It’s a speech impediment that afflicts the great majority of Americans. I’m talking about punctuating a verbalized thought with “um” and/or “ya know.” Here would be an example: “I was considering um…American foreign policy. And um…it’s about ya know…good versus evil and um…right versus wrong. Try formulating a thought in words without injecting either “um” or “ya know.” It’s not that easy.
I remember listening to an interview with a cast member from a Woody Allen film. Asked whether she was coached on dialogue during what appeared to be an improvisational scene, the actor answered “All Woody had to offer was ‘just don’t say um.'” I’m with Woody. Continue Reading
It’s official. The world has gone to hell in a hand basket. Thank you STORMY DANIELS. You’ve pushed us over the edge.
Endless commentary about the size of DONALD TRUMP’S hands has led at least one political opponent to insinuate that maybe it isn’t just the commander-in-chief’s hands that are small. And now thanks to Ms. Daniels, we (allegedly) get the lowdown on Trump’s junk in her soon-to-be-released tell-all book “Full Disclosure.” Continue Reading
Several months ago it came to my attention that HBO was shooting at the same location where I volunteer every Saturday. And then a few weeks later, I discovered the show was actually “THE DEUCE,” a throwback epic saga about hookers and pornographic productions all taking place around the old legendary 42nd Street of 40 years ago.
Yes, I’d seen pieces from the set when humping cardboard upstairs and into the back room. But I couldn’t remember one occasion while watching the entire first year of “The Deuce” when I realized that the crew was shooting a scene where I volunteer. That changed last night. I had the “aha” moment 45 minutes into week 2 of Season 2. There it was: Cops talking shop right where I serve food to the homies! Continue Reading
I know…her real name is OMAROSA MANIGAULT. But you get the idea. Pressed for time a few days ago (the library was closing), I checked out “Unhinged,” the newly-published autobiography/expose of Donald Trump, just to have something to read. Not to worry! I might be shallow…but I’m not that much so that I take Trump’s reality token seriously.
Omarosa is essentially Donald Trump in drag. Just smarter. Her entire being seems centered around fame and fortune. Omarosa’s book is about as self-serving as it comes. But there were a few moments. Like when she reveals that Trump wanted to be sworn into the presidency not on a bible (as every president before him had) but on a copy of “The Art of the Deal!” He figured it would generate sales and be yet another excellent branding opportunity. When she admonished him about what a poor idea that was, Trump backtracked and said he was only kidding. But the big O wasn’t buyin’ it. She thought he was serious. Continue Reading
My federal pretrial officer and I are about as friendly as we could possibly be given the circumstances. Once a month I report to his office for a meeting which only requires a few minutes. But he’s actually a decent and interesting guy. So I spend a lot of time with him that I don’t have to.
Just yesterday, I was sitting in the outer office reading OMAROSA’S book (what can I say? I’ve read most of the new non-fiction at the NYPL, so I chose her bull shit) when I heard another defendant say he had to get back to work and then mentioned his pretrial officer’s name – which I noted was the same as mine. So when Robert came out and called on me first, I offered to let the guy with the job jump the line (for which he was extremely appreciative) offering “I’m reading. No problem.” Continue Reading
Well apparently, it isn’t just me and six others of my alleged co-conspirators the cops are after for promoting prostitution. It’s a regiment of their own as well!
Yesterday, 7 NYPD were arrested (including 2 detectives and 3 sergeants) charged with enterprise corruption and promoting prostitution. Dozens of others may fall in the coming weeks. Sometimes it’s difficult to suss out exactly what these cops really did to draw the ire of the authorities. But after reading a few articles (and even though the indictment is not yet available online), I’m getting the picture. And here’s where it gets interesting. Continue Reading
I just finished reading RONAN FARROW’S New Yorker article detailing the behavior that has derailed the career of entertainment icon LES MOONVES. All the accusations are pretty much the same. Talented woman takes a meeting with Les and before she knows it, the dude has his hand up her skirt…or tongue in her mouth…or is outright on top of her in a flash.
The women were all uniformly traumatized emotionally – though not physically. He didn’t actually hurt anybody. Les was just tryin’ to score. We have no idea how many women went along with the program. What we do know is that those interviewees who related that they’d rejected his advances all felt he’d derailed their careers. And more than one stated that he threatened to do just that verbally after the rejection. Continue Reading
I know I mentioned my dislike for this term and anybody who would use it in my last entry. But I feel the need to expand on the use of the phrase and those who would let it pass between his lips. The desire to “skull fuck” a woman is not cool! Nor is anybody who would seek to engage in such activity.
I wonder if the guys who enjoy skull fucking truly understand how much they hate women. I’m betting not! Fortunately, I personally have never had a cock shoved down my throat. But I have gagged a few times and I didn’t find it to be a pleasurable feeling. And I can’t imagine a woman would either. Continue Reading
Ya know…there’s hozzizz…and then there’s serious hozzizz! And SHERA BECHARD would definitely classify in the latter category. I’m sorry! I find it extremely difficult to believe that the person who looks like STORMY DANIELS’ sister was involved with ELLIOT BROIDY (big shot republican fundraiser) for anything but the money. I mean…look at this fat fuck. And look at her. If that ain’t a “C’mon, man” I don’t know what is.
