Risk

What’s the price of life? The price of life is risk.

Okay, so today I recieved four letters from my father, postmarked between Jan 18 and 25. So I don’t know what the shit’s really up with mail in this joint, but presumably it does get here…

The Jeep ad is for Hancock. It’s a real good ad. I would have sent it to him, but hey, cooties. You know what? I think the other picture is, too.

Jessica Alba, dude. Dude.

Just found out that one of the guys in my cube, KC (shout out Rhode Island! What what! Thbplt…Just kidding), used to race a 1350cc Suzuki GSX-R (aka fast made faster). He’d race on the streets of Bridgeport a la Greece, but at 150+ mph and turns. He’s got a 3″ x 2″ scar on the back of his neck. Spruille, wear a helmet. They’de block a road with cars at 3am, line up and bam, 5 minutes of racing. That’s insane. Insanely fun. He couldn’t stop doing it. He said it was in his blood. I told him I knew what he meant.

There are dozens of very specific songs I want to listen to. Damn, I can’t wait to just cruise around in the sun, car as open to the air as possible, and just listen to some sweet, sweet tunes. Dave, I’m pretty sure you’re not getting the 944. It’s always been my baby, and it looks too good in stripes. Until then, .

P.S. It’s ass-loud in here, so it must be time for me to try and sleep.

Comissary

Ah, comissary day! Like a mini Christmas (or Chanakah, if you’re Jewish) every week! I now have multiple pairs of underwear and socks and Tide bricks so I can start doing laundry. Yes, I am dirty. I have some (silver sheik vigor Shryock) shorts to work out in, instead of my state-issue correctional pants (or “browns” as the prison lingo goes). I now have a toothbrush longer than my fuck-you finger that no longer loses bristles like albino rhinoceros pubic hair stuck in my teeth. The absence of that imagery is nice. I finally have some envelopes, so that’ll prevent legwork and facilitate correspondance outside the greater Dojo area. My flip-flops encourage airation of my feet, but also hone my already poor tendency to scoot/drag my feet in a lazy-looking manner that very few admire. They are too large to allow for a standard homosapien gate (”springy”–Dave, are you with me? I got a B). I ain’t hit no more, ’cause I gots mine this week. Ima go break off the cube-mates that were there for me, yo…Nah mean?

There’s this 5′5″ 50+ year-old ornary-ass old turtle who did time in San Quinton getting on my nerves in the kitchen. He’s the self-proclaimed top dog even though I’ve been working there (a few days) longer. It seems we’re now in competition for the privilage of wiping tables three times daily. I think it pays a buck a day instead of the 75 cent we make now. The stakes are high and…Well, really, I don’t care all that much.

In the haze of my early days, I put down the Dojo phone number in someone’s non-Braden name and fucked it up. It’s okay, phone calls kinda suck, but you may one day get an eerie collect call. Don’t worry about visiting, it’s not really worth it. Jot some thoughts/questions down instead. It’d be good to see dudes, but I can only do it for one hour during the week between 8pm-9:30pm. In my uniform with my Dumb & DUmber haircut I pretty much look like Anakin Skywalker. Well, I mean, that’d be cool, but I don’t get to get with Queen Amadala, nor am I Darth Vader. At least I have The Force. These are not the droids you’re looking for. Move along. Plus, after every visit, I get strip-searched to my ass crack. Peace!

Super Bowl

Ah, Superbowl XXX5. Will hasn’t slept all day since 4:30am. Will isn’t sleeping now. During the SUPERBOWL? Foolish, I know, but it’s been a looong day. Just as I gently meet my dreams between plays, I awake to enthusiastic advice being given to onscreen players by various members of the dorm. “RUN, MOTHERFUCKER, RUN!” and “KILL THAT MOTHERFUCKER!” are two common favorites. I think I’ll give up. Everyone here seems to want Baltimore. What’s that about?

HA! HA! “FLEA FLICKER! FLEEA FLICKEEERR!!!” If there’s a white guy making noise in this place, I can’t hear him. What’s that about? Oh wait, I was wrong. There are plenty of guys rooting for New York.

HAHA!! The Pepsi machine was stolen by some guys in the state correctional facility!! That’s funny because I’m in one. That’s right, bitch! I got the Pepsi! Oh shit, Survivor afterwards? I ain’t never gonna sleep. Whoa…What a sweet Budweiser song. These commercials are kind of sucking. What gives?

