’t that big around. I didn’t like it that much: it didn’t hit the anal G-spot. After usin’ it a few times, I destroyed it. It was nowhere near as good as the dildo I made.”
“Lets hear how you made the dildo,” Repo said.
“I rolled the cardboard back of a notepad into a mould, and melted strips of plastic bag onto it until I had a nice smooth piece of ten inch plastic -”
Ten inches! I thought.
“- and then I removed the cardboard. To make it more realistic, I wrapped copper wire from co-ax cable around the plastic, and melted more plastic around that. When it was set, I pulled the copper out, giving it hard veins. To give it a penis head, I melted plastic around a deodorant lid until it was bulbous shaped. After takin’ it off its mould, I melted it onto the dildo, so the shaft had a penis-shaped head attached to it.”
Ouch, I thought.
Repo seemed to be deep in thought: “Could you see in your ass when you used it?”
“Yeah,” said Xena. “I was by myself in a cell, so, I’d turn off the TV and lights, and watch myself gettin' freaky in the reflection of the TV screen.”
“You’ve got serious issues, bitch,” Repo said. “Did you write your own manual about its length and girth?”
“I didn’t get round to that,” Xena said.
It seemed like as good a time as any to ask Xena a question inspired by Ann Rice’s Sleeping Beauty Trilogy: “Xena did you ever make yourself a butt plug with a pony tail?”
“A butt plug – no. I can’t put somethin’ in my ass and walk around. Stuff like that makes me feel like I’ve constantly gotta take a dump. Do you ever feel like that, Repo?
Onlookers laughed.
“No,” Repo said.
“If you’d like, Repo, I’ll write down step-by-step instructions for fuckin’ yourself in the ass?”
“Nope,” Repo said. “My ass is strictly a one-way street.”
“I find that hard to believe. Surely you’ve keystered somethin’ or had a thermometer shoved in it when you were a kid?” Xena said with conviction.
“To the best of my knowledge, no! Repo said.
“No dildos?
“No, definitely not. But I’ll lend you my toothbrush holder if you wanna make yourself another big one.”
“What happened to your dildo?” I asked.
“After a month of pure pleasure, there were some random cell searches, and the cops found it.”
“Did you get a ticket for having a sex toy?” I asked.
“No, but the guards freaked out. They had no idea how to write it up as a ticket. There’s no mention of dildos in DOC policy. A sergeant put my name on it, and displayed it in his office window. That fuelled me and made me more exhilarated. I was really freaky back then. It was in his window at SMU1 for over a year."
What other kinky items have you made? I asked.
“Handcuffs, whips, leather G-strings, and a beaded G-string, and makeup,” Xena said.
“Which was the kinkiest?”
“The beaded G-string.”
“You’ll have to tell me about it someday.”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
03 March 06
Question Time
Karen in Essex asked whether Slingblade was in Vietnam on business or pleasure.
Slingblade was in Vietnam as a footsoldier – expendable, cannon fodder. He did well surviving there for almost two years. I suspect he has PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder).
He came to my cell today begging for peanut butter, wearing no top or socks. His fist twitching, his face giggling, he presented a bizarre and tragic figure.
Pippa in the Netherlands asked how many people I write to regularly, if I keep my letters, and how many I have accumulated.
I write regularly to dozens of people, and irregularly to hundreds. I keep all letters. They are shipped to England and remain uncounted.
Lisa in Phoenix asked about my goals for 2006.
To read 200 books (I read 52 in the first quarter). To develop my writing skills. To advance my yoga ability. To do some college correspondence classes. To gain a better understanding of myself. To remain an anal virgin.
Gail asked for my favourite yoga positions.
My favourite is Scorpion Pose, which I hold for a minute. Now that I can do the Lotus Pose in Headstand, I can almost do Upright Cock. Ganda Bherundasana seems impossible, so I am working on some easier variations to get there. Developing these extreme poses is what I enjoy most when doing asanas.
Zelda asked if Xena’s coffee enemas were with or without cream.
Xena answered, “I have no access to cream, but I’d like to give it a try.”
Clancy asked about my favourite comedies.
Growing up, I enjoyed The Young Ones, Spitting Image and anything Monty Pythonesque. My need for humour is now satisfied via books, especially those by Tom Wolfe and Cervantes, and I've been enjoying the short stories of Charles D’Ambrosio, T. Coraghessan Boyle and Thom Jones.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2004-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Question Time
Karen in Essex asked whether Slingblade was in Vietnam on business or pleasure.
Slingblade was in Vietnam as a footsoldier – expendable, cannon fodder. He did well surviving there for almost two years. I suspect he has PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder).
He came to my cell today begging for peanut butter, wearing no top or socks. His fist twitching, his face giggling, he presented a bizarre and tragic figure.
Pippa in the Netherlands asked how many people I write to regularly, if I keep my letters, and how many I have accumulated.
I write regularly to dozens of people, and irregularly to hundreds. I keep all letters. They are shipped to England and remain uncounted.
Lisa in Phoenix asked about my goals for 2006.
To read 200 books (I read 52 in the first quarter). To develop my writing skills. To advance my yoga ability. To do some college correspondence classes. To gain a better understanding of myself. To remain an anal virgin.
Gail asked for my favourite yoga positions.
My favourite is Scorpion Pose, which I hold for a minute. Now that I can do the Lotus Pose in Headstand, I can almost do Upright Cock. Ganda Bherundasana seems impossible, so I am working on some easier variations to get there. Developing these extreme poses is what I enjoy most when doing asanas.
Zelda asked if Xena’s coffee enemas were with or without cream.
Xena answered, “I have no access to cream, but I’d like to give it a try.”
Clancy asked about my favourite comedies.
Growing up, I enjoyed The Young Ones, Spitting Image and anything Monty Pythonesque. My need for humour is now satisfied via books, especially those by Tom Wolfe and Cervantes, and I've been enjoying the short stories of Charles D’Ambrosio, T. Coraghessan Boyle and Thom Jones.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2004-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Life as an Orangeman
Memories of Arpaio's gulag imbedded for life
By LINDA BENTLEY Sonoran News reporter
TUCSON Az: In Dec 2004 when Derick and Barbara Attwood flew in from England over the Christmas and New Year holidays to visit their son at the Lewis Prison Complex near Buckeye, they left with a cloud of depression difficult to shake. Their son, Shaun Attwood, who has since been transferred to the Arizona Department of Corrections medium security Santa Rita Unit in Tucson, is serving nine and a half years for money laundering, the use of electronic equipment, and attempting to possess dangerous drugs, stemming from his involvement in the Phoenix Rave scene. Although he admits making some errors in judgment, Attwood is hardly the Mafioso. A stockbroker by trade and well read in ancient history, economics, Greek classics and political philosophy, the 37-year-old Attwood is also a yoga-practicing vegetarian who admires the works of philosophers Aurelius, Nietzsche and Plato. He speaks Spanish and is learning Mandarin Chinese.
After spending 26 months as a pre-trial detainee in Maricopa County Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s gulags, Attwood said conditions in the jail could make a person plead guilty to just about anything to get away. He was transferred to the state prison system in July 2004. So, again in Dec 05, Attwood’s parents travelled to Tucson to see their son, who looked extremely healthy, cheerful and living in remarkably clean surroundings, much unlike Arpaio’s roach and rodent infested jails. The Attwoods invited Mothers Against Arpaio (MAA) co-founder Pearl Wilson and this reporter to share their last precious day of visitation on Dec. 31 2005 with them and their son.
MAA connected with the Attwood family while Attwood was still at Madison Street Jail. His family began retyping his handwritten and humorous letters telling of the deplorable conditions in Arpaio’s jails and posted them on the Internet. Using a golf pencil and paper that often became soggy with sweat, Attwood dutifully documented life in Arpaio’s jails, which was posted on the Internet as Jon’s Jail Journal, fearing retribution from Arpaio if they used his real name. With a wry sense of humor and a flare for writing, Attwood’s journal entries evolved from trying to laugh off the atrocities in Arpaio’s hoosegows to documenting his new life as an Orangeman, so dubbed for the color of their state-issued prison duds. Attwood considered himself lucky to have left Arpaio’s jail after having only suffered bleeding bedsores, fungal skin infections and pink eye.
His Feb 4, 2004, journal entry painted the visual du jour:We have had no running water for three days now. The toilets in our cells are full of faeces and urine. On the second day of the water outage, I knew that we were in trouble, as the mound in our steel throne peaked above sea level. Inmates often display remarkable ingenuity during difficult occasions, and the current crisis resulted in a number of my brethren defecating in the small plastic bags that the mouldy breakfast bread is served in. The whole tower reeks like a giant porta-loo.
Three weeks later, Attwood wrote about being called to the medical unit for a general wellness check-up as the weekly outing. One of his neighbors was diagnosed as having scabies, and it was determined their chow servers had infectious tuberculosis the entire duration of his stay. Another inmate complained about having gone two days without his seizure medication.
Looking on the bright side, Attwood wrote, At least our water is flowing again. Inmates are still trading stories about defecating in plastic bags and urinating in old pop bottles. On March 25, 2004, after being transferred to new quarters, Attwood wrote, 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 vocal efforts and their demonstration of high spirits, in a part of the jail that qualifies as an area of high-grade suffering. My new cohabitants are enduring the twin evils of a broken down swamp cooler and a cockroach infestation.
They are proving to be the crème de la crème of ‘good sufferers’. A neighboring asthmatic inmate happily described how he inhaled a cockroach right into his lung that had crept into his nebulizer. He was subsequently awarded ‘sufferer of the week’ without any real competition. Using toothpaste to plug up cracks and holes in his cell, Attwood said it kept the cockroaches out while it also made his cell smell ‘minty fresh’. On May 6, 2004, Attwood wrote about some of the various ways inmates addressed their sexual frustration, citing that the most common method of relief takes place in the shower. Unfortunately, he wrote, the rain room that I share with 29 other men does not drain very well. This has resulted in a puddle of semen and pubic hair, which swirls around my ankles as I wash myself. While showering, I wear pink socks to prevent the mixture from sticking to my feet. I scrupulously rinse them off when I’ve finished.
Since leaving Arpaio’s jail, the tone of Attwood’s journal entries have become noticeably more upbeat and comical, focusing on his interactions with his fellow Orangemen and staff, with nicknames such as, Long Island, Two Tonys, Repo, Xena and Odd Job.
