I thought I would share some Journal entries from a Tucson, Arizona Inmate:

Jon

• Age: 38
• Gender: Male
• Astrological Sign: Scorpio
• Zodiac Year: Monkey
• Occupation: Writer, prisoner
  
• Location: Tucson, AZ

About Me

Celled-up amid murderers, shemales, and homies at Tucson prison. A British stockbroker and rave organiser sporting Day-Glo orangewear,dodging booty bandits and fighting science-fiction fascism.

 

Stockbroking Days

 

A few early entries to familiarize you with Jon..... 

Tuesday, March 30, 2004

Sunday, March 21, 2004

Roach Attack

One of the unsettling things about cellular living is that the jail authorities can randomly uproot an inmate at any time and transplant him into a new environment. During my two-year stay at the jail, I have been rolled-up (moved) several times. A new cell equals a new garrison of cockroaches to battle and I have learnt to travel armed with AmerFresh Fluoride toothpaste which blocks cockroach entry points very effectively.

On Tuesday our whole pod was moved to a different floor and I used my entire stock of AmerFresh to seal the numerous cockroach-launching points. The new cell was quickly and expertly fortified against the enemy. That night I slept soundly after observing the bug-free environment and enjoying the room's minty, fresh smell. Little did I know that the jail was about to sabotage my hard work.

On Wednesday I was moved back again to my original floor and into one of the most cockroach-infested pods in the building. I was completely unarmed and I helplessly watched numerous cockroaches size up yours truly from the myriad cracks in the walls. The lights were still on, but I knew that by nighttime I would be doomed. My new cellmate and I didn’t get much sleep, but lay awake watching the legions of cockroaches conquer the room. Whirling around us, they swarmed the floor, the walls, the ceiling, our commissary bags and finally, our bunks.

After Wednesday's defeat I obtained a 170-gram tube of Mild Magic Fragrant Cream Shave Razorless Beard Remover {depilatory} and I spent 2 hours today filling in the cracks. The enemy emerge like clockwork when the lights go out, so I shall up-date tonight’s skirmish in next week’s blog.

My new cellmate is mellow, but the air-conditioning is not working properly and my favourite Radio show Coast2Coast does not tune in very well.

 

Jon's Most Recent Posts 

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

The Sad Story of Lurch

One of my neighbours, Lurch, who is a giant-sized man with extreme learning difficulties, is serving time because he accidentally shot and paralysed his young friend. Thanks mostly to the criminal behaviour of a public defender who worked against him and a prosecutor who charged him with all kinds of offences; he was sentenced to twenty years. In prison, members of the Aryan Brotherhood wielding socks filled with steel padlocks almost killed him.

Lurch allowed me to read his court documents and letters. The letter from his mother to the judge brought tears to my eyes. Also, I noticed some sentencing errors in his paperwork. He’s eligible for release several years before the prison calculation, so we’re going to see the counsellor to try and bring his release date forward.
Can you imagine how many more Lurches there are stuck in the prison system for want of help, their stories never to be heard?

 

Tuesday, October 16, 2007

I’m A Teacher


I’m a teacher now. In August I chanced upon one of the most coveted jobs on the yard. It entails helping prisoners study for their GED exams. As there is no air-conditioned room to hold a class in, I do ‘house calls’. I spend the morning helping Too Tall change percents to fractions and divide fractions by fractions. Teaching him gave me a feeling of well-being. The opportunity to influence some prisoners’ lives in my own small way is appreciated.

 

My Sister’s Wedding

The high point of today was hearing the voices of my parents describe with joy my sister, Karen’s wedding. Karen married Andrew, a press photographer, who almost didn’t make it after a very close call with the Taliban in Helmand, Afghanistan, while on assignment just a couple of weeks before the big day. The wedding took place at St. Bede’s Church where I once served as an altar boy, and where I planned to marry Claudia, my ex fiancée.
The happy event couldn’t have come at a better time for my family as tensions have been rising lately due to complications associated with my release. I am eligible to be released next month but the corrections department has not yet fully processed or confirmed this.

On the day of the wedding I felt sad as I imagined the ceremony and the celebrations – all occurring without my participation. I was again reminded of how I’ve let my family down – my absence being a consequence of my misbehaviour. But at least Karen seems to be going from strength to strength. I like to imagine this acting as a counterbalance to the stress my incarceration has caused of my parents.
At least I’m nearly clear of here. It just remains for me to get out and to seize with gusto the opportunity to emulate Karen’s successes in personal relationships and my career.
The happy couple are now on a three-week honeymoon including a safari in Kenya, and stays at Tanzania and Zanzibar

 

October 7 From Suicide Prevention Aide to Tailor of Prison Panties “What’s big and white and drips from the sky?” Xena asked. “I don’t know,” I said. “My kingdom come.” “Oh boy,” I said. “What’s new with you?” “I got put on thirty days LOP [Loss Of Privileges] and lost my suicide prevention aide job for callin’ a sergeant a ***.” “Do you miss your suicide prevention aide job?” I asked. “No. I had to look inside people’s windows, which I really hated.” “Do you have a job now?” “My new job is makin' panties.” “That’s great. Do you have orders?” “A few.” “Including Slope no doubt?” “I think the redneck would put the panties on his head, fall asleep at night, and get in trouble when the graveyard-shift cop puts his flashlight to the window. But what’ll really *** Slope up is when they find the bra around his ankles. He’ll say it’s a rubber band to keep his feet from kickin’ ‘cause rednecks are always runnin’ from somethin’ in the middle of the night.” “A reader asked me to ask you whether her and her prison boyfriend will stay in their relationship. She’s stressed and worried.” “If she becomes Cult of Xena she’ll never have to worry about that again. You know why? In Cox we don’t have relationships – we are relationships!” “Any messages for COX members?” “Be spontaneous, girls and boys. Especially you girls with the thing between the package. And you boys: as long as you got big breasts, you show ‘em off. Stay fabulous and drink lots of water – ‘cause it keeps you ample.

The Future of Jon’s Jail Journal

Some of my readers have asked about my post release plans for this blog.

I intend to keep posting the progress of the blog characters. Most of them – including Xena and Two Tonys – have agreed to provide written updates, and my friend Jack, a brilliant writer on Yard 4, has agreed to provide accounts of what’s going on on Yard 4, including tracking the blog characters. Some of the regulars (including Frankie, T-Bone, and Weird Al) are scheduled for release in 2008, and I hope to follow their progress.