Is Dave for Baltimore? Boy is that gay. Not for other fans, just Dave.

Not a lot of hockey fans in here.

Oh, they’ve started calling me “Seven” now. They say I look like one of the Texas Seven. What a coincidence ’cause Seven’s my number. Local crackhead Charlie Rock asked me today: “You know that girl you been writin’ to? How old’s her mother?” “Happily married.”

Whoa!! What the hell is this Matrix 3-D camera bullshit? Heh, that’s pretty cool. Touchdown Giants! Doh. Touchdown other team. Jesus Christ, these people need hobbies. I’d suggest stamp collecting, but they rip them off incoming mail…Magic the Gathering it is!

Yo, the next Leonardo D’Caprio killer heartthrob is gonna be the star of “A Knight’s Tale.” I gah-rone-tee. Uh hohg hohg. Out.

Protesting

HALLELUJAH AND GOD BE PRAISED! HA HA! I’ve attended my first Protestant mass and it was awesome. Let me clarify, it was often hilarious. The pastor (lady) starts talking and people are going “Amen!” and shit. “Yes!” “Oh yes lord!” She tries to work prison life into her praise of Jesus. “If before you were dealing on the streets or wheelin’ and dealing back in the cubes…” I can’t describe it properly. No slight on the religion or belief itself, but the whole atmosphere was magical…From the donations of soup/rice/shampoo, to the has-no-rhythm volunteer old lady pianist, to the severely demanding (”You better love Jesus or else…”) lady pastore to the prevelant “So your in prison, on crack, and can’t read” edition of the bible, to the once-incarcerated-now-born-again-suit-wearing pair of latino guest decons (they were brothers–voices straight out of Next Friday–”You’ll ruin my Dickies! Give it up for Jesus…” Said “Amen” after every sentence uttered, with the occasional, punctual “hallelujah”), to the overhead-projector-lyrics sing alongs. Hell, I had fun. It felt wrong, though. I felt like Edward Norton from the beginning of “Fight Club.” What did he call the chick? A tourist? I felt like a tourist. I really don’t believe this stuff, but it does seem to truly help a few of these guys who do. But all they do is talk about Jesus all day.

A guy who works in the kitchen with me, Preacher, gets up there for a “testamonial,” gives a little intro–This guy is a killer orator. If I see him on TV, I’ll send money. Then he belts out this gospel tune. Just him and a mic. Excellent, deep, full voice. I was floored. It was a great performance! I’m clapping and shit…Great stuff. Then the choir got up there (five of us) and sang some shitty song. After that they kept talking about Jesus and shit and it got all sorts of boring. Sure as shit beats Catholisism, though. With a stick! Amen.

P.S. Definitely no wine, though.

Cranky Munchkin

I can’t remember why I started writing this. I think it was funny. Oh well, just some observations…

The people on Jerry Springer? They’re real. They’re here.

Another random gripe (forgive me): Most of the people here are like spoiled little children. Don’t get let out on time? Bitch and moan. Comissary order get messed up? You didn’t get this week’s box of Snickers? Cry me a river. Guard won’t let you steal food? Damn, life’s rough. These people are in prison. They’re being punished for something wrong that they did. And they did do it. I hear stories of times of olde all day. No one tries to stay out. No one tries to be a better person. They just spend their winters in here and whine when the place isn’t ready for them. Like stupid little kids who’ve had everything given to them their whole life. It’s disgusting.

Next gripe; no big deal. After dinner they pass out mail. I’m always at work so I get it when I get back. I get back. “Do you have any mail for Benedict?” He doesn’t blink. “Nope.” Oh…that’s surprising…a little while later I ask again, perhaps I garbled the word “Benedict” into “Can I have a cheeseburger?” “Are you sure there’s no mail for “Benedict?” Guy doesn’t move. “Do bears shit in the woods?” Genius. “Yes, they do.” “That’s how sure I am that you have no mail.” Hm…An hour later when another guard came on duty. “Benedict, there’s some mail here for you.” Blah. At least I got my mail.