Attwood quipped in his Oct. 13, 2005, journal entry; sadly, being an illegal alien stockbroker from England seems to have precluded my admission to any of the 25,000 active gangs identified by the Justice Department. Despite my protests about unequal prison gang opportunities and demands for affirmative action for incarcerated Brits in America in relation to prison gang work (known as ‘doing dirt) I remain ostracized and unranked in the political hierarchy. I’m thinking about filing a motion with the U.S. Supreme Court demanding court ordered gang membership.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Memories of Arpaio's gulag imbedded for life
By LINDA BENTLEY Sonoran News reporter
TUCSON Az: In Dec 2004 when Derick and Barbara Attwood flew in from England over the Christmas and New Year holidays to visit their son at the Lewis Prison Complex near Buckeye, they left with a cloud of depression difficult to shake. Their son, Shaun Attwood, who has since been transferred to the Arizona Department of Corrections medium security Santa Rita Unit in Tucson, is serving nine and a half years for money laundering, the use of electronic equipment, and attempting to possess dangerous drugs, stemming from his involvement in the Phoenix Rave scene. Although he admits making some errors in judgment, Attwood is hardly the Mafioso. A stockbroker by trade and well read in ancient history, economics, Greek classics and political philosophy, the 37-year-old Attwood is also a yoga-practicing vegetarian who admires the works of philosophers Aurelius, Nietzsche and Plato. He speaks Spanish and is learning Mandarin Chinese.
After spending 26 months as a pre-trial detainee in Maricopa County Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s gulags, Attwood said conditions in the jail could make a person plead guilty to just about anything to get away. He was transferred to the state prison system in July 2004. So, again in Dec 05, Attwood’s parents travelled to Tucson to see their son, who looked extremely healthy, cheerful and living in remarkably clean surroundings, much unlike Arpaio’s roach and rodent infested jails. The Attwoods invited Mothers Against Arpaio (MAA) co-founder Pearl Wilson and this reporter to share their last precious day of visitation on Dec. 31 2005 with them and their son.
MAA connected with the Attwood family while Attwood was still at Madison Street Jail. His family began retyping his handwritten and humorous letters telling of the deplorable conditions in Arpaio’s jails and posted them on the Internet. Using a golf pencil and paper that often became soggy with sweat, Attwood dutifully documented life in Arpaio’s jails, which was posted on the Internet as Jon’s Jail Journal, fearing retribution from Arpaio if they used his real name. With a wry sense of humor and a flare for writing, Attwood’s journal entries evolved from trying to laugh off the atrocities in Arpaio’s hoosegows to documenting his new life as an Orangeman, so dubbed for the color of their state-issued prison duds. Attwood considered himself lucky to have left Arpaio’s jail after having only suffered bleeding bedsores, fungal skin infections and pink eye.
His Feb 4, 2004, journal entry painted the visual du jour:We have had no running water for three days now. The toilets in our cells are full of faeces and urine. On the second day of the water outage, I knew that we were in trouble, as the mound in our steel throne peaked above sea level. Inmates often display remarkable ingenuity during difficult occasions, and the current crisis resulted in a number of my brethren defecating in the small plastic bags that the mouldy breakfast bread is served in. The whole tower reeks like a giant porta-loo.
Three weeks later, Attwood wrote about being called to the medical unit for a general wellness check-up as the weekly outing. One of his neighbors was diagnosed as having scabies, and it was determined their chow servers had infectious tuberculosis the entire duration of his stay. Another inmate complained about having gone two days without his seizure medication.
Looking on the bright side, Attwood wrote, At least our water is flowing again. Inmates are still trading stories about defecating in plastic bags and urinating in old pop bottles. On March 25, 2004, after being transferred to new quarters, Attwood wrote, 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 vocal efforts and their demonstration of high spirits, in a part of the jail that qualifies as an area of high-grade suffering. My new cohabitants are enduring the twin evils of a broken down swamp cooler and a cockroach infestation.
They are proving to be the crème de la crème of ‘good sufferers’. A neighboring asthmatic inmate happily described how he inhaled a cockroach right into his lung that had crept into his nebulizer. He was subsequently awarded ‘sufferer of the week’ without any real competition. Using toothpaste to plug up cracks and holes in his cell, Attwood said it kept the cockroaches out while it also made his cell smell ‘minty fresh’. On May 6, 2004, Attwood wrote about some of the various ways inmates addressed their sexual frustration, citing that the most common method of relief takes place in the shower. Unfortunately, he wrote, the rain room that I share with 29 other men does not drain very well. This has resulted in a puddle of semen and pubic hair, which swirls around my ankles as I wash myself. While showering, I wear pink socks to prevent the mixture from sticking to my feet. I scrupulously rinse them off when I’ve finished.
Since leaving Arpaio’s jail, the tone of Attwood’s journal entries have become noticeably more upbeat and comical, focusing on his interactions with his fellow Orangemen and staff, with nicknames such as, Long Island, Two Tonys, Repo, Xena and Odd Job.
Attwood quipped in his Oct. 13, 2005, journal entry; sadly, being an illegal alien stockbroker from England seems to have precluded my admission to any of the 25,000 active gangs identified by the Justice Department. Despite my protests about unequal prison gang opportunities and demands for affirmative action for incarcerated Brits in America in relation to prison gang work (known as ‘doing dirt) I remain ostracized and unranked in the political hierarchy. I’m thinking about filing a motion with the U.S. Supreme Court demanding court ordered gang membership.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
02 Mar 06
Bunk Bunkum
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Bunk Bunkum
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
28 Feb 06
My Chess Cheerleader’s Dirty Tricks
I play chess with Frankie daily. On days when I win, I feel happy for a while. But tonight, I wasn’t doing so well. Although the score was 3-3, I’d been reduced to a king in the seventh game. Frankie’s king, rook and pawn were moving in for the kill.
“Englandman,” Frankie said, displaying a smile that suggested he was confident of an imminent victory, “now your parents are no longer in town, I’m gonna stop being nice to you. I’m gonna show you who you’re fuckin’ with. I thought I told you already: I write chess books. Pop–pop–pop.” Frankie began shadowboxing above the chessboard.
His taunts increased my anxiety. All I could see were hopeless moves.
“Englandman, just give it up. Don’t make me do this to you.”
I was about to surrender, when a giant, wearing what appeared to be a jockstrap over his head, ran into the room, bumped his hip into Frankie, and started bouncing up and down, singing, “Boinnng-boinnng-boinnng…”
“Hi Xena!” I said.
“Everybody’s laughing at me and I don’t know why,” Xena said.
“What’s that on your head?” Frankie said.
“My new headdress.”
“It looks like a jockstrap,” Frankie said. “Englandman, is this some kinda set-up? You put Xena up to this to distract me didn’t you?”
“No.”
“I’ve got somethin’ to ask you, Frankie,” Xena said. “ I heard you stripped down to a jockstrap in your house?”
“No I didn’t,” Frankie said.
“I heard you wuz walkin’ round your cell, showin’ your ass, and sayin’, ‘Hey homies, how’d I look?'”
“That never happened,” Frankie said, baring his teeth like an animal ready to bite.
“Did you ever wear a jockstrap or anything sexy like this for Yum-Yum?” Xena asked.
“No!” The look on Frankie's face suggested he was having difficulty concentrating.
I moved my king to an area that increased the probability of the game being a stalemate, and I hoped that Xena would continue distracting Frankie - after all Frankie made it a habit of coming on to me during chess.
Frankie made a bad move, and said,“Shush, Xena, you’re gettin’ me hard.”
“How am I gettin’ you hard?” Xena said. “Ohhhh! I almost forgot. That’s right. You’re Frankie. Is it Frankie and Yum-Yum or Frankie and Johnny?”
Frankie glowered at me, and said, “You’re doin’ me dirty, Englandman - havin’ Xena come over to distract me like this.”
“I didn’t know that Xena was coming. Her talking is distracting me as well.”
Xena continued to harass Frankie about Yum-Yum. Noticably distracted, he placed his king closer to mine, leaving me nowhere to move.
“Stalemate!” I yelled.
“Oh, you guys stalemated. I guess you aren’t so hard as you say you are Frankie – at least, not that hard to beat. Did you let Yum-Yum stalemate you like that, so you could get some from her that night?”
“Shut up, Xena! That wasn’t fair,” Frankie said, and left looking miffed.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
My Chess Cheerleader’s Dirty Tricks
I play chess with Frankie daily. On days when I win, I feel happy for a while. But tonight, I wasn’t doing so well. Although the score was 3-3, I’d been reduced to a king in the seventh game. Frankie’s king, rook and pawn were moving in for the kill.
“Englandman,” Frankie said, displaying a smile that suggested he was confident of an imminent victory, “now your parents are no longer in town, I’m gonna stop being nice to you. I’m gonna show you who you’re fuckin’ with. I thought I told you already: I write chess books. Pop–pop–pop.” Frankie began shadowboxing above the chessboard.
His taunts increased my anxiety. All I could see were hopeless moves.
“Englandman, just give it up. Don’t make me do this to you.”
I was about to surrender, when a giant, wearing what appeared to be a jockstrap over his head, ran into the room, bumped his hip into Frankie, and started bouncing up and down, singing, “Boinnng-boinnng-boinnng…”
“Hi Xena!” I said.
“Everybody’s laughing at me and I don’t know why,” Xena said.
“What’s that on your head?” Frankie said.
“My new headdress.”
“It looks like a jockstrap,” Frankie said. “Englandman, is this some kinda set-up? You put Xena up to this to distract me didn’t you?”
“No.”
“I’ve got somethin’ to ask you, Frankie,” Xena said. “ I heard you stripped down to a jockstrap in your house?”
“No I didn’t,” Frankie said.
“I heard you wuz walkin’ round your cell, showin’ your ass, and sayin’, ‘Hey homies, how’d I look?'”
“That never happened,” Frankie said, baring his teeth like an animal ready to bite.
“Did you ever wear a jockstrap or anything sexy like this for Yum-Yum?” Xena asked.
“No!” The look on Frankie's face suggested he was having difficulty concentrating.
I moved my king to an area that increased the probability of the game being a stalemate, and I hoped that Xena would continue distracting Frankie - after all Frankie made it a habit of coming on to me during chess.
Frankie made a bad move, and said,“Shush, Xena, you’re gettin’ me hard.”
“How am I gettin’ you hard?” Xena said. “Ohhhh! I almost forgot. That’s right. You’re Frankie. Is it Frankie and Yum-Yum or Frankie and Johnny?”
Frankie glowered at me, and said, “You’re doin’ me dirty, Englandman - havin’ Xena come over to distract me like this.”
“I didn’t know that Xena was coming. Her talking is distracting me as well.”