There are hundreds of blogs not yet posted for various reasons: my parents felt them too risqué, or they may have caused problems for someone if they had been posted when written. I’ve also written many stories, including Two Tony’s life story, and short stories incorporating the blog characters.

Some of you are wondering how I’ll fare post release. Will I achieve new successes? Will I do drugs again and go to the devil? Will anything come of my relationship with Royo Girl? How will I cope in England after being away for sixteen years? – especially living in my parents’ garage!

I intend to blog my post release progress, and to seek out new characters – especially the colourful and the downtrodden. I’m sure Aunt Lily will be blogged. Reading D.H. Lawrence recently made me think of ways I can portray my northern hometown.

I want to continue to use the blog to help prisoners and to expose injustice. I shall continue to answer your questions and to write about anything you care to suggest. I’ve tried to answer many of your queries at My Space, so I may continue to do that or I may merge that function back into the blog.

With only a short time left to go can you imagine how excited I am? I can’t wait to meet some of you in person or over the Internet. What a journey you’ve helped me get through! And how much has been accomplished due to your support! Thanks for your kindness! Yes! And for helping me demonstrate that prisoners are indeed members of the human race.

 

Wednesday, October 31, 2007

12 Oct 07

Psychotherapy with Dr. T. (5)

“I’m comin’ out of my cage
An' I’m doin’ just fine”
- Killers Mr. Brightside

“To live, to err, to fail, to triumph, to recreate life out of life.”
- James Joyce A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man

“You look happy,” Dr. T. said.
“Yes,” I said, beaming with excitement.
“My release was finally processed last week. I should be leaving here next month. Do you have any advice for me when I get out?”
“Get some therapy set up.”
“We have the National Health Service in the UK, I’ll inquire through the local GP.”
“And look how revved up you are right now. Your enthusiasm is worrying me. You need to slow down, pull yourself back. Don’t allow yourself to ascend up into the clouds.”
“But I’m so close to getting out. I’m sincerely happy to be alive.”
“But when you get overwrought like this you’re apt to making stupid decisions. There’s enthusiasm, and there’s giddiness, and you’re almost giddy.”
“Feeling happy hypo-manic is one of the best feelings in the world.”
“I have two dogs at home and one of them nearly got herself euthanised.”
“Why was that?”
“Because she was bounding around with over-excitement, jumping up on people and grabbing their arms with her forelegs. That’s how your excitement is coming across right now. Your emotional side has taken over. The rational side needs to be running the show. If the rational part is in control then you’ll stop and think before you make decisions. You’ll ask yourself: does this make sense? Does this lead to trouble? What is the downside?”
“As far as the bigger picture is concerned, I feel that my prison experience has enabled me to do that.”
“Then you should be able to stay out of trouble and not end up back in prison.”
“I’ve got a plan for when I get out. I’m determined to live the disciplined life it requires. When I came to the U.S. I worked long hours on the phone as a stockbroker, and now I intend to make a similar commitment to becoming a writer.”
“So what’s this plan you have?”
“To maintain a strict writing discipline. To write daily, and not to be swayed by the pleasure-seeking habits of my past. I recently read a Solzhenitsyn biography, and he wrote for so many hours a day, not allowing any interruptions. And the odds against him succeeding were overwhelming. If he could get out of the Gulag camps and accomplish so much by maintaining such discipline, then I’m ready to take on the world.”
“Take on the world! There you go again. Why do you feel the need to ‘take on the world?’”
“That’s just the way I am.”
“But isn’t that what got you into trouble in the past?”
“I have this manic energy, and in the past I got into trouble because I used it in a negative way, that ended up eventually with me being sent to jail. But if I use the energy in a positive way, I can do well and avoid trouble. That’s my goal. I was way too immature before. I feel that my experience has tempered me somewhat, although I recognise I am still immature in certain ways. I’ve tried to eliminate those immaturities that led me to prison, while maintaining a spontaneous spirit, in the sense of how Jung recommended we try to harness the energy of our inner child.”
“But when you’re too spontaneous, consequences suddenly arise that you hadn’t thought about.”
“That’s been the story of my life, and the hardest lesson for me to learn. When I say I’m ready to take on the world, I mean I’m excited to pursue the plan I’ve formulated to achieve my long-term goals. When I think how close I am to employing everything I’ve learned while in prison to the purpose of succeeding in the outside world, I’m thrilled to bits.”
“Well don’t get so thrilled that you’re like my dog jumping up on a visitor with a look that says, ‘Let me chew on your arm, please.’”
Dr. T. held up her hand, pressed her forefinger to her thumb, and said, “I’m telling you, she was this close to getting euthanised.”
The rising pitch of her voice and her widening eyes seemed to say that I too could easily end up ‘euthanised’ if I didn’t get my excitement in check.
“I’m not averse myself, to chewing on an attractive arm.”
Dr. T. laughed, “Well, I truly wish you luck out there.”
“And thank you for all of the sessions. I’m going to be alright on the outside.”
“As you’re pursuing these grand plans of yours don’t forget to pull yourself back from time to time and to ask yourself whether what you’re doing is going to lead to trouble.”
“I certainly will!”
“Good luck then.”

 NOVEMBER 2, 2007

14 Oct 07

The Exorcism

“Did I tell you about the time I was exorcised by the Assembly of God church?” Two Tonys said.
“No,” I said. “This I’ve got to hear. How did that happen?”
“A wannabe gangster by the name of George Furagie, who claimed he was a drummer in a band workin’ for the Campisi family, moved to Tucson. The Campisis were a deadly mob outta New Jersey. He starts hangin’ out at my restaurant in a black suit, black shirt, white tie, and hair all sprayed down lookin’ like he just stepped outta The Godfather. I can tell that when it’s time for some Mobster nitty-gritty he ain’t got no heart, but I let him play his game. He’s as enthusiastic about me as if I were Frank Sinatra, so I figure I can use him for some lightweight this-and-that.