I need to be careful of the Christians around here. They’re always talking about Jesus and being saved. I’ve generally lived my life according to Christian ideals (coincidentally) and some bible stories are good ones, but I really think (imposed) organized religion is a crock bad thing. I’m afraid they’ll make me pray or else. I wanna be involved in the choir (it’s kinda fun) but they make you do bible study…Shit, I know it’s gonna be like “So, Will, how much do you like Jesus?” and I’m all “Jesus was way cool…”

I might be moving up in the world. When this guy leaves for parole, I might be wiping tables instead of spooning slop. You know, if I had to describe the food in here, I’d describe it as green or brown. If it’s not immediately recognizable as something from the outside world (hot dog, rice, oatmeal) then it’s a green or brown. It’s not too bad though. It’s like junior-high food.

You know what? I’m done complaining about this pit. It takes a great deal to keep me down, and this place doesn’t have a chance in hell.

P.S. I glanced at myself in the mirror in the kitchen the other morning, with my white/black checkered pants, white shirt, and floppy white boufrant cap, carrying a five-pound bag of sugar over my shoulder. I caught a brief glimpse of what life would have been like had I been born one of those bakers on the sides of those Dunkin’ Donuts holes boxes of olde (the white/yellow ones teachers brought in for birthdays and shit). The Keeblers may bake some serious cookies, but do they have thick jelly squeezing forth from inside frosty, edible balls? Say it with me, “No!”

Sniffles

Boof! I’m beat! I’ve got the sniffles. I wanted to get these out tonight, because I think Friday morning is the last time I can send mail until Monday…Weekends blow. I still gotta get up at 4:20am and work…

Choir practice, day one…Now I have to go to bible study if I want to stay. Fucking Christians. ¡País!

P.S. Please distribute letters…I get envelopes on Tuesday…

Same Stories

“I don’t care if you’re green. If you’re a Martian, tell me about Mars.” -KC, black cube-mate.

I think I’m outta stories for a while. Same stories about drugs, getting caught, seventeen kids (I’m not kidding)…Everyone has kids. Lots of kids. To me that’s…I dunno, a few, before you were in jail…or maybe after your rock days…These guys have kids everywhere. It’s like a Saturday Night Live skit…Birth control? I dunno…If before I had sorrow or some kind of sympathy for people in jail as a result of society…Well, I dunno. All I know is that none of these fuckers is innocent, and they’re all guilty as hell. Now, some aren’t bad guys, some made a (serious) mistake when they were younger, but even they usually only got caught that time. I dunno. All day I hear it. What’re you in for? “Violation of probation.” Really? “Yeah, I got arrested three time. Twice for disturbing the peace and once on cocaine possession. I used to get this shit cheap from a Spanish guy…He’d give me 550 for $450. Shit, the only reason they caught me was…blah” ‘Cause you’re a fucking deadbeat lowlife coke dealer. You belong in jail. Mouthing off to a cop while on parole? Shit, that’s just dumb…”Thug for life…” Please. White or black. Much trash all around. Some aren’t bad guys, but I wouldn’t bet any more than $20 on their staying out. Some aren’t bad guys.

Pretty sweet quote up top, eh? Anti-racist comments.

Say, my comissary got fucked up, so I ain’t got no envelopes until Tuesday, the 29th. If possible, could you guys give these enclosed letters to whom they belong…Muchas gracias. Peaceout!

P.S. Spruille’s letter didn’t get through. You’d think someone with a head that big could work with mail. Could someone help him out? Grrreat…Ha ha…Just kidding, Spruille. Your heads not that big. It’s small.

Toilet Teepee

“I burned down one building, that doesn’t make me a bad guy…”

My education continues:

Here’s how to lay down an effective all-purpose toilet teepee. You should only need two strips of toilet paper overlapping in the center. The best way I’ve found to avoid having the strips fall/blow off is by making sure the majority of the overhang is on the inside of the bowl where it isn’t as stormy. ie:

Don’t worry about licking the strips before you put them down. The moisture doesn’t really hold all that well and it will make you feel dirty even though the paper just came off the roll. During high-traffic times, when people are constantly moving about (say, half-time at a bar during the Superbowl), an emergency method is to put one strip down, sit one cheek on it, then slide the other strip (that you already ripped off of the roll in order to avoid the awkward predicament in which you now find yourself) over the other half of the bowl and lower your other cheek, securing the total toilet teepee with your anal entirety.

You may not spend that much time in public bathrooms, but that’s the only way I’m allowed to go. That’s why I’m here. I’ll put in the research time and share my knowledge. ‘Til next time…Out.