Xena continued to harass Frankie about Yum-Yum. Noticably distracted, he placed his king closer to mine, leaving me nowhere to move.
“Stalemate!” I yelled.
“Oh, you guys stalemated. I guess you aren’t so hard as you say you are Frankie – at least, not that hard to beat. Did you let Yum-Yum stalemate you like that, so you could get some from her that night?”
“Shut up, Xena! That wasn’t fair,” Frankie said, and left looking miffed.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
26 Feb 06
Breast Reduction
In Bon Voyage Balls, Xena described how a transsexual inmate cut off his testes with a razor blade. Since writing that blog, guards and inmates have told me about more cases of it. As far as I know, there has only been one case of an inmate reducing his breasts. Xena arranged for me to interview the inmate.
“Why did you want to cut off your breasts?” I asked Tommy Smock.
“I’m gonna tell you my whole story. When I was a kid, I worked out and did martial arts. I started takin’ steroids when I was a teenager, and my body ripped up, but I quit everythin’ when I was twenty-one, and I was left with large womanly breasts," Tommy said, cupping his hands over his chest. "When I came to prison I kept them covered up, or I taped them up, so people wouldn’t notice. I managed to hide them for years, but one mornin’ my celly caught me tapin’ 'em up. He told the whole pod, and people called me names for two years."
"That's real tough," I said.
"Then I got a new celly, and had him commit to help me out when the time came for me to do somethin’, but I didn’t tell him what it was I wanted him to do. When the time did come, I showed them to him and he said, ‘Oh my God! We could milk them bad boys, baby doll.’
I told him, ‘Look at 'em. Admire 'em. Picture 'em. They’re comin’ off. Here’s the razor blades, start cuttin’.’
He started cuttin’ my left breast, and so much blood came out I threw up, and almost passed out. He said, ‘I can’t do this.You’re gonna die.’ And he left me with a big chink of flesh hangin’ out.
I was upset, angry, and very sore. But I taped it up, hopin’ it would heal. On the yard I was at, I was patted down every day, which aggravated the wound and made it bleed. A week later, I noticed it was turnin’ green, and I knew I had to finish the job.
When my celly went to a visit, I got out four razor blades and started hackin’ away. First blood came out, then somethin’ that looked like butter. Then I cut deeper, through veins and nerves – the nerves hurt the most. Blood was squirtin’ everywhere – up and sideways and on my face. Soon I cut out a chunk as big as my hand off, and I threw in the toilet.”
“Did you use painkillers?” I asked.
“No painkillers.
After cuttin’ one off, I said to myself, I can’t leave the other one on, so, I went to cuttin’ again. The same thing happened: blood and butter came out. After throwing that in the toilet, I looked at my chest, at all the veins I’d cut, and decided not to sew myself up as I couldn’t put the veins back together.
I asked my neighbour to call ‘Man down’ to the guards, but he thought I was kiddin’ and refused, so I pushed the guard-call button. A CO came and asked if I was all right. I said, ‘Just open the fuckin’ door.’ He saw my chest, and next thing the whole pod was full of guards – some with cameras – so I was embarrassed on top of the agony. I refused to cuff up because of the pain. I put a smock on, and was taken to medical, and told there was nothin’ they could do, so I was rushed to hospital.
At the hospital they didn’t fix my veins, they just stapled my chest up. The doctor asked why I’d done it and I told him, ‘I’m not gay, so I didn’t like 'em.' He said ‘I’ve seen people do many drastic things, but you take the cake on this one.’
After that I was put on suicide watch for one week, then returned to the yard.
Everybody knew what I’d done, and COs came from other yards just to see me, and they said I was famous.”
“Did people stop callin’ you names?”
“At the chow hall, some dude was callin’ me stupid names like "nipples", so I went up to him and said, ‘Check this out: I went through a lotta bullshit 'cause of people like you. Don’t call me any stupid names no more or I’ll get your ass.’ Nobody ever called me nothin’ ever again.”
“Are you glad you did it?”
“Yeah. I feel free: I was in a prison within a prison.”
“Do you mind if I see the scars?”
“Here you go.”
I was shown two of the thickest scars I have ever seen, each over three-inches long, horizontal with his nipples.
Tommy Smock, a pleasant and friendly young Chicano, seems content with the results of his breast reduction. He said he is looking forward to reading your comments about what he did.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Breast Reduction
In Bon Voyage Balls, Xena described how a transsexual inmate cut off his testes with a razor blade. Since writing that blog, guards and inmates have told me about more cases of it. As far as I know, there has only been one case of an inmate reducing his breasts. Xena arranged for me to interview the inmate.
“Why did you want to cut off your breasts?” I asked Tommy Smock.
“I’m gonna tell you my whole story. When I was a kid, I worked out and did martial arts. I started takin’ steroids when I was a teenager, and my body ripped up, but I quit everythin’ when I was twenty-one, and I was left with large womanly breasts," Tommy said, cupping his hands over his chest. "When I came to prison I kept them covered up, or I taped them up, so people wouldn’t notice. I managed to hide them for years, but one mornin’ my celly caught me tapin’ 'em up. He told the whole pod, and people called me names for two years."
"That's real tough," I said.
"Then I got a new celly, and had him commit to help me out when the time came for me to do somethin’, but I didn’t tell him what it was I wanted him to do. When the time did come, I showed them to him and he said, ‘Oh my God! We could milk them bad boys, baby doll.’
I told him, ‘Look at 'em. Admire 'em. Picture 'em. They’re comin’ off. Here’s the razor blades, start cuttin’.’
He started cuttin’ my left breast, and so much blood came out I threw up, and almost passed out. He said, ‘I can’t do this.You’re gonna die.’ And he left me with a big chink of flesh hangin’ out.
I was upset, angry, and very sore. But I taped it up, hopin’ it would heal. On the yard I was at, I was patted down every day, which aggravated the wound and made it bleed. A week later, I noticed it was turnin’ green, and I knew I had to finish the job.
When my celly went to a visit, I got out four razor blades and started hackin’ away. First blood came out, then somethin’ that looked like butter. Then I cut deeper, through veins and nerves – the nerves hurt the most. Blood was squirtin’ everywhere – up and sideways and on my face. Soon I cut out a chunk as big as my hand off, and I threw in the toilet.”
“Did you use painkillers?” I asked.
“No painkillers.
After cuttin’ one off, I said to myself, I can’t leave the other one on, so, I went to cuttin’ again. The same thing happened: blood and butter came out. After throwing that in the toilet, I looked at my chest, at all the veins I’d cut, and decided not to sew myself up as I couldn’t put the veins back together.
I asked my neighbour to call ‘Man down’ to the guards, but he thought I was kiddin’ and refused, so I pushed the guard-call button. A CO came and asked if I was all right. I said, ‘Just open the fuckin’ door.’ He saw my chest, and next thing the whole pod was full of guards – some with cameras – so I was embarrassed on top of the agony. I refused to cuff up because of the pain. I put a smock on, and was taken to medical, and told there was nothin’ they could do, so I was rushed to hospital.
At the hospital they didn’t fix my veins, they just stapled my chest up. The doctor asked why I’d done it and I told him, ‘I’m not gay, so I didn’t like 'em.' He said ‘I’ve seen people do many drastic things, but you take the cake on this one.’
After that I was put on suicide watch for one week, then returned to the yard.
Everybody knew what I’d done, and COs came from other yards just to see me, and they said I was famous.”
“Did people stop callin’ you names?”
“At the chow hall, some dude was callin’ me stupid names like "nipples", so I went up to him and said, ‘Check this out: I went through a lotta bullshit 'cause of people like you. Don’t call me any stupid names no more or I’ll get your ass.’ Nobody ever called me nothin’ ever again.”
“Are you glad you did it?”
“Yeah. I feel free: I was in a prison within a prison.”
“Do you mind if I see the scars?”
“Here you go.”
I was shown two of the thickest scars I have ever seen, each over three-inches long, horizontal with his nipples.
Tommy Smock, a pleasant and friendly young Chicano, seems content with the results of his breast reduction. He said he is looking forward to reading your comments about what he did.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
24 Feb 06
Pops
At rec, Pops looked lonely sitting outside of Building D.
“How’re you doing?” I asked.
“I’m soakin’ up a little vitamin D,” Pops said, pointing a gnarled finger at the sun.
“How’s Slingblade?”
“He’s gettin’ nuttier all the time. He’s takin’ a crap at least four times a day. I gotta cover my head 'cause it stinks so bad. Sometimes he’s on the can, and I gotta take a leak, so I have to do it in an old soup can.”
“Has he blocked the toilet up recently?”
“No. I told him ‘By God, if you plug this one up you can find somewhere else to live’.”
“So he’s wiping with TP?”
“Toilet paper, newspaper, and TV Guide. He don’t know you can’t keep your rear clean with that slick paper. I reckon his mother probably spoiled him.”
We were joined by Weird Al and Slope.
“His mother probably had a subscription to TV Guide,” Weird Al said.
We laughed.
Pops began to ramble on about alfalfa, so I left to play chess with Frankie.
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Pops
At rec, Pops looked lonely sitting outside of Building D.
“How’re you doing?” I asked.
“I’m soakin’ up a little vitamin D,” Pops said, pointing a gnarled finger at the sun.
“How’s Slingblade?”
“He’s gettin’ nuttier all the time. He’s takin’ a crap at least four times a day. I gotta cover my head 'cause it stinks so bad. Sometimes he’s on the can, and I gotta take a leak, so I have to do it in an old soup can.”
“Has he blocked the toilet up recently?”
“No. I told him ‘By God, if you plug this one up you can find somewhere else to live’.”
“So he’s wiping with TP?”
“Toilet paper, newspaper, and TV Guide. He don’t know you can’t keep your rear clean with that slick paper. I reckon his mother probably spoiled him.”
We were joined by Weird Al and Slope.
“His mother probably had a subscription to TV Guide,” Weird Al said.
We laughed.
Pops began to ramble on about alfalfa, so I left to play chess with Frankie.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
22 Feb 06
Am I Crazy?
A quote from Herman Melville’s Billy Budd:
Who in the rainbow can draw the line where the violet tint ends and the orange tint begins?… So with sanity and insanity. In pronounced cases there is no question about them. But, in less obvious cases, few people are willing to draw the exact line of demarcation… though for a fee some professional experts will.
Dr Langley, an ASU professor, determined I had bipolar disorder in 2004. I refused to believe his diagnosis, I was embarrassed about it and I’ve only recently come to terms with it. Over time, my own self-consciousness has lessened.
I recently requested to see my mental-health records at the prison.