Unknown to me, also in Tucson at that time – late ’79, early ’80 – is a Russian-Jewish killer, Ira Peznick, formerly of the Campisis but now in the Witness Protection program. There’s a book about Peznick called To Drop A Dime. The Campisis wanna kill this guy.
I’m in my restaurant, and I hear sirens, and see ambulances and fire engines at the nearby Shell gas station. The fire department are workin’ on a guy who’s had a heart attack.
Later on Furagie comes in and says, ‘You’re not gonna believe this. I pulled up at a red light down the street here, and I look over, and I see this guy that looks familiar. He’s standin’ and starin’ at me and I’m starin’ at him, and we go our separate ways. The guy drives three blocks, pulls in the Shell gas station right here, has a heart attack, and gets out yellin’, ‘Call the police. They’re after me! They’re after me!’ It was Ira Peznick, and he thought I was out to get him.’
Is it possible? I don’t know. But Peznick’s heart attack was all over the news with witnesses quotin’ him sayin’, ‘They’re after me!’ Arizona is a hot area for Witness Protection. Sammy the Bull was placed in Arizona.
Now I go to the joint and Furagie comes and visits me.
I get out in ’85. Furagie’s in Tucson, sellin’ cars, and he’s got a Chicana wife. And I’ll be damned if he hadn’t turned into a born-again Christian. He’s in at the deep end of the religious pool, and his wife is too. He shows me his house and picks up an ocotillo cactus skeleton in the shape of a cross. He says, ‘Look what we found. This is God talkin’ to me. We found it when we were lookin’ to buy the house. It was a sign we should buy it.’ He invites me to stay with them. I’m a little wary but I say ‘OK.’ He tells me he gets up early every mornin’ to go to a prayer meetin’, and he asks me to come, he’s so enthused. I say, ‘*** it. Let’s go.’
At 5 a.m. we’re up and on our way, and he has a flat tyre. Furagie says, ‘See what Satan did?’ I say, ‘What?’ He says, ‘He gave me a flat tyre. Satan’s always workin’ tryin’ to upset me and mess up my schedule.’ He’s as happy as can be fixin’ the flat tyre. He’s happy-go-lucky, carefree, whistlin’ like the flat was the best thing that ever happened to the *** in the whole world. I’m thinkin’ of poppin’ the goofy *** in the head, puttin’ him to sleep, puttin’ him outta his misery.
Back on the road to the church he tells me, ‘The reason I joined the Assembly of God is ‘cos a church member told me that the Lord had spoken to him and told him that a drummer was being sent from the east to join the congregation.’

There’s ten guys at the prayer meetin’. Hardware store people, chiropractors, *** like that. I don’t know what to do. I sit down and they surround me in a circle. They start prayin’ and puttin’ their fuckin’ hands on me. When they start talkin’ in tongues – skoobydawackeeballamackasallikodo - I realise I’m being exorcised. And they’re all talkin’ in different tongues.
I’m thinkin’: Whatthafuck has Furagie done? Howthafuck did I get myself in this situation? I’m fresh outta the joint; Furagie’s house is a good crash pad; the grub is good; by tryin’ to save a few bucks, I’ve fucked myself; it’s 6 in the mornin’ and I’m at the Assembly of God church surrounded by a bunch of zealous holy-rollin’ motherfuckers prayin’ for me to cast out the devil like I’m Attila the fuckin’ Hun. But I can’t hate ‘em. They’re not tryin’ to pick my pocket or sell me nothin’. They’re just tryin’ to bring me into their flock. I guess that’s the bottom line with these motherfuckers: get a guy in your flock.
After ten minutes, I’m getting’ pissed off: Let’s get this over with. I wanna giddthafuckouttahere. This goofy *** Furagie has got me trapped down here with a buncha religious fanatics still talkin’ in tongues outta the side of their necks. On the way home, I’m gunna put Furagie’s head in a cholla cactus and make sure the needles stick in his fuckin’ eyeballs.”
“Did you give him the cactus treatment?”
“No. I just say, ‘Hey George, whatthafucks up with that? Why take me down that road? I didn’t as for that.’ He says, ‘Look, even if I’m wrong, it ain’t hurtin’ nothin’. It’s changed my life.’ I tell him. ‘Well it ain’t for me. And your life ain’t about *** anyway. You’re a car salesman, that’s all you are.’”
“What became of Furagie?”
“I stopped my buddy Louie Marconi from beatin’ him up, and I never saw him again. He’s probably one of those sorry-ass motherfuckers sendin’ Jimmy Swaggart money. Swaggart’s with Assembly of God. He keep’s getting’ caught with naked prostitutes, but his flock keep forgivin’ the sick ***, and sendin’ him even more money. Swaggart’s in de bizz-ness. Bein’ kept rich by sad motherfuckers like Furagie.
 

Sunday, November 04, 2007

20 Oct 07

To Kiss Xena?

“My friend, Barry, in Tonopah, told me someone commented on a Royo Girl blog that I should get a kiss from you before I’m released,” I said to Xena.
“Listen, honey,” Xena said. “I’ll give you a big ol’ kiss. I’ll slip some tongue down your throat too. And while I’m at it, I’ll slip my panties in your pocket so you have something to remember me by when you get out. That way you can tie my panties to the corner of your pillow, so when you go to sleep at night you can smell my taint."
“Taint?”
“Taint my ass. The only problem is the panties are gonna look like a gunny sac; I can’t help it; I have a big package. I used to tie myself off to the side of my leg, but my leg would always fall asleep. I had problems with my knees once and I realised it was ‘cause every time I jumped out of bed my penis would slap one knee or other. The only good thing about it is: I am never weaponless. Everyone knows Xena carries a big glove.”
A passing female guard said, “ That’s a lotta info there, Xena.”
“I’m,” Xena said, “gonna give the Brit plenty to remember me by – including a kiss. Royo Girl ain’t got nothin’ on this.” Xena spanked her behind.

Is granting Xena a parting kiss the right thing to do on the eve of my release? And what kind of kiss do you recommend?

 Interview with a Homey (1)

“What’s a homey?” I asked.
“Well,” Fat Boy said, “a homey is slang for like a friend. When the word homey came out it was like somebody who’s down for you, like somebody who was real – know what I mean? – and now homey is used real loosely, like towards an acquaintance.”
“Which homies in Tucson did you hang out with?”
“A lot of the people I kicked it with were from different hoods – all Bloods though. There’s Edith Street Posse Blood Gang, South Side Posse Blood Gang, Southpark, Western Hills, and Vista Blood that split up into two rival gangs: South Side Familia and Rocka Familia.”
“What does blood mean to you?”
“Blood is thicker than water. Bloods hang tight to each other. Everywhere we went we wuz always in groups, you know, rolling in packs.”
“Can anyone be a homey?”
“No. When a cat you know comes through you don’t necessarily call him your homey. A homey is someone you know for a minute [a long time] who’s down for you, who’s not gonna run when the stuff hits the fan.”
“Stuff?”
“Say some beef pops off, you know, a cat from another hood is running his mouth, you know, and he’s got his boys, and you’re rolling with yours, and you know that each one of those dudes with you is gonna scrap with you if they have to.”
“Why do beefs pop off?”
“Maybe a rival gang member doesn’t like the colour you’re wearing. There’s a lotta cats that hate for any reason: the ride you’re driving, the gang you’re rolling with, the girls you’ve got with you; or they might see you flashing money, pulling out a wad; then you’ve got cats who once they get drunk they wanna get stupid; a cat may not like what you said.”
“Let’s talk about the slang you use.”
“OK.”