P.S. - “Listen Dick…..Can I call you Dick?” “My name is John.” “Okay, Dick. Anyway…”

Right as Rain

Snipes + Bullock + Stallone = Action Extravaganza

I don’t care what people say. I think Sandra Bullock is very attractive. After a game of Scrabble and a bowl of soup, I’m right as rain. Oh crap, she can’t act, though. Although, perhaps I’m judging her unfairly by basing my critique on “Demolition Man” instead of “Speed”. I’ve heard one two many stories about bloody shanks, but her, I ain’t around them, right?

It’s interesting to watch shows like “COPS” in prison.

Does anyone have any albums I should try and get ahold of? I think I’m gonna get a walkman, and I figure, if I need to buy tunes, it might as well be something I’ve never heard before. Also, book titles/authors. I think I have to get them OK’d by someone first, so all I need is like, title, author, publisher(?) or whatever. If you see any worthwhile articles, shit, cut ‘em out and send ‘em or something. I’ll pay for fucking stamps and envelopes, just keep me in touch with my world olde.

Does mail get to you guys if I just put “Dojo” or must I put a name? I sent a few with just “Dojo” and I wonder if they went through.

Wesley Snipes is so BAD ASS!

Ima try to sleep. Out.

P.S. “It’s pure capacitence gel!”

Standard Operating Procedure

“Does anyone ever tell you you’re kinda strange?”

Oh man. I’m thinking this will be a long night. I took a nap this morning, and I’ve already worked out. The lights are off (except for a few dim ones in the picnic-table area) so if I want to read I have to do it at a table. I was bugging out a little bit before dinner. I’m surrounded by these people! I’m so sick of:

- “So he owed me some money, and I was in that tunnel in (insert shitty Connecticut area) and I see Crab and I grab him–”

- “Crab?! Ha! Dat muhfucka’s a piece o’ shit!”

- “Yeah, so I’m hittin’ ‘im with a little club, right? And–”

- “One of them Yankee bats?”

- “Yeah.”

- “Ha haaa! Them’s the shits!”

Like an old friend. I’m tired of people reminiscing about when they were down in San Quentin. I’m tired of hearing “shower” stories about some 6′ 8″ 300lbs gay guy named “Georgious George.”…This afternoon, this new guy’s first time working in the kitchen, big fat guy; First thing he does is get upset that you can’t eat whatever you want, then he proceeds to steal eggs. This is like standard operating procedure. I’m so scared someone’s gonna frame me with cigerettes or fucking somehow make me witness such that if I don’t talk, I stay here longer. I’m no rat. I’m so tired of listening to people bitch and moan about how some guard or the rules or the whole system is fucking them when all they talk about is how much fucking crack they’re gonna smoke (”Just my first night, though”) when they get out, while they hit cigerettes in the bathroom and smuggle cheese. I don’t like sitting here listening to myself fucking complain. I fucked up and I’ll do my time. I know that. I can’t believe I’m bitching and moaning on paper for others to see. Maybe it’s so I can read it later, in case I forget I had a shitty time. Or maybe I’m no better.

Whatever, some of the people aren’t too bad…Like I said, weekends are hard. Shit, I haven’t been here two weeks. We don’t get any mail on weekends. Most people don’t work, so they’re all here. When the lights are off in this place–every night, all day weekends–It’s like a Saturday night. Hootin’ and hollerin’, people smacking bones (dominoes for you white people) on tables.

Sorry, I just got a little flustered there. More than I fear this place getting to me is this place not getting to me. If I’m good here, then what the fuck have I become? I like sunsets. I like birds. I like trees. I watched the whole first season of Dawson’s Creek religiously (and, like, Joey’s supposed to hook up with Pacey?! Pleeeaze…). I was happy when I came in. I want to be sure I don’t lose that when I get out. Really, I don’t think I will. When I said I’d be alright, I wasn’t lying. I just hope I was right. I’m pretty sure I was

Every now and then I feel like Agent Smith with Morpheus’s bald head. Other than that, it ain’t so bad. I know I’ll be fine when I wake up tomorrow; Always am. I’ve always seemed to work like that.

Stupid UConn game. It’s loud as hell.

I realize this isn’t a very entertaining letter, but if I only write when I feel good people might think I’m actually enjoying myself. Truth, love, and freedom, fellas. Peace.

P.S. I took my first shower the other day, and there was no ass-pounding. I was pretty psyched about that. Out.

Immersion

If I put “Dojo,” does the mailman still deliver it? Seriously, answer.