Dr B. wrote I had "Bipolar one [and] social phobia issues." On 19-01-05, he wrote I was, "In [the] lengthy middle ground between poles of bipolar." He added that I was, "Highly intelligent but emotionally immature." On 15-02-05, I was "Mildly hypomanic."
Dr A. wrote about our pyschotherapy sessions, which I have already posted. He diagnosed bipolar and anxiety disorders.
Some of the authors I am inspired by were bipolar. Charles Dickens used his manic energy to write relentlessly. Mark Twain wrote masterpieces of American literature, and developed a popular following as a lecturer. Virginia Woolf (whose The Death of the Moth I adore) was a prodigious writer until she drowned herself in the midst of a depression. Ernest Hemingway won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction and the Nobel Prize for Literature, but he took his own life with a shotgun.
Now that more is understood about bipolar disorder, I feel that I can manage it using mental yoga, and perhaps achieve a modicum of success before my mind snaps completely.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Am I Crazy?
A quote from Herman Melville’s Billy Budd:
Who in the rainbow can draw the line where the violet tint ends and the orange tint begins?… So with sanity and insanity. In pronounced cases there is no question about them. But, in less obvious cases, few people are willing to draw the exact line of demarcation… though for a fee some professional experts will.
Dr Langley, an ASU professor, determined I had bipolar disorder in 2004. I refused to believe his diagnosis, I was embarrassed about it and I’ve only recently come to terms with it. Over time, my own self-consciousness has lessened.
I recently requested to see my mental-health records at the prison.
Dr B. wrote I had "Bipolar one [and] social phobia issues." On 19-01-05, he wrote I was, "In [the] lengthy middle ground between poles of bipolar." He added that I was, "Highly intelligent but emotionally immature." On 15-02-05, I was "Mildly hypomanic."
Dr A. wrote about our pyschotherapy sessions, which I have already posted. He diagnosed bipolar and anxiety disorders.
Some of the authors I am inspired by were bipolar. Charles Dickens used his manic energy to write relentlessly. Mark Twain wrote masterpieces of American literature, and developed a popular following as a lecturer. Virginia Woolf (whose The Death of the Moth I adore) was a prodigious writer until she drowned herself in the midst of a depression. Ernest Hemingway won the Pulitzer Prize for fiction and the Nobel Prize for Literature, but he took his own life with a shotgun.
Now that more is understood about bipolar disorder, I feel that I can manage it using mental yoga, and perhaps achieve a modicum of success before my mind snaps completely.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
20 Feb 06
The Death Penalty
Reading an article in Investors Business Daily ("Well Executed") caused me to write this blog. One sentence in particular didn't make much sense: "Death penalty opponents still cannot point to the actual execution of an innocent person."
It’s odd that the author chose to ignore more than one-hundred death-row inmates who have been exonerated by DNA evidence. To me, the issue of whether the death penalty is appropriate for certain criminals is irrelevant. The real issue is whether the death penalty can be maintained in an era when the careers of prosecutors and detectives hinge on securing convictions regardless of innocence or guilt.
An example of what is becoming more prevalent is the case of Ray Krone, the wrongfully convicted "snaggle-toothed killer" whose life was saved with the assistance of my attorney, Alan Simpson. In this case the State of Arizona paid an expert witness tens of thousands of dollars to state that Ray’s teeth matched a bite mark found on the body of the victim. Exonerating evidence was concealed, and even after the expert witness confessed to his peers that he felt committed to lie because he had taken the money, the prosecutor in Ray Krone’s case pushed for and almost had him executed.
Ray was saved from execution when his legal team linked DNA evidence to the real killer who was confronted and confessed to the crime. The people who hid evidence and tried to murder
Ray suffered no repercussions. They did not even apologise.
Advances in the use of DNA have exposed multiple cases of such corruption. Prosecutors and detectives, and expert witnesses rarely suffer consequences for fabricating cases. A legal system that offers $50,000 to a person to utter a few words at a trial, which may lead to wrongful imprisonment, or even execution, without a penalty for telling lies, invites people to play dirty. It is obscene that a State can fork out such amounts, yet keep death-row inmates waiting years for inexpensive DNA tests.
Perhaps the author of the Investors Business Daily article would like to consider how many wrongfully convicted people were executed before DNA evidence could help them.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
The Death Penalty
Reading an article in Investors Business Daily ("Well Executed") caused me to write this blog. One sentence in particular didn't make much sense: "Death penalty opponents still cannot point to the actual execution of an innocent person."
It’s odd that the author chose to ignore more than one-hundred death-row inmates who have been exonerated by DNA evidence. To me, the issue of whether the death penalty is appropriate for certain criminals is irrelevant. The real issue is whether the death penalty can be maintained in an era when the careers of prosecutors and detectives hinge on securing convictions regardless of innocence or guilt.
An example of what is becoming more prevalent is the case of Ray Krone, the wrongfully convicted "snaggle-toothed killer" whose life was saved with the assistance of my attorney, Alan Simpson. In this case the State of Arizona paid an expert witness tens of thousands of dollars to state that Ray’s teeth matched a bite mark found on the body of the victim. Exonerating evidence was concealed, and even after the expert witness confessed to his peers that he felt committed to lie because he had taken the money, the prosecutor in Ray Krone’s case pushed for and almost had him executed.
Ray was saved from execution when his legal team linked DNA evidence to the real killer who was confronted and confessed to the crime. The people who hid evidence and tried to murder
Ray suffered no repercussions. They did not even apologise.
Advances in the use of DNA have exposed multiple cases of such corruption. Prosecutors and detectives, and expert witnesses rarely suffer consequences for fabricating cases. A legal system that offers $50,000 to a person to utter a few words at a trial, which may lead to wrongful imprisonment, or even execution, without a penalty for telling lies, invites people to play dirty. It is obscene that a State can fork out such amounts, yet keep death-row inmates waiting years for inexpensive DNA tests.
Perhaps the author of the Investors Business Daily article would like to consider how many wrongfully convicted people were executed before DNA evidence could help them.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
17 Feb 06
The Thunder Pot
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
The Thunder Pot
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Arpaio Loses Again
Jury gives $9 million to estate of inmate
Restraint chair blamed in death
Michael Kiefer
The Arizona Republic
Mar. 25, 2006 12:00 AM
A federal court jury on Friday awarded $9 million to the estate and the parents of a man who died in 2001 after being strapped into a restraint chair at a Maricopa County jail.Charles Agster III died in August 2001 as county detention officers struggled to subdue him. But lawyers in the civil suit debated whether he suffocated in the chair or died from a reaction to methamphetamine.
It was the second time in a decade that the county and the Maricopa County Sheriff's Office have had to pay millions of dollars as the result of a lawsuit over the fatal use of the device, which is intended to restrain out-of-control jail inmates and keep them from harming themselves. "We hope this judgment makes it so that it won't happen to other parents in the future," Agster's mother, Carol, said.Her attorney, Michael Manning, hoped that the verdict would "shout from the roof" about "this culture that the sheriff has created in that jail.""This is not a Third World country," Manning said. "This shouldn't happen in a place like Phoenix, Arizona."
In January 1999, Manning reached an $8.25 million court settlement with the county in the 1996 death of Scott Norberg, who also died while being buckled into a restraint chair.Manning is also representing four other wrongful death suits involving county jail prisoners, two of them also related to the restraint chair.
Agster, 33, was mentally retarded. On Aug. 6, 2001, according to court pleadings, he was acting in a paranoid fashion after taking methamphetamine. His parents decided to take him to the hospital, but on the way, Agster asked to stop at a Circle K for a smoke and cup of coffee. When he refused to let go of a coffee stand there, the store managers called police, who took Agster to Madison Street Jail.
"He was in custody for 15 minutes," sheriff's spokesman Jack McIntyre said.When Agster continued to act erratically, detention officers strapped him into a restraint chair to subdue him. And when he stopped breathing, according to the lawsuit, jail personnel did not immediately administer CPR. Agster died three days later.An initial autopsy report said that Agster died of positional asphyxia, effectively that he had suffocated while being held down by detention officers. A later autopsy report said the cause of death was excited delirium consistent with methamphetamine abuse.
Dan Jantsch, one of the attorneys representing the county, said he still believes that the drugs caused Agster's death, not the restraint chair.The chair, he said, is used on only 2 percent of prisoners coming into the jails even if more than 50 percent are out of control.Manning's lawsuit named the Sheriff's Office, the county Department of Correctional Health Services, several detention officers and the nurse who recommended that Agster be strapped into the chair, charging them with violating state and federal statutes.
The trial began Jan. 31 before District Court Judge James Teilborg; the jury deliberated for a week before coming back with a verdict that totaled $10 million. The responsibility apportioned to Agster, his parents and the person who sold him the drugs, reduced the county's liability by $1 million. Each of the detention officers is responsible for a token $1; the nurse, Betty Lewis, for more than $2 million.Manning will also ask that the court award him $3 million in attorney's fees, also to be paid by the county.
Sheriff Joe Arpaio issued a statement after the verdict. "From the day this incident occurred, I have always said Mr. Agster's death was unfortunate, but my officers did not cause this man to die," Arpaio said. "In the end, the jury found many parties responsible for Agster's death. While they awarded about $4 million against this office, the jury found that Agster himself, his parents and Agster's drug supplier were responsible for his death as well."
Brian Kaven, the attorney for the Sheriff's Office, said the office would likely appeal the verdict.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Jury gives $9 million to estate of inmate
Restraint chair blamed in death
Michael Kiefer
The Arizona Republic
Mar. 25, 2006 12:00 AM
A federal court jury on Friday awarded $9 million to the estate and the parents of a man who died in 2001 after being strapped into a restraint chair at a Maricopa County jail.Charles Agster III died in August 2001 as county detention officers struggled to subdue him. But lawyers in the civil suit debated whether he suffocated in the chair or died from a reaction to methamphetamine.
It was the second time in a decade that the county and the Maricopa County Sheriff's Office have had to pay millions of dollars as the result of a lawsuit over the fatal use of the device, which is intended to restrain out-of-control jail inmates and keep them from harming themselves. "We hope this judgment makes it so that it won't happen to other parents in the future," Agster's mother, Carol, said.Her attorney, Michael Manning, hoped that the verdict would "shout from the roof" about "this culture that the sheriff has created in that jail.""This is not a Third World country," Manning said. "This shouldn't happen in a place like Phoenix, Arizona."
In January 1999, Manning reached an $8.25 million court settlement with the county in the 1996 death of Scott Norberg, who also died while being buckled into a restraint chair.Manning is also representing four other wrongful death suits involving county jail prisoners, two of them also related to the restraint chair.