1 Nov 07 My Plan From a letter to my parents: …I have just finished reading a Solzhenitsyn bio that I started two days ago and couldn’t put down. It’s as if fate has stepped in just before my release and strengthened my commitment to making a go of writing. My suffering can’t compare with what Solzhenitsyn had to endure, yet he rose from prison to spearhead the literary elite of Russia. Death called on him so many times: on the front fighting the ***, in Russian prisons, and then in the form of cancer. Reading about the odds he overcome has inspired me. From prison he was exiled to Kazakhstan where he knew no one, and he ended up lodging in a corner of a kitchen in an old couple’s house. As for me, I have your loving home to go to. He set strict limits on his social life and gave writing his all. He funnelled his prison experiences into fiction in such an honest and compelling way that his book about Ivan Denisovich caused a revolution in Russian writing. This quote really touched me: “The writer’s tasks concern more general and eternal questions – the secrets of the human heart and conscience, the clash between life and death, and the overcoming of inner sorrow.” These Russian literary geniuses (including Tolstoy and Chekhov) seem to have a knack for penetrating the human soul and portraying it in an uplifting way in their prose. Not that I could come anywhere near the genius of these great writers, but I’ve tried to go some way in that direction and as I continue my writing should mature. Anyway, I learned a lot more from this bio than I can convey in this letter – especially how I need to have a disciplined work ethic, like I had when I began stock broking. I’m used to a monastic life, so you locking me in the garage extension and feeding me meagre meals won’t be a problem. I don’t intend to succumb to the temptations of my former life. I need to be with people who will have a positive influence on my life. I would like to use the knowledge I’ve gained to help with prison reform, help young offenders or speak to youngsters about my involvement with drugs and how I ended up – celled up. I’ve certainly undergone the “impoverishment and devastation” that according to Thomas Mann, constitute the preliminary conditions to serious writing. And Solzhenitsyn claimed: “Good literature arises out of pain.” I would like to expose injustices through my writing. I’m willing to make the necessary sacrifices. I’d be happy to accomplish a fraction of what Solzhenitsyn accomplished. With your help, I just need to follow through on the opportunities that continue to come my way, and to keep myself emotionally stable…

 

4 Nov 07

The Royo Romance (19)

“I read some of the nasty comments people have made about me at your blog,” Royo Girl said at visitation.
“What nasty comments?” I asked.
“That I’m leading you on, and I’m not a good person,” she said with anguish.
“But you’ve gone out of your way so many times to visit me and bring some happiness into my life.”
“There were some comments on my side.”
“Good.”
“I put my own comment on anonymously.”
“Nice one," I said laughing. "I’m glad you stuck up for yourself.”
“How’s your release and deportation arrangements going?”
“I’m due to be picked up by immigration on 16th November. They’ll take me to a holding centre; not sure which one, but I’m optimistic that once I’m there it won’t take them long to do the paperwork and put me on a plane for England,” I said, feelings of elation starting to rise.
“So are you prepared for freedom?”
“Yes. But my mum’s worrying about how I’ll adjust"
"That's only natural. Your folks have been through a lot."
"Yes, But I’m not phased. I can’t wait to embrace the world. I feel the best I’ve ever felt in my life.”
“But are you prepared for both sides?”
“What do you mean?”
“The positive and the negative.”
“Like what?”
“Like how people are going to respond to you.”
“I’ve not tried to hide who I am. People can respond however they wish to respond.”
“People may be wary of you coming from prison.”
“That’s on them. Prison has made me who I am today. I am happy with who I’ve become.”
“I think prison has made you a better person,” she said.
“Thanks,” I said, pausing to admire how pretty she looked with her hair in a headband, when I guard summoned me to the desk.
“Did you know you have another visitor?”
“No,” I said genuinely surprised.
“Well,” he said looking over at Royo Girl, “I can stop the person from coming in if you’d like?”
“Let’s not do that. Let’s find out who it is.”
“OK.” He made a call and ascertained it was Barry from Tonopah (the father of my ex fiancée, Claudia).
“Let him in,” I said.
Barry came in and gave me a hug. The one time burly ex-biker had lost a lot of weight due to medical problems, including numerous seizures.
I was deeply touched by Barry making the effort to travel down to Tucson to see me before my deportation. “Thanks for coming Barry. I didn’t expect this. I have a visitor right now, so come and join us.”
“You have a visitor?”
“Yes.”
“I just wanted to surprise you,” Barry said. “Where’s the visitor at?”
I pointed to Royo Girl.
“Then maybe I shouldn’t stay.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s great to see you. But near the end of the visit I’d like to get some kissing in.”
“With me?”
“We’ll have to save that for another occasion.”
“In that case I’ll leave before the end.”

08 Nov 07

Parting Advice from T-Bone

“One of the things,” T-Bone began, “you need to do is to sit down at the table with Mom and Pop and learn who they really are as human beings.”
“You’re right,” I said.
“How long have they been married?”
“Nearly forty years.”
“Can you imagine all the ups and downs they’ve been through over the years? Yet they are still together. They are successful people – learn how they did it, so you can grow and obtain wisdom and knowledge and understanding. You’ve been through some things in the States and you didn’t connect with your family in the right way. I’m telling you as a man, you need to sit down with them over a cup of tea. Do you have the guts to do it?”
“I hope so.”
“And when you’re talking with them, if your heart doesn’t jump with pride, honour, and astonishment then you’re empty inside ’cause what they’ve done takes strength.
You also need to stay away from chicks who are party-girls, and to focus on one woman. What are you gonna do if you meet some chick in a flimsy little outfit, (a fishnet dress, maybe), and she’s five-seven, nicely built, up on heels and plenty of makeup, and she has a bunch of X, and she comes to you and says, ‘Bring your pretty little butt over here, Jonny?’ You have to make a choice. She’s mesmerizing. She’s tantalizing. She’s sexy. Her breath smells like cinnamon and jasmine. Her bed is perfumed with myrrh and aloes like the harlot in Proverbs 7. Are you gonna go for the temptation that leads you down the path of destruction?”
“No!”
“Are you gonna allow her perfume and drugs to seduce you, to take you to the demonic realm?”
“I’m out of that lifestyle.”