They speak a little differently around here. Where as you and I would say “wife” or perhaps even “girlfriend,” a relatively common reference would be something like “my daughter’s mother.” As in “Oh shit! Man, my daughter’s mother was into all that voodoo shit! That shit’s for real!”

I gotta be honest, this Temptation Island is wicked-stupid & beautiful women. What can’t you sell with beautiful women? Worst case scenario, you’re still looking at beautiful women, and that’s great.

When these cats play chess, they slam the peices like dominoes. I think it’s funny as hell. Oh shit. I was gonna say “hilarious,” but I said “funny as hell.” Shit, I caught some (good-natured) heat for using “reverberate” in a sentence.

I don’t even know if I’m tired anymore. I work in the kitchen from 4:30am (aka, when we used to try and get drunk before 5am) to 5:30, then I sleep. Then to the kitchen at 10:30 for three hours. Then I read. Then to the kitchen at 3:15 for 3 hours. Then I read. At seven, I workout. Then I read ’til ~9pm when they turn the lights out. Then I eat, write, watch shitty network television, then sleep. This place bites.

Beats the military, though, me thinks. Less hardship, more freedom, and a shorter commitment. Imagine enlisting during Vietnam, or being drafted? Holy shit. Better men than I were given a potentially tortuous yet possibly escapable death sentence. Now that’s crazy shit. Then you come home and get spit on. Shit. Don’t cry for me Argentina…Just some reflections. Peace & love, my brothas.

PS. How about writing me, you fucking pricks?!

Edutainment

I wish I was a 350cc Kawasaki Ninja

If Jessica Alba doesn’t win that Golden Globe, I swear to Christ…

The dudes around here roll out these dough-burrito (3′ in diameter) with shampoo bottles, throw in rice, cheese, beef jerky, all sorts ‘o weird shit, roll it up, wrap it in plastic, and cook it in a dryer. How cool is that?! That is cool.

I’ve put down Lace for a while in favor of Communist China, a reader on the Chinese Revolution from 1948-66. That crazy Mao! Is there anything he won’t do?!

Hey, save these letters. I want to read them when I get out. It also makes it easier for me; A centralized location for updates that I’m assuming people care about. Put them in a folder or something. Please. Start an email-update list. Hold a weekly seminar. Have a parade!

Fuck all y’all.

Oh shit! Dave, happy birthday! (15th) Somebody hit him for me. Or put one shoe in the freezer, one in the attic.

Heh…That shit’s funny. Don’t drink and drive!

No, seriously. It’s a bad idea. Not a good..

Peace!

Family Scrabble

Get off my lawn you union freak

“Do you want to hear this story?”

“No.” The guy to my left, Dough.

“I’m gonna tell you anyway.”

I’m sitting at a table with three white guys. I’m filling out a weekly comissary slip, they’re playing Scrabble. The guy across from me speaks. Often. (I’ll call him Frosty–frosted tips. He’s 40.)

“And I was working with this guy, and I asked him how he stayed faithful to his wife. He paid for a place out there and never went home on weekends. He said ‘I have to.’ I asked him why and he said ‘Because the first thing she did when I got home is throw me in the tub.’ If his balls sank it meant he was faithful, if they floated, it means he wasn’t. You know, ’cause of the stuff.”

So I asked the next logical, pressing question: “Well what if he jerks off?”

“I guess that’s how he got around it.”

“I assume you’re going somewhere with this?” Asks Dough as he glances at his Scrabble pieces.

“No, that’s it.”

“Oh my.” I’m once again amazed at what I bear witness to.

“When I was young I had bad acne,” Frosty punctuates the moment. Then continues. “My father used to tell me ‘You need to jerk off, son.’ And so–”

“This is a family Scrabble game…” Dough is visably unnerved.

“–I would beat the Bishop, and that would get rid of the acne.”

“God’s honest truth,” I said. Hell, I never had acne.

“I don’t know how much I should tell you about this, but you know what you do? You take your toilet paper roll, with paper on it, and you put your crank–” He said “CRANK!!” “–in the cardboard tube–it may peak out the other end, but that’s okay.” BUT THAT’S OKAY!! “And then you kinda…” He made the jerky-jerky motion as the rest at the table sat stunned. “…squeeze it like an ass cheek and–lube it if you need to…” AAAAAARRGGH!! “…’cause mine’s kinda fat like that…” AAAAAHHHHH!!! “…and that’s pretty much–”

“I’m going to turn in my commissary slip.”