Agster, 33, was mentally retarded. On Aug. 6, 2001, according to court pleadings, he was acting in a paranoid fashion after taking methamphetamine. His parents decided to take him to the hospital, but on the way, Agster asked to stop at a Circle K for a smoke and cup of coffee. When he refused to let go of a coffee stand there, the store managers called police, who took Agster to Madison Street Jail.
"He was in custody for 15 minutes," sheriff's spokesman Jack McIntyre said.When Agster continued to act erratically, detention officers strapped him into a restraint chair to subdue him. And when he stopped breathing, according to the lawsuit, jail personnel did not immediately administer CPR. Agster died three days later.An initial autopsy report said that Agster died of positional asphyxia, effectively that he had suffocated while being held down by detention officers. A later autopsy report said the cause of death was excited delirium consistent with methamphetamine abuse.
Dan Jantsch, one of the attorneys representing the county, said he still believes that the drugs caused Agster's death, not the restraint chair.The chair, he said, is used on only 2 percent of prisoners coming into the jails even if more than 50 percent are out of control.Manning's lawsuit named the Sheriff's Office, the county Department of Correctional Health Services, several detention officers and the nurse who recommended that Agster be strapped into the chair, charging them with violating state and federal statutes.
The trial began Jan. 31 before District Court Judge James Teilborg; the jury deliberated for a week before coming back with a verdict that totaled $10 million. The responsibility apportioned to Agster, his parents and the person who sold him the drugs, reduced the county's liability by $1 million. Each of the detention officers is responsible for a token $1; the nurse, Betty Lewis, for more than $2 million.Manning will also ask that the court award him $3 million in attorney's fees, also to be paid by the county.
Sheriff Joe Arpaio issued a statement after the verdict. "From the day this incident occurred, I have always said Mr. Agster's death was unfortunate, but my officers did not cause this man to die," Arpaio said. "In the end, the jury found many parties responsible for Agster's death. While they awarded about $4 million against this office, the jury found that Agster himself, his parents and Agster's drug supplier were responsible for his death as well."
Brian Kaven, the attorney for the Sheriff's Office, said the office would likely appeal the verdict.
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15 Feb 06
The Pigeon
After lunch, I noticed a group of inmates looking toward the roof of Building C. There was a pigeon trapped in the razor wire.
Holding a broom and a chair, Repo said, “I’m gonna nudge it out with the broom.”
“Watch it doesn’t shit on you,” warned a youngster called Smokey.
Standing on the chair, Repo raised the broom, but it didn't quite reach the pigeon. The movement of the broom brought more razor wire closer to the pigeon.
“Stop that! That bird’s through. You’re disturbing the razor wire,” a guard yelled from a distance. The inmates ignored him.
“Quick, Repo, let me get on your shoulders, and I’ll try and reach the bird with the broom,” Smokey said.
“Hurry, the guard’s comin’,” Repo said.
Smokey raised the broom. Razor wire moved dangerously close to the body of the bird.
“I’ve told you once, leave that bird alone!” Soon the guard would be impossible to ignore.
“Try a different angle,” Repo said.
“The bird’s scared. I think its gonna shit on us,” Smokey said.
The bird was trembling. The broom nudged the bird. It's trapped wing opened. It dived - awkwardly. Shedding feathers and faeces, it descended. It struggled to fly. It continued down. A few feet from the concrete it turned up and landed on the nearest roof.
The inmates cheered, then scattered as the guard arrived.
Addendum: Repo was released on the 15th of February as he had completed his sentence.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
The Pigeon
After lunch, I noticed a group of inmates looking toward the roof of Building C. There was a pigeon trapped in the razor wire.
Holding a broom and a chair, Repo said, “I’m gonna nudge it out with the broom.”
“Watch it doesn’t shit on you,” warned a youngster called Smokey.
Standing on the chair, Repo raised the broom, but it didn't quite reach the pigeon. The movement of the broom brought more razor wire closer to the pigeon.
“Stop that! That bird’s through. You’re disturbing the razor wire,” a guard yelled from a distance. The inmates ignored him.
“Quick, Repo, let me get on your shoulders, and I’ll try and reach the bird with the broom,” Smokey said.
“Hurry, the guard’s comin’,” Repo said.
Smokey raised the broom. Razor wire moved dangerously close to the body of the bird.
“I’ve told you once, leave that bird alone!” Soon the guard would be impossible to ignore.
“Try a different angle,” Repo said.
“The bird’s scared. I think its gonna shit on us,” Smokey said.
The bird was trembling. The broom nudged the bird. It's trapped wing opened. It dived - awkwardly. Shedding feathers and faeces, it descended. It struggled to fly. It continued down. A few feet from the concrete it turned up and landed on the nearest roof.
The inmates cheered, then scattered as the guard arrived.
Addendum: Repo was released on the 15th of February as he had completed his sentence.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Books
“What do you think about all these books we’re gettin’ – Updike, Murakami, Rushdie, Bret Easton Ellis, and your favourite, Tom Wolfe?” I asked Two Tonys.
“Lemmetellyasomethin’, I’ve been doin’ time since I was a kid. Since 1958 – in and out, in and out. Thanks to these books by Wolfe, Updike and Murakami, this is the best I’ve ever had it. There was a time in my life when the fuckin’ TV meant everythin’ to me. I used to call it my wife – because it mind-fucked me every fuckin’ night. Now I’ve got these books, I don’t even turn the motherfucker on. The books are keepin’ me alive, keepin’ me from fuckin’ dementia. From this cell, I’m travellin’ the world: whether it’s Murakami takin’ me to the Gobi Desert where the Mongols and a Russian are torturin’ Japs, or Tom Wolfe takin’ me to a five-bedroom town house on New York’s Fifth Avenue with green marble floors, or Robert Fiske takin’ me to Tora Bora in the mountains of Afghanistan with Bin Laden and the Mujahideen – I’m there, bro. These books are getting’ me outta this fuckin’ cell.”
A big thank you and good lookin’ out to everyone who has sent books including Emily in WA, B3 in Phoenix, Mrs. Hemming in Reading, Barry in Tonopah, Andrea, Vaughan, and Oscar in Australia, Nicole in Surrey, Baudry in Paris (who also thoughtfully sent a Marquis de Sade collection to Xena.)
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Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
“What do you think about all these books we’re gettin’ – Updike, Murakami, Rushdie, Bret Easton Ellis, and your favourite, Tom Wolfe?” I asked Two Tonys.
“Lemmetellyasomethin’, I’ve been doin’ time since I was a kid. Since 1958 – in and out, in and out. Thanks to these books by Wolfe, Updike and Murakami, this is the best I’ve ever had it. There was a time in my life when the fuckin’ TV meant everythin’ to me. I used to call it my wife – because it mind-fucked me every fuckin’ night. Now I’ve got these books, I don’t even turn the motherfucker on. The books are keepin’ me alive, keepin’ me from fuckin’ dementia. From this cell, I’m travellin’ the world: whether it’s Murakami takin’ me to the Gobi Desert where the Mongols and a Russian are torturin’ Japs, or Tom Wolfe takin’ me to a five-bedroom town house on New York’s Fifth Avenue with green marble floors, or Robert Fiske takin’ me to Tora Bora in the mountains of Afghanistan with Bin Laden and the Mujahideen – I’m there, bro. These books are getting’ me outta this fuckin’ cell.”
A big thank you and good lookin’ out to everyone who has sent books including Emily in WA, B3 in Phoenix, Mrs. Hemming in Reading, Barry in Tonopah, Andrea, Vaughan, and Oscar in Australia, Nicole in Surrey, Baudry in Paris (who also thoughtfully sent a Marquis de Sade collection to Xena.)
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
13 Feb 06
Frankie’s Chess Challenge
Yesterday’s chess score was 4-0 to Frankie. He annihilated my Australian Attack, crushed my Catalan Opening, dismantled my Tarrash Defense, and pulverised my Panov Attack.
This evening, to get motivated, I sat on my bunk reenacting grandmaster chess games, but Frankie’s words kept replaying in my mind: “Don’t you know who you’re fuckin’ with? I am the greatest.”
It took the arrival of Two Tonys to alter my mood. “Whaddaya doin’ up there?” he asked.
“I’m studying Kasparov. I got beat last night by Frankie. I’ve gotta get him back – soon.”
“Let’s go find the motherfucker then. And you give him some fuckin’ Kasparov.”
We found Frankie finishing off Big Man.
“Don’t you know who you’re fuckin’ with?” Frankie said. “Check – check – check –
check-fuckin’-mate.”
“You ain’t shit!” Big Man said, and left in a huff.
“Hey, Frankie,” Two Tonys said. “Jon here’s gonna take ya down. I was just up in this motherfucker’s house, and he had a book out, studyin’ Kasparov moves. Now he thinks he’s in Kiev, on the Russian steppe, leadin’ the Mongol hordes into Europe. I bet he’s gonna kick you're fuckin ass.”
“You know what? I fuck Russians for breakfast.” Frankie said, and began groaning and thrusting his pelvis at us.
“You wouldn’t be sayin’ that if the KGB had you bent over some barrel in a basement, askin’ you where you'd hid your fuckin’ Mexican gold. Give this fucker some Kasparov, Jon,” Two Tonys said and departed.
I abandoned my usual openings, and adopted a queenside fianchetto, looking to establish my bishop pair pressurizing his kingside. Frankie began dismembering my kingside. Fearful of an imminent loss, I felt my anxiety rise.
“After I win this game are we gonna take a shower together, Englandman?” Frankie whispered in a sexy voice.
"No way," I said.
Frankie was about to win the game. However, overconfidence led him astray, and he made a mistake by placing his queen on the same diagonal as his king. I pretended not to see this vulnerability as I moved my rook to a square that would support my bishop in a queen steal. Frankie didn’t notice. I took his queen and finished him off.
“That was good, Englandman,” Frankie said. “Very, very sneaky.”
Two Tonys returned and asked, “What happened?”
“I gave him some Kasparov,” I said.
“That’s a good thing,” Two Tonys said. “Pretty soon, you’ll have Frankie eatin’ Russian fuckin’ caviar and cucumber outta yer fuckin’ hand.”
“I thought I told you,” Frankie said, “I bone Russians down for breakfast.”
“You wouldn’t be talkin’ shit like that if Stalin was your fuckin’ celly,” Two Tonys said.
“If Englandman thinks he’s the champ then maybe he’ll have a little wager on a game to make it a little more interestin'.” Frankie said.