To be continued…

Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below

Copyright © 2006-2007 Shaun P. Attwood

posted by Jon at 6:54 AM 0 comments   

Monday, November 26, 2007

06 Nov 07

Wild Man (2)

Disembarking from the van involved going down steps. When the officer opened the door to let the men out, Wild Man stooped out and stopped on the top step, he surveyed the inmates, whose chanting had now mostly ground to a halt, and were staring in awe at this fearsome bear-like man. (He was called el oso in Mexico because of his size and fighting style.) Displaying a smile of contempt, he raised his chin and aimed his shaggy beard at the line of men.
“If you,” he began while nodding at one of the men, “and you,” locking his crazed bloodshot eyes on another, “and you, continue to disrespect,” now raising his cuffed arms as if he were about to break free, “my woman, then we’re gonna be having problems when we get inside those cells.” He pointed at the formation of cells known as the notorious ‘horseshoe’ – and grinned.
The majority of the men were now quiet.
“You think I won’t?” Wild Man gazed out over the prisoners that were still (now quietly) chanting. He broke into a deep laugh that suggested he would not find it distasteful if the men were to give him the slightest reason to break some of their bones.
A transportation officer came round the back of the van, “You! Shut up, and get down those steps!”
“*** you, pig!” Wild Man shouted back. “You can call me McVicar!”
Transfixed by this fierce madman, not a prisoner said a word.
Refocusing on the male prisoners, Wild Man lowered his voice, and said, “I can’t wait till we’re inside altogether, and it’ll be nice and cosy.” He scanned the line a final time to see if there were any takers. Seeming satisfied, he stepped down, twinkled his eyes at his fiancée, and said, “ Y’alright love?”
The faces of the women commenced to noticeably relax.

 15 Nov 07

Release (4) letters to parents

Four More Days

It’s just after lunch. No sooner had I hid a cheese sandwich smuggled back from the chow hall in my a/c vent and a banana (traded to me by a Jewish-diet-receiving Chicano gangster for some sugar and jelly) in my food smuggling jacket, than Officer A, who’s been on the rampage all week searching cells and doling out disciplinary tickets, stopped at my door.
“Did you get your release sorted out?” she asked.
“Yeah. It’s set for Tuesday not Friday though. I’ve got to do an extra four days.”
“That’s four more days to enjoy our delicious food, to think what put you in prison so you don’t come back, and to enjoy the company of your friends here.”
Kat, in line for CO3 H’s office, turned around and said, “Oo yeah! Jon,” and seductively wiggled his body.
Looking at Kat, Officer A said, “There you go, Jon.”
“Indeed,” I said.
“At least you’re not in a prison in England, I imagine they’re worse.”
“Some of them are like dungeons built centuries ago. They cut prisoners heads off and put them on sticks outside the prisons.”
“They don’t still do that do they?”
“No,” I said, and laughed. “But they did back in the old days.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Four more days is no biggie,” I said.
“That’s four more days of his life he’s never gonna get back,” a prisoner yelled.
“At least it’s not four more years,” the guard said.
“I think I’ll survive,” I said.
When the guard had left, Kat entered my cell and said, “With Xena in the hole, I’ll be stopping by tonight to discuss this parting kiss with you.”
Before I could object, Kat spun on his heels and glided away down the run.

2pm
Just before the swing shift arrived, the prisoners made an attempt to get rid of Officer A (her offences now include going into cells when the occupants are absent and reading personal mail). Apparently, the officer went walking the runs while leaving the control door open – a major security violation, as from the control room all of the cells and gates can be opened. The open door was swiftly brought to the attention of CO3 H, who signed a kite written by the prisoners describing the incident, intended to be read by the Captain. However, full of themselves for being about to get one up on Officer A, the prisoners went and bragged about it to her partner, Officer M. Before the kite had reached the Captain, the plot unfolded, and the guilty officer ’fessed up to the Captain and perhaps secured her position and reign of tyranny here. Officer A will probably start retaliating tomorrow with more cell searches, tickets, and confiscation of property.
“She’ll be goin’ on a killin’ mission tomorrow,” sighed my neighbour, Black Nine.

Email comments to writeinside@hotmail.com or post them below

Copyright © 2006-2007 Shaun P. Attwood

posted by Jon at 3:14 AM 0 comments   

Wednesday, December 05, 2007

Tuesday, December 04, 2007

Sunday, December 02, 2007

07 Nov 07

Dear Mum & Dad

T-Bone’s parting advice moved me greatly, especially when he emphasised how I need to talk to you two when I get home and to get to know more about you as human beings. I agree with him wholeheartedly. Some talks are in order. He also pointed out that Mum’s stress over me adjusting to freedom is grounded in love. I know this, but I don’t want you, Mum to wear yourself out with worry. I’ve caused you enough heartbreak, and couldn’t be more ashamed of and sorry for the hurt I’ve caused you. I want to do whatever I can to lesson your burden.

Mum’s dreams of me with ‘drugged eyes’ still concerns me. The partying I did produced a disaster for all of us. It did not produce the never-ending fun I’d imagined. It produced imprisonment and a chain reaction of emotional damage to the people who love me the most. There’s no way I can allow the set of circumstances that led to that disaster to ever happen again. I did drugs because I felt inadequate. I was unhappy with my sober self and drugs brought out an alter ego that attracted people like a magnet. This persona took over because I lacked the strength of character to be myself. That’s not the case anymore. My character has strengthened, and I’ve become who I am. I no longer feel the need to impress people by acting like a loon. I am happy with who I’ve become. And this transformation is probably the biggest benefit I’ve received from incarceration, and the reason I no longer feel that I need to take drugs to compensate for something I lack in a natural state.

It’s my hope that your feelings of worry will be assuaged if you try focussing not on my past, but on the person I have become, the real me, the me that’s entering the world confident he will not repeat the past disaster, or let anything prevent him from pursuing a positive, healthy, and happy lifestyle.

With love, Jon

 

Sunday, December 16, 2007

Saturday, December 15, 2007

11 Sep 07

On Shanks (Part 1)

The person I interviewed for this blog asked to remain anonymous, and asked that I post it after my release, as he feared the information he provided could be deemed “a threat to the security of the institution.”