Is this for real?

AAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!

The Kitchen-Worker Memoirs

Say No to Crack

“So I’m down at the muhfuckin’ Stamford…the, yeah, the park. And I got my bike, you know, through the woods and the big ol’ muhfuckin’ baseball diamond. And by Stamford Greenwich the planes fly in low to the JF…JF…La Guardia. And I get on the bench. And I got my rock (’sa fitty-rock) and I–’cause I’m greedy. And I’m trying to balance, I got the pipe and the tin foil,” he motions to the top of the make-believe pipe in his left hand. “And it’s wobbling,” he puts the pipe to his lips and slowly reaches to his back pocket. “And I’m gettin’ the lighter. Then I’m hittin’ the rock, and the lights, the planes you know.” He starts motioning to the sky. “They all…and the Third Close Encounters,” his eyes bug out “and the rock just hittin’ me and I’m, and I drop everything.” He leaps from the bench and bolts across the room. “But I’m still holding my breath, and I’m backin’ up, and the bike with the little, you know, alien gets caught on me” as he grabs his leg, drags it, and falls down.

“I get up and I ran right to the firehouse near,” he bolts across the room and starts banging on the door. “And I’m at the door and they like ‘What the fuck, this crazy muhfuck…’ and I’m banging’…” He continues to pound the door bug-eyed, pointing frantically at the sky, mouth closed, cheeks puffed to keep the crack in. “And then I run, and about eight cop cars drivin’ by lookin’ for the crazy muhfuck, and I jump onto Shirley’s porch.” He gives another guy the you-know-what-I’m-talking’-’bout, “And I’m lying down, and I got my arms,” swept back, “and lights is all vwoosh, vwoosh.”

He sits up. “Damn…” A quizzical look. “I only got one hit off that fitty-rock.”

Another gentleman chimes in:

“So I’m in the building with some dudes and this bitch and I go in with this fitty-rock and say ‘Y’all split this,’ you know, ’cause I’ll share the crack and she hits it first, and she hittin’ it hard, she like,” he tightens his face up. “F-v-f-v-fweeeh, and she done and in the projects they heat in the winter with that stove, big iron, and she stops, and she like,” eyes bug out, slowly falls back. “And she hits her head on the stove, and she starts,” throws head back, faking a seizure. “So I say ‘Get a spoon!’ and we got this big wooden spoon, and she bitin’ it, she like ‘Ga-ga-ga-ga-ga-gak!’ And she starts comin’ out her mouf, and I gonna be up in no murder shit, so I yells ‘Oh fuck, she dyin’! I’m out!’ So we runnin’ out and before we get to the street, she in the doorway talkin’ ’bout “Heeey. I’m okay. Y’all, let’s go hit that shit.”

PS - You should have seen the wild gestures that went with it. I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing.

Smelling Fingers

There ain’t no chitlins in my kitchen.

Fellas,

What up? I just came back from my first shift in the kitchen. They’re watching the Giants game and it’s loud as hell. Actual conversation, it’s me and the other kitchen workers, they all seemed like pretty good guys:

“How long you got?” he asks me.

“Eighteen months.”

“How long you been down?” That’s “prison lingo,” he means “How long have you been locked up, mothafucka?”

“About a week.”

“A week?! Shit, you still smell like pussy!” He sorta chuckles good-naturedly. “Can I smell your fingers?”

“No.”

They all laughed. I think they’re starting to call me “Echo”. I think it’s because every time someone calls my name, that’s the way it sounds. “Ben-det” or “Kah-Kahb” (Cos Cob, where I’m from). Or the guard always yells my name a bunch of times ’cause I don’t yell out “Yo!” the first time. Also because I think it’s cool and tell them to. Beats “Benedict Arnold,” “Baby Boy,” or fucking “Greenwich.” Another guy got “Young Blood.” I don’t think it fits anyway. Peace out.

The Art of Making Love

“The pregnant one? Yeah, that’s my daughter.”

Brothas,

I’ve lost three chess games to my one win, and the metal seat I just sat on is disconcertingly warm. I don’t know what to make of this place. I just finished reading The List, a thrilling look into the intense and often dangerous world of fiction-writing publication. Tomorrow I will delve into the vagina-pink-colored world of Lace, no doubt a thrilling look into the intense and often dangerous world of underwear fashion design. I think I might shit myself with anticipation. The people here range from the fuck-up kids from highschool (no, not your friends, the real ones) to that guy at the bus stop/train station that you reeeally don’t want to talk to you. Imagine that guy, and all his buddies, as your roommates.