“What kind of wager?” I asked.
“Whoever loses does twenty pushups.”
“Is that all? No problem.”
“You didn’t hear the rest – you do the pushups butt naked,” Frankie said, “And when you lose, Englandman, I’m gonna get a real good look.”
“With that attitude, you’re the one who’ll lose. You’re pissing off the chess gods. But if I did lose, I would be concerned about what you would be getting up to while I was doing the pushups.”
“You’ve got nothin’ to worry about, Englandman. After I get a good look, I’m gonna go home, put a blanket over me, and let my imagination take care of the rest.”
“Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll think about the bet, and let you know.”
Should I agree to the bet?
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Frankie’s Chess Challenge
Yesterday’s chess score was 4-0 to Frankie. He annihilated my Australian Attack, crushed my Catalan Opening, dismantled my Tarrash Defense, and pulverised my Panov Attack.
This evening, to get motivated, I sat on my bunk reenacting grandmaster chess games, but Frankie’s words kept replaying in my mind: “Don’t you know who you’re fuckin’ with? I am the greatest.”
It took the arrival of Two Tonys to alter my mood. “Whaddaya doin’ up there?” he asked.
“I’m studying Kasparov. I got beat last night by Frankie. I’ve gotta get him back – soon.”
“Let’s go find the motherfucker then. And you give him some fuckin’ Kasparov.”
We found Frankie finishing off Big Man.
“Don’t you know who you’re fuckin’ with?” Frankie said. “Check – check – check –
check-fuckin’-mate.”
“You ain’t shit!” Big Man said, and left in a huff.
“Hey, Frankie,” Two Tonys said. “Jon here’s gonna take ya down. I was just up in this motherfucker’s house, and he had a book out, studyin’ Kasparov moves. Now he thinks he’s in Kiev, on the Russian steppe, leadin’ the Mongol hordes into Europe. I bet he’s gonna kick you're fuckin ass.”
“You know what? I fuck Russians for breakfast.” Frankie said, and began groaning and thrusting his pelvis at us.
“You wouldn’t be sayin’ that if the KGB had you bent over some barrel in a basement, askin’ you where you'd hid your fuckin’ Mexican gold. Give this fucker some Kasparov, Jon,” Two Tonys said and departed.
I abandoned my usual openings, and adopted a queenside fianchetto, looking to establish my bishop pair pressurizing his kingside. Frankie began dismembering my kingside. Fearful of an imminent loss, I felt my anxiety rise.
“After I win this game are we gonna take a shower together, Englandman?” Frankie whispered in a sexy voice.
"No way," I said.
Frankie was about to win the game. However, overconfidence led him astray, and he made a mistake by placing his queen on the same diagonal as his king. I pretended not to see this vulnerability as I moved my rook to a square that would support my bishop in a queen steal. Frankie didn’t notice. I took his queen and finished him off.
“That was good, Englandman,” Frankie said. “Very, very sneaky.”
Two Tonys returned and asked, “What happened?”
“I gave him some Kasparov,” I said.
“That’s a good thing,” Two Tonys said. “Pretty soon, you’ll have Frankie eatin’ Russian fuckin’ caviar and cucumber outta yer fuckin’ hand.”
“I thought I told you,” Frankie said, “I bone Russians down for breakfast.”
“You wouldn’t be talkin’ shit like that if Stalin was your fuckin’ celly,” Two Tonys said.
“If Englandman thinks he’s the champ then maybe he’ll have a little wager on a game to make it a little more interestin'.” Frankie said.
“What kind of wager?” I asked.
“Whoever loses does twenty pushups.”
“Is that all? No problem.”
“You didn’t hear the rest – you do the pushups butt naked,” Frankie said, “And when you lose, Englandman, I’m gonna get a real good look.”
“With that attitude, you’re the one who’ll lose. You’re pissing off the chess gods. But if I did lose, I would be concerned about what you would be getting up to while I was doing the pushups.”
“You’ve got nothin’ to worry about, Englandman. After I get a good look, I’m gonna go home, put a blanket over me, and let my imagination take care of the rest.”
“Tell you what,” I said. “I’ll think about the bet, and let you know.”
Should I agree to the bet?
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
The Prophet has sent Jon another poem
Lost in Confinement
As the artificial lights starve me of sleep
I read the etchings of those who’ve suffered before me.
I wonder what stories lay within these simple scratches.
What act deemed as criminal brought them to this cell?
If they as I were brought within inches of madness?
After long these ghostly cellmates become my only comfort
To know that this struggle is far from one I bare alone.
I may not hear their voices or see their bewildered faces
Yet I feel the tremble of their screams of injustice.
For who’s right it is to take my spirit?
Strip it bare,
Naked in every essence of the word.
Violated by a system that pledges to protect and serve.
The eyes of the keepers look through me,
As if I’m so far beneath them I’m not worthy of the simplest consideration.
Torn between my own actions and the reactions of those whom wish to
Correct me.
How is it said? “For he who is without sin”I would laugh if the irony were not so jagged
Stabbing me through the reminisce of my heart.
Even now with freedom I taste this place
Like a film covering my entire body
I smell the concrete slab that which was my cradle
How if ever do these memories fade?
Is it possible to return to a life after having your spirit killed?
For that is my fate and the answer lays with tomorrows waking breath.
Copyright2005 prophet
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Lost in Confinement
As the artificial lights starve me of sleep
I read the etchings of those who’ve suffered before me.
I wonder what stories lay within these simple scratches.
What act deemed as criminal brought them to this cell?
If they as I were brought within inches of madness?
After long these ghostly cellmates become my only comfort
To know that this struggle is far from one I bare alone.
I may not hear their voices or see their bewildered faces
Yet I feel the tremble of their screams of injustice.
For who’s right it is to take my spirit?
Strip it bare,
Naked in every essence of the word.
Violated by a system that pledges to protect and serve.
The eyes of the keepers look through me,
As if I’m so far beneath them I’m not worthy of the simplest consideration.
Torn between my own actions and the reactions of those whom wish to
Correct me.
How is it said? “For he who is without sin”I would laugh if the irony were not so jagged
Stabbing me through the reminisce of my heart.
Even now with freedom I taste this place
Like a film covering my entire body
I smell the concrete slab that which was my cradle
How if ever do these memories fade?
Is it possible to return to a life after having your spirit killed?
For that is my fate and the answer lays with tomorrows waking breath.
Copyright2005 prophet
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
11 Feb 06
The Two Tonys
In the Mafia you can only be a made man if you are of one-hundred percent Italian descent. Two Tonys is Irish Italian. Although he was never a made man, Two Tonys was a Mafia associate, like Henry Hill, the protagonist in the movie Goodfellas. With his fuhgeddaboutits and giddouttaheres, Two Tonys talks like one of the old bosses.
Recently, I asked him how he came by the name Two Tonys.
“The name Two Tonys is an inside joke between me and some o’ the fellas back in the day. Lemme give you some background.
I came to Tucson in ’63 with fellas from Detroit, but they drifted back, and left me here scratchin’ shit with the chickens on my own; so, with my credentials as an associate of the Licavolis, I started puttin’ work in with the Bonannos – nothin’ heavy: just fuckin’ up a few guys here and there, bustin’ up a few pool tables, doin’ a couple of bombings.
That same year I was introduced to one Charlie ‘Batts’ Battaglia, who was runnin’ Tucson Vending Company for the Bonannos. Me bein’ a young guy, I was in awe of Batts. He was the epitome of a gangster: his hair was slicked back, he was always wearin’ dress slacks, alligator shoes and pinkie rings; he’d be chompin’ on a cigar, talkin’ outta the side of his mouth. If I’m Francis Ford Coppola, and I’m makin’ a gangster movie, I wanna guy like Batts in it.
Batts had a few whacks to his name. Back in the fifties, him and Jimmy the Weasel, workin’ for the Dragnas, whacked two guys named Tony. Batts and the Weasel got in the back of the car, and shot the two Tonys, who were sat up front. Now, remember these whacks, Jon,” he said staring intensely at me, "'cause they’re gonna come into my story later on.”
“Sure.” I nodded.
“My partner, Sal Spinelli, tells me that Batts wants to meet us about whackin’ the prosecutor on his extortion case – I think his name was Norman Green. Sal tells me that he told Batts we’ll do it, but Sal doesn’t wanna do it, and he tells me it’s up to me to get us outta it. Sal wanted to be a made man. He thought he was on his way, but his heart pumped Kool-Aid in tough situations – but I always forgave him.
We meet Batts at the Hilton Coffee Shop, and he looks at me, takes his sunglasses off, and says, ‘I’ve gotta guy in my way that I want outta my way. I want you to think about it, and I’m gonna ask you in a coupla days if you’ll do it.’
So far I’ve done no whacks. Sal doesn’t wanna do it, so, two days later, I told Batts, ‘I don’t think I can do anythin’ that heavy.’ He said, ‘No problem. It’s over. Fuhgeddaboutit.’
Now, let’s roll the clock forward to '77. Batts has just done six years for extortion. I’ve gotta fresh whack, and I’ve earned my spurs. One of my partners, Louis, owns the Sahara, where I’m livin’ in a suite with carte blanche on drinks. Me and Louis are drinkin’ and doin’ cocaine every night. Life is good. I’m wearin’ a Rolex and chains. I’ve got pockets full of C-notes. I’m drivin’ my El Dorado. I’m not the kid Batts tried to recruit ten years ago - I’m a formidable person.
Batts – using the same routine – sets up a meetin’ with me and Sal at eight-thirty a.m. at the Village Inn, on a Sunday mornin’. He tells us he’s not with those pieces-of-shit Bonannos anymore, and he keeps throwin’ out the name Lillo, who was Carmine Galante. I realise Batts is full o’ shit. He’s washed up. He’s got no power. So, at the Village Inn, I’m as mad as hell! I’ve been up all night, hustlin’, fuckin’ with broads, I’m high on coke – my nostrils look like the fuckin’ rims on margarita glasses. And I’ve got this fat greaseball motherfucker – who ain’t got no troops – actin’ the part, when he’s shrunk, he’s a skuzz. So, I’m gettin’ more and more pissed off at him, and he’s tryin’ to get me and Sal to jam some guy named Domenic, and throwin’ out Lillo's name.
The Village Inn is full of church-goin’ motherfuckers, and Batts – the loud talkin’ motherfucker – starts on about my business partner, Louis. He says, ‘Fuck Louis. I’ll grab his ass and shake him down.’ I’m strapped with a .38 in a Velcro holster on my ankle. Am I ready to turn the table over and whack the motherfucker?”