“What is a shank?” I asked.
“Any kind of blade or stabbing instrument. Used for slicing or stabbing. You make them differently depending on the purpose.”
“Speaking of purposes: is using a shank the most common method of killing someone in prison?”
“Yes, for killing staff and prisoners.”
“If the purpose is killing someone, what kind of shank is generally used?”
“You base it on what they call an Arkansas toothpick.”
“Which is?”
“An old-style bowie knife (named after Jim Bowie). It’s a long thin double-edged blade, usually six to nine inches long, and it has a handle on it so the whole thing is about twelve to eighteen inches long.”
“How do prisoners obtain shanks?”
“They find the metal”
“From where?”
“From pieces of tables or chairs or anywhere there is metal. Years ago they would use dental floss and Ajax and a little water and they would cut sections from their metal bunks. You get the Ajax wet, make a paste out of it, apply it to the metal, and hold the dental floss and go back and forth with it on the Ajax, and it goes through the metal like a saw. It’s a slow process but it’s not like you’ve got anything other than time on your hands.”
“What other ways to make shanks are there?”
“I’ve seen them made out of TP [toilet paper] and glue, or newspaper and glue, or notepaper and glue.”
“So someone could kill me in here using a paper shank?”
“They’re purely for stabbing.”
“It’s weird to think that someone could kill me with a piece of paper.”
“They have metal tips. If somebody is coming at you with a shank specifically for stabbing with, you know they are serious.”
“Out to kill you?”
“That would be their only purpose”
“How exactly is a paper shank made?”

 

Iron Man v Snake Eyes (Part 2)

“…I screamed at Snake Eyes,” Iron Man said, “‘No, no, man! Not like that! One on one, ***! Me and you.’ I knew he would have no choice but to go for it ’cause I’d called him out in front of all of his friends. He goes, ‘Yeah. Come on then. You ain’t ***.’ I’ll never forget him saying that and thinking to myself, This guy is fucked.
I advanced toward him with my hands in the low-guard position ’cause I knew he was itching to throw the first punch, and from watching him before I knew he was right handed and that would be the hand he would swing with. I could see his body tense. I yelled,‘Swing, ***, swing.’ I had my hands held low so he would feel comfortable swinging. I let his punch come in unblocked and just before it would have broke my nose I lowered my head and his fist smashed into the top of my skull breaking his hand. I heard him cry out in pain. I’d lured him into the whole thing and by then I was right up on him.
Remember how I taught you there’s a tipping point in every fight when you land that one punch that resonates deep in your soul, and you know the fight is yours?”
“Yes,” I said.
“When I hit Snake Eyes with a right hook square in the chin, I felt that feeling. I felt his will crumble. I knew this guy was fucked. I hit him nine more times – hook after hook in the head.
I heard my friend say, ‘Iron Man, that’s enough,’ and he grabbed me by the shoulder, and pulled me back. But not in time to prevent me from hitting Snake Eyes one more time with an uppercut. As he fell to the ground at the feet of the Mexicans, he mumbled, ‘Get him. Get him,’ and passed out.
So he’s laying on the ground. There’s ten Mexicans standing behind him with their eyes bugging out, and here’s me in the fighting stance saying, ‘Yeah, motherfuckers, get me. Who’s next? Come on!’ I was just getting warmed up. The fucking rage was boiling through me – it was like a living thing inside of me – and I wanted nothing more in the world than to fight every single one of them dudes one after the other. They backed off.
Next thing you hear, ‘Lockdown, lockdown!’ and here come the cops.
My celly’s all excited ’cause I’d smashed Snake Eyes. He was tripping, saying, ‘Dude, you’ve really got it going on,’ over and over again. Saying, ‘Dude, wassup!’ with his eyes really big.
The cops came for knuckle checks. One said, ‘You guys on your feet. Let’s see your knuckles.’ My knuckles weren’t messed up at all. I just smiled and held my hands out. It was a smile that said, It wasn’t me, officer. He looked, said, ‘Yeah, right,’ walked out, and slammed our door.
 

 

18 Feb 08

Question Time With A Blood

Trixare4kids wrote: To both the Blood and the Crip: Do you believe that the gang lifestyle was the only one available to you due to your upbringing in a particular neighborhood or your particular circumstances? Does race play a part? What about the people in your neighborhoods who don’t join gangs? What did they do or think differently? Without going into specific details, of course, did you ever feel bad about any of your actions or crimes? If you could rewind your life and go back, would you still join the gang? Why or why not? If you had a little brother about to get “jumped in” - knowing what you know now, would you want him to join? If not, what would you tell him to do instead? What would you tell him to dissuade him?

Bones of South Side Posse Bloods wrote:

Tha Blood.

What’s that B. like!

Let me answer some of your questions.

To your first question. No! First off my parents brought me up as best they could. But I was a knuckle head and wouldn’t listen. I moved out of my parents house around the age of 17 and 18 because I wouldn’t live by their rules. I believe everyone is able to make their own choices in life. I just chose the one my parents didn’t want me to choose. “My bad Mom and Dad.”
As for being in a particular neighborhood, no I don’t think that had much to do with it, because I have homeboys that used to gangbang hard with me, but have never seen inside of a prison. I believe one has his own business and has a family, wife, kids, etc…The other has been working for one company for about 18 years and now is married with kids. For the record, I still don’t believe I pushed him into that bullet he took in the stomach. I believe I pushed him out of the way from taking it directly in the stomach. Ha, ha. (He lived.) Shouts out to Chris G., Mark (ears).
So I guess if they could make it out of the game and be successful in the life they chose, it can’t be because of the neighborhood we grew up in. It’s free will, and as they got to their mid 20s they decided to slow down their involvement. Plus, neither of them did hard drugs.

As for me when I chose to join a gang I chose it for life! I’ll get back to that in a minute. But as for particular circumstances, the only thing I can think of is the popularity it brought. Maybe if I would of lost my first fight in high school as a freshman, I wouldn’t have turned from somewhat of a nerd to a Blood! Well I fought that guy twice. First on school grounds we got busted by security. Then we fought again at lunch time in the park. I was a nobody and he was like one of the cool kids. It was just me and two friends and their sister that went to the park. We were the first ones there, then we look towards the school and here he comes with about fifty people or more. So of course I was nervous. But after a few punches the nervousness was gone and the skills kicked in. At first everyone was cheering for him, then a few people started to cheer for me. I met a good friend there that day “One Eye Ramon.” (South Mountain High School in Phoenix.) It was a long fight with short breaks for him to put his shoe back on, for him to try and stop all of the bleeding, and for him to get off his back. About a 15 minute fight. I broke his nose and he couldn’t stop the bleeding. So he said, “I’ll fight you some other time when I ain’t bleeding.” It was over and we never fought again. So that was the only particular thing I can think of that changed my life. That’s when I became popular. Sometimes I wish I would of lost that fight. But hey, it is what it is. Now I’m a Blood doing time instead of a professional athlete.