This one guy talked to a female guard for about forty-five minutes. When I walked by I heard “…you see, I have mastered…the art of making love!” Jesus Christ…I’m thinking this guy’s out of his fucking mind. Boy was I wrong! ‘Til next time. Peace out.

Intake

Oh my fuck! What’s up? Man, incarceration SUCKED! January 8th = worse fucking day of my life…It’s three days later and steadily improving. I’m in A-Block (…dorm) where most of the guys here are on their way out. The dorms are setup like this:

It’s a big room with a bunch of cubicles separated by cement walls that don’t go to the ceilings. There’s six inmates to a cubicle. Another inmate told me to watch it with the drawings in case they think I’m trying to escape. Yikes. I’m just trying to write legibly. I’m told they don’t read the outgoing mail here (after I seal it, it stays sealed) but who knows. Apparantly they inspect incoming mail but do not read it unless they have reason or permission or something. Better safe than fucked.

I’m doing alright. There’s no violent crime at this place. My biggest problem is that I’m alone, I’m trapped, I’m surrounded by criminals, and this ain’t no video game. I don’t have any stuff either. I’m forced to borrow/accept gifts from guys, which isn’t the greatest idea ever. I’m nervous about that and where I’ll be in a month, two months, six months, a year…Crap. You’re not allowed to send packages, and don’t send any weird shit. Letters and maybe some photographs. Here’s my address:

Send out a mass-email, post flyers, whatever. Tell your friends. Tell some dumb motherfucker you don’t know. I can send and recieve as much mail to and from wherever, so at least that’s cool. Send me some addresses if you can. Abroad dudes and what not. I don’t think I’ll be able to write much (I don’t have any paper, pen, envelopes, or stamps yet) and I think the comissary comes in over a week. Damn. I’m gonna call the Dojo as soon as I can. I have to call collect and I don’t know how much it’ll cost. If it’s a fortune, I’m sure someone will reimburse you guys. I can make three calls a day, fifteen minues each. I dunno. I’m not too interested. I hate phones. I just want to get the fuck out.

Hey, thanks for coming to my sentencing. That was hard. Means a lot to me. You all should have gone snowboarding, though. Metal chair. My ass kinda hurts.

Now I’m on my bunk, but to you it’s instantaneous. Anyone can read these letters. In fact, this might make it easier. Hell, stick ‘em on the bar. If it’s addressed to the Dojo, it’s addressed to friends of the Dojo. I’m just realizing how voluminous is the written page. When y’all write to me, don’t worry about length or depth or whatever. I just wanna know what’s up. It’s much easier to keep in touch when you’re aware of what’s going on. All of you put in $10 for a serious amount of stamps. Make Austin print out a serious amount of stamps. Whoever writes me the most gets the most for his money.

I don’t know if I’m gonna be as jacked as I’d hoped. Apparantly the gym is packed for the hour I get it, and it’s not easy to eat…I’m working on it. Everyone I’ve talked to says you lose ten pounds when you go to prison. Shit!

I think it’s good I waited until now to write. The first few days, there were times when I was walking the line of serious bugout. Spru and Kristin know what I’m talking about. It’s an odd feeling I know better than to believe but grabs me nonetheless. It feels, physically, a lot like being dumped by the girl you love. You know it’ll be alright, but it’s still like “Shit! Breath!” Well, it’s not that bad. I’m just worried about what’s going to happen in the near future. Do I stay in A-Block? Somewhere better? Somewhere worse? Do I go to a halfway house soon? Ever? When will I get parole? Ah, whatever. One day at a time. I hope I don’t get bit in the ass by the guys that are helping me out. I feel like I should know better, but what can I do? Proceed with caution…Shit…

How’s Shaq gonna weigh 300lbs. and still be cut? Damn.

In regards to visitors. I only get so many on a list. Right now I don’t want any anyway. I put Joe on the list because he looks like a rapist, Dave because he has a car, and Meredith and Kristin because they’re easy to look at. Sue me. I don’t really want visitors. Separate life. Just write shit.

I’ll probably write more in the near future (once I get my own pen). I’ve got plenty to say to each of you. Just write me first, in case I forget anybody. I don’t really know who’s where.

Chow time…Greeeat.Peace and love.