“Were you?” I asked.
“I dunno,” he replied. “I was so high, I mighta if he’d pushed the envelope.
What I did was slowly take my glasses off and said, ‘Look at me. Look at my fuckin’ eyes. Lemme tell ya somethin’ right now: if you or anyone else makes a move on Louis, I’m gunna take it as a personal attack on me.’
I could tell by his eyes that he thinks I’m a little umbatz – crazy. He backs way down, and starts talkin’ about us startin’ our own group with Lillo’s approval. He knows we know he’s a nobody, and the tables have turned.
Then, after the meetin’, Sal says to me, ‘At the Village Inn, when you got in that motherfucker’s face, I could feel the spirits of those Two Tonys at the table.’ That’s how I came by the nickname Two Tonys.”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
The Two Tonys
In the Mafia you can only be a made man if you are of one-hundred percent Italian descent. Two Tonys is Irish Italian. Although he was never a made man, Two Tonys was a Mafia associate, like Henry Hill, the protagonist in the movie Goodfellas. With his fuhgeddaboutits and giddouttaheres, Two Tonys talks like one of the old bosses.
Recently, I asked him how he came by the name Two Tonys.
“The name Two Tonys is an inside joke between me and some o’ the fellas back in the day. Lemme give you some background.
I came to Tucson in ’63 with fellas from Detroit, but they drifted back, and left me here scratchin’ shit with the chickens on my own; so, with my credentials as an associate of the Licavolis, I started puttin’ work in with the Bonannos – nothin’ heavy: just fuckin’ up a few guys here and there, bustin’ up a few pool tables, doin’ a couple of bombings.
That same year I was introduced to one Charlie ‘Batts’ Battaglia, who was runnin’ Tucson Vending Company for the Bonannos. Me bein’ a young guy, I was in awe of Batts. He was the epitome of a gangster: his hair was slicked back, he was always wearin’ dress slacks, alligator shoes and pinkie rings; he’d be chompin’ on a cigar, talkin’ outta the side of his mouth. If I’m Francis Ford Coppola, and I’m makin’ a gangster movie, I wanna guy like Batts in it.
Batts had a few whacks to his name. Back in the fifties, him and Jimmy the Weasel, workin’ for the Dragnas, whacked two guys named Tony. Batts and the Weasel got in the back of the car, and shot the two Tonys, who were sat up front. Now, remember these whacks, Jon,” he said staring intensely at me, "'cause they’re gonna come into my story later on.”
“Sure.” I nodded.
“My partner, Sal Spinelli, tells me that Batts wants to meet us about whackin’ the prosecutor on his extortion case – I think his name was Norman Green. Sal tells me that he told Batts we’ll do it, but Sal doesn’t wanna do it, and he tells me it’s up to me to get us outta it. Sal wanted to be a made man. He thought he was on his way, but his heart pumped Kool-Aid in tough situations – but I always forgave him.
We meet Batts at the Hilton Coffee Shop, and he looks at me, takes his sunglasses off, and says, ‘I’ve gotta guy in my way that I want outta my way. I want you to think about it, and I’m gonna ask you in a coupla days if you’ll do it.’
So far I’ve done no whacks. Sal doesn’t wanna do it, so, two days later, I told Batts, ‘I don’t think I can do anythin’ that heavy.’ He said, ‘No problem. It’s over. Fuhgeddaboutit.’
Now, let’s roll the clock forward to '77. Batts has just done six years for extortion. I’ve gotta fresh whack, and I’ve earned my spurs. One of my partners, Louis, owns the Sahara, where I’m livin’ in a suite with carte blanche on drinks. Me and Louis are drinkin’ and doin’ cocaine every night. Life is good. I’m wearin’ a Rolex and chains. I’ve got pockets full of C-notes. I’m drivin’ my El Dorado. I’m not the kid Batts tried to recruit ten years ago - I’m a formidable person.
Batts – using the same routine – sets up a meetin’ with me and Sal at eight-thirty a.m. at the Village Inn, on a Sunday mornin’. He tells us he’s not with those pieces-of-shit Bonannos anymore, and he keeps throwin’ out the name Lillo, who was Carmine Galante. I realise Batts is full o’ shit. He’s washed up. He’s got no power. So, at the Village Inn, I’m as mad as hell! I’ve been up all night, hustlin’, fuckin’ with broads, I’m high on coke – my nostrils look like the fuckin’ rims on margarita glasses. And I’ve got this fat greaseball motherfucker – who ain’t got no troops – actin’ the part, when he’s shrunk, he’s a skuzz. So, I’m gettin’ more and more pissed off at him, and he’s tryin’ to get me and Sal to jam some guy named Domenic, and throwin’ out Lillo's name.
The Village Inn is full of church-goin’ motherfuckers, and Batts – the loud talkin’ motherfucker – starts on about my business partner, Louis. He says, ‘Fuck Louis. I’ll grab his ass and shake him down.’ I’m strapped with a .38 in a Velcro holster on my ankle. Am I ready to turn the table over and whack the motherfucker?”
“Were you?” I asked.
“I dunno,” he replied. “I was so high, I mighta if he’d pushed the envelope.
What I did was slowly take my glasses off and said, ‘Look at me. Look at my fuckin’ eyes. Lemme tell ya somethin’ right now: if you or anyone else makes a move on Louis, I’m gunna take it as a personal attack on me.’
I could tell by his eyes that he thinks I’m a little umbatz – crazy. He backs way down, and starts talkin’ about us startin’ our own group with Lillo’s approval. He knows we know he’s a nobody, and the tables have turned.
Then, after the meetin’, Sal says to me, ‘At the Village Inn, when you got in that motherfucker’s face, I could feel the spirits of those Two Tonys at the table.’ That’s how I came by the nickname Two Tonys.”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
09 Feb 06
Shane V ValueOptions (Update)
Shane filed a lawsuit against ValueOptions who denied him psychiatric medication when he was released from prison – an omission that contributed to him committing a theft for which he was sentenced to eleven and a quarter years. Shane petitioned the court for an attorney – one of the grounds being that he has a mental illness – and was denied because he can write.
Through legal action, Shane secured paperwork illuminating ValueOptions pattern of slipshod service to Arizona’s mentally ill, which includes some disturbing cases. The multi-millionaire boss at ValueOptions – Dr Ronald Dozoretz – often claims that the suicide of a mentally ill patient is one too many, yet suicides and deaths linked to his company are prevalent in Arizona.
Take, for example, Ed Lui, a schizophrenic ValueOptions patient who shot dead two Wal-Mart employees. Are those two too many deaths, Dr Dozoretz?
And there’s Doug Tatar, who was deemed to be nondangerous by mental-health workers and was not committed for evaluation. Doug shot four people – killing two police officers – before blowing his brains out. Are these deaths three too many, Dr Dozoretz?
Christine Meyers begged ValueOptions for help for two months, before walking down a ravine, putting a gun in her mouth, and ending her life. Is that one suicide too many, Dr Dororetz?
Peter Hookirk, a twenty-two year old college student, was accepted by ValueOptions and wrote, “they’ve classified me as SMI [Seriously Mentally Ill], dad, so maybe now they can help me get well and get a job so I won’t be a burden.”
How did ValueOptions help Peter? They gave him free tickets to the Arizona State Fair, and advised his parents to petition the courts to have him committed. Unable to get the help he needed, Peter hung himself in a lonely desert area where he had played as a child. Is that suicide one too many, Dr Dozortetz?
Let us not forget Loren Spellers, a thirty-nine year old schizophrenic, whose ValueOptions doctor advised her that “nothing could be done” and that “these are the symptoms of your illness”, these claims by the doctor after Loren, accompanied by her mother, presented with “increasing psychotic symptoms, including increased auditory and visual hallucinations.” The doctor refused Loren’s mother’s request for a change of medication, and just five and a half hours later, Loren Denise Spellers committed suicide by shooting herself in the head. Still counting suicides, Dr Dozoretz?
At least Governor Janet Napolitano lambasted ValueOptions in a letter to Dr Dozoretz. She wrote about “the unacceptable courses of dealing (or more accurately, a lack of dealing) between ValueOptions and Arizona’s mentally ill.”
The doctor’s response to the Governor was long on spin and statistics, and read more like a bullish stock analyst's report on his company.
How many more people must die unnecessarily before this company’s contract is granted to a service provider who will operate for the good of mentally-ill Arizonans – not for the good of Arizona’s money?
Props also to Shane for his battle against ValueOptions.
Reader’s comments and advice for Shane would be appreciated.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Shane V ValueOptions (Update)
Shane filed a lawsuit against ValueOptions who denied him psychiatric medication when he was released from prison – an omission that contributed to him committing a theft for which he was sentenced to eleven and a quarter years. Shane petitioned the court for an attorney – one of the grounds being that he has a mental illness – and was denied because he can write.
Through legal action, Shane secured paperwork illuminating ValueOptions pattern of slipshod service to Arizona’s mentally ill, which includes some disturbing cases. The multi-millionaire boss at ValueOptions – Dr Ronald Dozoretz – often claims that the suicide of a mentally ill patient is one too many, yet suicides and deaths linked to his company are prevalent in Arizona.
Take, for example, Ed Lui, a schizophrenic ValueOptions patient who shot dead two Wal-Mart employees. Are those two too many deaths, Dr Dozoretz?
And there’s Doug Tatar, who was deemed to be nondangerous by mental-health workers and was not committed for evaluation. Doug shot four people – killing two police officers – before blowing his brains out. Are these deaths three too many, Dr Dozoretz?
Christine Meyers begged ValueOptions for help for two months, before walking down a ravine, putting a gun in her mouth, and ending her life. Is that one suicide too many, Dr Dororetz?
Peter Hookirk, a twenty-two year old college student, was accepted by ValueOptions and wrote, “they’ve classified me as SMI [Seriously Mentally Ill], dad, so maybe now they can help me get well and get a job so I won’t be a burden.”
How did ValueOptions help Peter? They gave him free tickets to the Arizona State Fair, and advised his parents to petition the courts to have him committed. Unable to get the help he needed, Peter hung himself in a lonely desert area where he had played as a child. Is that suicide one too many, Dr Dozortetz?
Let us not forget Loren Spellers, a thirty-nine year old schizophrenic, whose ValueOptions doctor advised her that “nothing could be done” and that “these are the symptoms of your illness”, these claims by the doctor after Loren, accompanied by her mother, presented with “increasing psychotic symptoms, including increased auditory and visual hallucinations.” The doctor refused Loren’s mother’s request for a change of medication, and just five and a half hours later, Loren Denise Spellers committed suicide by shooting herself in the head. Still counting suicides, Dr Dozoretz?