As far as race, no it doesn’t play a part in our gang. South Side Posse Blood gang was started by Mexicans. There was also three known black guys who were related. T.T., Jerome, and B.J.. Shouts out to them for keeping it real. B-up doggs. Especially you B.J.. There was also a few white boys like Bart-Man R.I.P.. But mostly Mexican. It didn’t matter what race you were as long as you were down to ride for the hood. Shoot, one of my best friends from the hood is an Italian. And we put in a lot of work together for the hood. And I mean a lot. Robbing, stealing, fighting, shootings, jacking, etc…Shout out to my dogg Scrappy for keeping it real. Not for 5 or 10 years but for life. B-up dogg!!! We never flip, you know what I mean.

As for people who lived in the neighborhoods that weren’t from a gang, most of them mind their own business. Some tried to start a neighborhood watch. But it didn’t work because we were the ones that watch over the neighborhood.

Did I feel bad about my actions and crimes. No! I never felt bad about my crimes, except the ones I got caught for. Ha, ha. As for my actions, I feel bad for all the *** I put my Mom and Dad through, and I plan on making it up to them.

If I could rewind my life and go back would I still join a gang? Hmmmm. No and yes. No because there is little loyalty amongst gang members. Yeah, it starts off like loyalty but when the *** hits the fan, that’s when loyalty starts to fall. I’m not just talking about loyalty like we will go and ride and kill this guy. I’m talking about loyalty all the way. If we killed this guy and you got away and I’m doing time for it and don’t tell on you, I’ve showed you my loyalty. Now will you show me yours and write, visit if possible, put money on my books, through all my time.Will you help my kid or kids I left out on the streets, etc…Or if I die will you help my kid and parents out when ever possible? That is what I don’t see a lot of in the gang life. Maybe two or three out of a hundred will do something like that.
Yes, because I loved the life style of it. I’m an action junkie. But I wouldn’t join just any gang. I would of tried to start my own gang and tried to be a leader of the gang. It wouldn’t be a big one, just about 10 people or 15. And we would all have to be drug free, no dope fiends. And we would all be loyal to each other or die. I don’t know if you could call it a gang, maybe just a crew and we would be about making money. All day every day. Legal and illegal. I think where gangs go wrong is when they don’t have a leader or a plan and they do drugs. Knowing what I know now if I could I would of stayed away from drugs, that was my down fall. I never got caught when I did a crime unless I was on drugs, or had half hearted homies involved with the crime “busters.”

Knowing what I know now I would not let my little brother join a gang. I would tell him he can do whatever he wants, but I would show him all the disloyalty that’s in a gang. Then I would take him and show him a dead body and tell him this is what happens when you get caught slipping ot when your homies leave you hanging. I would tell him instead of joining a gang he should do good in school and try to become an athlete, a professional one. Because that’s where the money is at. And that’s what it takes to make it in this world. Money! Also let him know that when you join it’s for life not just your teenage and early 20s. And ask him if he is ready to die or spend the rest of his life in prison.

You see, I look at gang members like this, when you joined a gang it’s for life not 5 or 10 years. It’s not, well I’m getting older and got a lady and kids. That’s when most x-gang members get killed. Because think about it, when you were younger you killed a few people, who had brothers and good homies that loved the one you killed. And do you think if they see you 10 years later and have a chance to kill you they won’t.
Also I have homeboys that are locked up in prison for the rst of their lives, and homeboys that are dead, and a real good homeboy that’s in a wheelchair for life. (B-up Q. Thanks for being there for me, dogg.) Because they represented the hood to the fullest, what am I supposed to do, tell them that they died for nothing or tell my other ones that I’m out of the gang life because I’m in my 30s. I don’t think so! B-up to all you true Bloods and I’ll get at you doggs when I get out. And for all the phonies you are on borrowed time!!!

I guess what I’m trying to tell people that tell me I’m too old for being involved still in the gang life, is that I put in a lot of work in the past that helped put our hood on the map. But now that I’m older, not too many people that know me will cross me. Because I will if I have to go back to that brazy *** I used to do as a youngster. It’s about when you’re older to help out the fallen doggs and their families if possible. And to school the good and real youngsters. And to start to learn to stack your bread and count your chips.

Well I hope I answered your questions. B-up B.J., Q, Negro, Scrappy, Bucky R.I.P. Chapo, LAZ, Bartman and wher you at Chris G. and Dru.

Until pen meets paper again B-up

Bones

P.S. Loyalty usually ends when you’re locked-up. Out of sight out of mind.
 

 

Friday, February 29, 2008

Wednesday, February 27, 2008

27 Feb 08

From Frankie (Letter 2)

Frankie - A Mexican Mafia hitman and leader of prison "booty bandits" who has been proposing our gay marriage ever since he saw me apply antifungal ointment to the bedsores on my buttocks at the Madison Street jail, where he was held on murder charges.

An additional 15 to 40 years may be added on to Frankie’s prison sentence. Here’s his latest letter.

Feb-18-08

Englandman,

I’ll dee-cide cuz I’m the man in this relationship.

My friend, enclosed is a copy of what I’m being charged with.

COUNT ONE: (PROMOTING PRISON CONTRABAND, A CLASS TWO FELONY)

COUNT TWO: (POSSESSION OF A NARCOTIC DRUG, A CLASS FOUR FELONY)

COUNT THREE: (POSSESSION OF DRUG PARAPHERNALIA, A CLASS SIX FELONY)

This fuckin State of Arizona doesn’t like me at all. I was offered a plea of four to twelve years and I said *** that. Anyway, on April 25-08 I will be back in jail going to trial. If I win I will be released on Sept 24-08, but I doubt it very much. If I lose I’ll end up with anywhere from 15 to 40 years. It’s crazy how these fuckers work. But it’s cuz of my background. Remember in 2003 I beat that case of them two alleged murders, and all that other stuff. So here’s their chance to lay me down.