At least Governor Janet Napolitano lambasted ValueOptions in a letter to Dr Dozoretz. She wrote about “the unacceptable courses of dealing (or more accurately, a lack of dealing) between ValueOptions and Arizona’s mentally ill.”
The doctor’s response to the Governor was long on spin and statistics, and read more like a bullish stock analyst's report on his company.
How many more people must die unnecessarily before this company’s contract is granted to a service provider who will operate for the good of mentally-ill Arizonans – not for the good of Arizona’s money?
Props also to Shane for his battle against ValueOptions.
Reader’s comments and advice for Shane would be appreciated.
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
07 Feb 06
Odds & Ends
Drunk on hooch and wielding a shank, a Chicano took control of our prison yard for a couple of hours. When the Strategic Response Team lined up and aimed their shotguns at him, he surrendered.
A clogged-up kitchen toilet caused our chow hall to flood with five inches of water and sewage. For one day, we ate at Yard 1's chow hall, while ours was drained and cleaned with dishwasher sanitizer.
We were recently allowed a one-time purchase of two pizzas for $10 each from Hungry Howies. I ordered a veggie pizza with green peppers on it, which, although cold by the time I received it, was appreciated.
Anyone who acted on my recommendations to purchase gold, copper, and oil has now made a fortune. My advice is to take some money off the table, as, short-term, the prices look overbought. Look at healthcare, biotech, nanotech and Asia for above average growth. I like Radvision (RVSN on NASDAQ) in the high teens.
Thanks for sending books. After I have read them, they are donated to the libraries here, so other inmates can read them.
I have applied to do Psychology 101, a correspondence course with Rio Salado College. I’d also like to do Modern Fiction.
My sister and father are travelling to visit me at the end of April. I’m excited about seeing them – especially my sister, Karen, who I haven’t seen for a few years
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Jon's address
ASPC-Tucson
Santa Rita Unit
Shaun Attwood ADC#187160,
4-D-11, PO BOX 24406
Tucson, 85734, Arizona
U.S.A
Odds & Ends
Drunk on hooch and wielding a shank, a Chicano took control of our prison yard for a couple of hours. When the Strategic Response Team lined up and aimed their shotguns at him, he surrendered.
A clogged-up kitchen toilet caused our chow hall to flood with five inches of water and sewage. For one day, we ate at Yard 1's chow hall, while ours was drained and cleaned with dishwasher sanitizer.
We were recently allowed a one-time purchase of two pizzas for $10 each from Hungry Howies. I ordered a veggie pizza with green peppers on it, which, although cold by the time I received it, was appreciated.
Anyone who acted on my recommendations to purchase gold, copper, and oil has now made a fortune. My advice is to take some money off the table, as, short-term, the prices look overbought. Look at healthcare, biotech, nanotech and Asia for above average growth. I like Radvision (RVSN on NASDAQ) in the high teens.
Thanks for sending books. After I have read them, they are donated to the libraries here, so other inmates can read them.
I have applied to do Psychology 101, a correspondence course with Rio Salado College. I’d also like to do Modern Fiction.
My sister and father are travelling to visit me at the end of April. I’m excited about seeing them – especially my sister, Karen, who I haven’t seen for a few years
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Jon's address
ASPC-Tucson
Santa Rita Unit
Shaun Attwood ADC#187160,
4-D-11, PO BOX 24406
Tucson, 85734, Arizona
U.S.A
05 Feb 06
Cult Of Xena (COX)
From the balcony in front of Frankie’s cell, Xena was preaching to a growing crowd of listeners: “Soon you will all be members of COX - Cult Of Xena!”
Frankie’s cell door opened and out came his cellmate, Speedy, who looked up at Xena and said, “Xena, will you breast feed me like a baby?”
Xena did a pelvic thrust, and said, “You can suck this nipple.”
A skinhead in the crowd glowered at Xena and Speedy, and said, “Fuckin’ queer asses.”
“You bald bastard,"Xena said. "You look like a penis. How about I tattoo a slit on your head and call you Xena’s forbidden?”
While Xena was ranting, Pops, looking like a frozen cadaver, shuffled along the balcony towards Xena, and said, “I told Queen Elizabeth Xena’s hung like a donkey, and she hasn’t been the same since.” With cane in hand, Pops did a little dance.
“This is Pops the stripper,” Xena said. “He started The Chippendales in the twenties. My grandparents used to get down at his show.”
Pops chuckled and ambled away.
Xena stepped in front of a youngster who was hurrying along the balcony, and said, “What do you know about COX?”
“Say what?” the youngster said, grinned, sidestepped Xena, and vanished.
The audience was still laughing when George appeared.
“Georgie,” Xena said. “Has the cold made your nipples hard?”
George raised his top, revealing his nipples.
“Do you wanna make your nipples bigger?” Xena said “Mine used to be really small until I started wrappin’ rubber bands around them.”
“My nipples are perfectly fine,” George said.
“You sound testy, George,” Xena said. “Haven’t you been spanked lately?”
“Last night, in my dreams, I was getting spanked by you, while I was rubbing Jon's head.”
“Last night, in your dreams,” Xena said, “did you rub Jon’s prostrate?”
“No, silly.”
“Have you ever rubbed someone’s prostrate while making love?” Xena said.
“No, slut,” George said.
“Have you ever licked butt, and rubbed someone’s prostrate at the same time?”
“Only yours, honey,” George said.
Xena turned, faced the crowd, and said, “Soon you will all be COX members, wearing white robes opened around the waist like gunslingers, and pink tutus and spandex tights.”
A guard shook his head at Xena.
Nodding at the guard, Xena said, “You too are a COX member. Don’t stress out, you’ll get your pink tutu tomorrow.”
The guard hurried away.
“When I tell you all to spread, spread real wide. Now spread 'em!” Xena said.
“You go girl,” Frankie said, emerging from his cell.
“See what I have to work with! That’s why I need enforcers.” Xena said. “Who wants to be enforcers and who wants to be spreaders?”
“Can I be a shooter?” a Native American known as Bobbus yelled.
“Yes, you can be a salad shooter,” Xena said.
“Put me down as a tosser then,” Bobbus said.
“I heard all about you and Yum-Yum,” Xena said to Frankie.
“Quit tellin’ on me, Englandman,” Frankie said.
“Was Yum-Yum pretty? Did she have tatas?” Xena said.
“Aw, man," Frankie said. “Yum-Yum looked and sounded like a girl. I woulda kissed the shit outta him. I shit you not. I woulda put some serious tongue in that dude’s mouth. Englandman knows, he used to watch me stroke it to Yum-Yum at the Madison St jail.”
“I lived next door to Yum-Yum,” I said. “Everyone was hitting on her, and Frankie was leading the pack.”
“Rec time is over. Lock down everybody. Rec time is over,” came the announcement over the speaker system.
“Rectum is over. Rectum is over,” Xena said. “Did everyone have a good rectum?”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
Cult Of Xena (COX)
From the balcony in front of Frankie’s cell, Xena was preaching to a growing crowd of listeners: “Soon you will all be members of COX - Cult Of Xena!”
Frankie’s cell door opened and out came his cellmate, Speedy, who looked up at Xena and said, “Xena, will you breast feed me like a baby?”
Xena did a pelvic thrust, and said, “You can suck this nipple.”
A skinhead in the crowd glowered at Xena and Speedy, and said, “Fuckin’ queer asses.”
“You bald bastard,"Xena said. "You look like a penis. How about I tattoo a slit on your head and call you Xena’s forbidden?”
While Xena was ranting, Pops, looking like a frozen cadaver, shuffled along the balcony towards Xena, and said, “I told Queen Elizabeth Xena’s hung like a donkey, and she hasn’t been the same since.” With cane in hand, Pops did a little dance.
“This is Pops the stripper,” Xena said. “He started The Chippendales in the twenties. My grandparents used to get down at his show.”
Pops chuckled and ambled away.
Xena stepped in front of a youngster who was hurrying along the balcony, and said, “What do you know about COX?”
“Say what?” the youngster said, grinned, sidestepped Xena, and vanished.
The audience was still laughing when George appeared.
“Georgie,” Xena said. “Has the cold made your nipples hard?”
George raised his top, revealing his nipples.
“Do you wanna make your nipples bigger?” Xena said “Mine used to be really small until I started wrappin’ rubber bands around them.”
“My nipples are perfectly fine,” George said.
“You sound testy, George,” Xena said. “Haven’t you been spanked lately?”
“Last night, in my dreams, I was getting spanked by you, while I was rubbing Jon's head.”
“Last night, in your dreams,” Xena said, “did you rub Jon’s prostrate?”
“No, silly.”
“Have you ever rubbed someone’s prostrate while making love?” Xena said.
“No, slut,” George said.
“Have you ever licked butt, and rubbed someone’s prostrate at the same time?”
“Only yours, honey,” George said.
Xena turned, faced the crowd, and said, “Soon you will all be COX members, wearing white robes opened around the waist like gunslingers, and pink tutus and spandex tights.”
A guard shook his head at Xena.
Nodding at the guard, Xena said, “You too are a COX member. Don’t stress out, you’ll get your pink tutu tomorrow.”
The guard hurried away.
“When I tell you all to spread, spread real wide. Now spread 'em!” Xena said.
“You go girl,” Frankie said, emerging from his cell.
“See what I have to work with! That’s why I need enforcers.” Xena said. “Who wants to be enforcers and who wants to be spreaders?”
“Can I be a shooter?” a Native American known as Bobbus yelled.
“Yes, you can be a salad shooter,” Xena said.
“Put me down as a tosser then,” Bobbus said.
“I heard all about you and Yum-Yum,” Xena said to Frankie.
“Quit tellin’ on me, Englandman,” Frankie said.
“Was Yum-Yum pretty? Did she have tatas?” Xena said.
“Aw, man," Frankie said. “Yum-Yum looked and sounded like a girl. I woulda kissed the shit outta him. I shit you not. I woulda put some serious tongue in that dude’s mouth. Englandman knows, he used to watch me stroke it to Yum-Yum at the Madison St jail.”
“I lived next door to Yum-Yum,” I said. “Everyone was hitting on her, and Frankie was leading the pack.”
“Rec time is over. Lock down everybody. Rec time is over,” came the announcement over the speaker system.
“Rectum is over. Rectum is over,” Xena said. “Did everyone have a good rectum?”
Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below
Copyright © 2005-2006 Shaun P. Attwood
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