As for me running the jail, that means I was The Boss, The Number One Vato. When I got there on August 17 of 2007 I received kites from the Carnalismo telling me I had the keys to the whole 3rd floor jail, meaning no one does anything without my say so. Let me say this, Tucson County jail is the best jail I’ve ever been. They feed you real good. I honestly thought I was at a nice hotel. I’m so used to that nasty Madison Street jail in Phoenix run by that *** Sheriff Joe Arpaio. Running the jail also meant that I got access to anything I can put my hands on . . . for example, cheetos! That’s what I looked for at first. I ended up with liver, meaning a black cheeto.
Anyway, the horny guy that I am, I had to get my issue. Plus I needed someone to clean my cell and do my laundry. I would have him come in my cell and clean it. I would have him naked cleaning the floor on his hands and knees while I lay on my bunk and watched him. By the time he was done cleaning I would be nice and hard and he would take care of that too.
Englandman, the black dude was a pretty light complected *** and he loved the way I treated him. Hopefully he will still be there when I go back in April. She called herself Chocolate cuz it melts in her mouth not in her hands. And especially in her ass – mercy!

Englandman, don’t forget your husband. I still own you and don’t you forget it! Don’t make me put a hit on you and have one of your fingers chopped off. I can still remember all that hair on your ass – hey now!
When you’re in prison, slowly but surely everybody forgets you. My poor heart can’t take much more abuse. I’m getting too old for that ***. By the way, have you got you a piece of ass yet? My friend, start sending me pictures of the girls you go with in swim suits. Or even naked. I will be the judge of who you mess with. I’ll dee-cide and you better not forget that!

Give your Mom, Dad, and Sister my Love and Regards.

Much Love & Respect,

=Frankie=

PS Take pictures of stuff in England for me, like the palace where the Queen lives. Things that are beautiful from England.


Frankie also wrote this message inside a drawing of his hand:

Dear Frankie’s Fans,

Since Shaun left me and went back to England I am a lonely soul. I have transformed myself into this piece of paper. Right now I am having sex with your fingers. Please pass me on to someone else because I’m really horny.

To learn more about the prisoners Jon writes about click here.

Does Frankie deserve an additional 15 to 40 years on his sentence for getting caught in prison with three-quarters of a gram of heroin?

 

Sunday, March 23, 2008

23 Mar 08

Month 3

The last time my parents went on holiday and left me in charge of the house (twenty years ago) I crashed Mum’s car. So it was no surprise that they hid their car keys before recently flying to Tenerife. Leaving me after our three-month reunion, Mum departed teary eyed – but only out of concern for the safety of her house plants. She wouldn’t have abandoned her plants if Posh Bird hadn’t promised to cater to their watery needs. As of today the plants are fine. I’ve watered them as per Mum’s written instructions. I also followed her instructions for the washing machine.

In Arizona’s state prisons, a laundry service is provided twice a week. Entering prison you are given a net laundry bag that you must immediately write your cell number on or else you won’t get your laundry back. Problem is, if you write it with a pen it just washes off – bon voyage laundry. So you have two choices. The first is to pull the top off a pen and to blow into the refill and write your cell number with the thick stream of ink that flows out of the other end. It may take a day to dry, but it’ll survive many washes before it fades and it’s time to give it a top up. The second is to use a marker. But markers are contraband. So you have to locate the local holder of a stolen marker, and have something like a soup to bribe him with. It’s best to go see him laundry bag in hand, because he’s usually disinclined to let his stolen marker out of sight, and if you lose it you’ll owe any amount he decides upon pain of being smashed.
You put your laundry bag in a cart. The laundry porters collect the carts the next morning. It comes back later in the day. If you take a clean item of laundry and put it in a sink of water, the water turns filthy. Which is why hand-washing services run by prisoners thrive.
Sometimes whole batches of laundry go missing. Forms must be filled out, and it can take months for replacement laundry to be issued. When that happens, you’ll see inmates going door to door begging for old socks, boxers, and T-shirts.

And laundry’s not all I’ve done. I’ve cooked – over and above cheese on toast. There’s nothing like hunger to motivate you to cook things. I even cooked Posh Bird an Indian curry thanks to Dad’s instructions. She ate it, survived, and actually praised the meal. Knowing she wouldn’t believe I cooked it, I made evidence: I videotaped myself in the kitchen converting a lowly pan of fried onions into a vegetarian Rogan Josh.
Also, I’ve hand washed dishes, cutlery, pots, pans – because my parents banned me from using the dishwasher out of fear I’d break it somehow or other, which I probably would as it’s old and fragile. I’ve vacuumed – well, just today, because they get back tonight. The only thing I didn't do was open the curtains, but I did put the plants in the kitchen for sunlight purposes.

Last Tuesday, Posh Bird put our relationship on hold again. She claimed to be under too much exam stress to be dealing with a relationship, but I suspect it is because I chose two bad DVDs for us to watch in a row. It seems movies directed by Tarantino aren’t what they used to be before I was imprisoned. Posh Bird put our relationship on hold just days after I had bought her an Easter chocolate champagne bottle, which I couldn’t regift to anyone else because the lady at Thornton’s embossed Posh Bird’s name on it. It was a close call between eating it and giving it to her, but I did the latter. It must have somewhat compensated for the lousy DVD picks, because Posh Bird has asked me to spend this evening with her spooning on the couch watching a DVD. A DVD picked by her of course. A chick flick. More penance. However, we have agreed to postpone preliminary discussions about taking our relationship off hold until after her exams.

This month I finished a draft of the first part of my second book. Part one is tentatively titled “Illegal-Alien Stockbroker.” It’s 17 chapters, 21,291 words. It’s a series of anecdotes leading up to my immersion in Arizona’s rave scene.
To a certain extent I am reliving my life vicariously as I write about it. In order to get details and dialogue right, I’ve used the Internet to find many people from my past and arranged telephonic interviews with them. These include my old boss. I am grateful to those people for taking the time to help me. And it’s interesting to find out how their lives have progressed since I knew them. Sadly, I also discovered that a former right-hand man of mine, the head of my security team, Cody “The Admiral” Bates, hung himself. He left a message saying our times spent together were the best of his life, and he hopes we’ll raise a beer and think of him. Cody was one of my soberest friends, but his life spiralled out of control after our arrests.
Tomorrow I’ll start part two of the book – I’m bracing myself to relive that madness. It’ll probably take all summer to write. I’m expecting it to be well over 50,000 words. Then part three will cover my time in Sheriff Joe Arpaio’s jail system prior to the blog.

I’ll end this blog with an excerpt from Chapter 13, which is about Chupa, a small weekly rave held in downtown Phoenix around 1994-95. Deejays such as Eddie Amador, Gary Menichello, Pete Salaz, Emile and Sandra Collins spun there. Bear in mind this is just a draft and it needs some tidying up.

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

Monday, July 21, 2008

Saturday, July 19, 2008