I have to admit that the details of this new scandal made me laugh almost as hard as when I read that AL SHARPTON’S viagra was found in SANDY RUBENSTEIN’S medicine cabinet when the latter was subjected to a legal search pursuant to an accusation made by a stripper Rubenstein was (allegedly) drooling over. Continue Reading
Years ago I wrote an entry gently poking fun at the way some of my clients butchered the English language. Without knowing it, they’d made me laugh out loud with somewhat hysterical statements the likes of “Yes, that’s my really picture,” “Billy-ah! You can coming over,” and “Don’t go Billy-ah. I’m boring” (which as it turned out, was exactly why I was going). And it happened again yesterday courtesy not of an escort – but from the Chinese woman who runs the show at Trinity Church. Continue Reading
In a conversation with a United States District Attorney several years ago, my adversary pointed out that by not paying my taxes, I had shortchanged other citizens who do pay their fair share. And thus, I was up the creek. Fair enough. I lost 2/3rds of my stash – plus six figures in legal fees – and still face the possibility of prison. This is my reality. Continue Reading
It was a mere 46 years ago that Harper Collins published the infamous “HAPPY HOOKER” book. And I finally read it cover to cover yesterday. I know…a little late for the party. Despite its being a huge hit at the time, I mostly found it to be a snore. I think I’d heard every one of the author’s stories in some form or another a hundred times before. The only reason I actually plowed through the entire narrative stemmed from the opening chapter in which we find the HH in familiar territory (at least for me) – a holding pen at (drum roll) the Tombs. I thought a catharsis might be in the offing but alas, it was not to be.
XAVIERA HOLLANDER is hardly a sympathetic character. She describes a life in which virtually anybody who attracts her feels likewise vice versa. For regular guys like me, that happens rarely if at all. And here this skank gets lucky in that realm constantly. Call me crazy but if I’m on a party boat (fishing that is), and I see the girl hauling up the pool fish, I might want to to cut her line. What can I say? Continue Reading
It’s remarkable how quickly and easily New Yorkers can voyage to natural beauty – given the size and scope of the concrete dystopia in which we reside. You’d think it would take hours and hours and miles and miles to leave all the urban blight behind. But there’s actually a downside to nature’s proximity. No class assholes can muck up the beauty that lies so close. Continue Reading
Watching the dual sagas of PAUL MANAFORT and MICHAEL COHEN unfold is as uncomfortable as it is familiar. For I know what it is to be caught in the federal grinder. Still, as bad as it might be for me, I wouldn’t trade places with either of these guys for a million bucks.
Manafort elicits no sympathy from this guy. And here’s why: I have no patience for a schmuck who made $30 million in the course of five years and is such a conspicuous spender, he has to resort to falsifying documents in a futile attempt to get a bank loan to keep his financial boat afloat. Knucklehead! How much money do you need? And then after failing to get the funds he so sorely needed, the dude (allegedly) offers up a Secretary of the Army or Treasury job to a bank CEO to finally get that all-important loan. Bush league. What a slob. Only a guy like Trump could call him a good person. He’s a fucking douchebag. Continue Reading
So beautiful was the weather yesterday that I opted out of volunteering even though the bosses promised I would reap a veritable bounty from the pantry if I showed up. Instead I hopped the train to one of my favorite hiking trails.
Those of you who’ve ridden on Metro North are well aware that unless the train is empty, you will be seated just two feet behind the people in front of you. If they are under five feet tall you might not see them. But they are there nonetheless. Generally, we all deal with this reality in the interest of getting somewhere at a reasonable price. But yesterday when Shmoopie face and Love Doll Boy sat in front of me, I kind of wished I’d dropped a few hundred bucks on a limo. Continue Reading
As described previously, Trinity Church hosts a fair number of students who come to serve the less fortunate. Sometimes they’re from private schools – and sometimes from their public counterparts. Sometimes they’re from the NY suburbs and other times, they hail from places like Minnesota and Alabama. I find them all interesting – but none like the intellectual elite who visited this past week.
Getting a decent education in a New York City public school is a challenging proposition. I don’t think anybody would dispute that statement. Aware of this reality, educators have set up a few elite public schools to benefit those who are financially-challenged but at once intellectually gifted. To identify the elite, the city administers a standardized test, assigning each student with just a number so as not to discriminate. Nobody knows whether the student attached to that number is black, white, Hispanic, Asian, female or male. Continue Reading
When it comes to cases of mistaken identity, they are unfortunately not all that uncommon. Take a cabby I once knew named James. James was in the habit of depositing cash in an ATM around midnight each night he drove a cab (mind you, this was before credit card machines when everybody paid cash and by midnight, we’d actually have enough money to be worth killing) to avoid being “relieved” of his night’s earnings.
Well…one night he made his usual deposit. The next guy who came along and used that same ATM turned out to be a murderer – and it was his photo that should have been featured on the front page of one of the Big Apple’s tabloids. But somehow, James got the nod! By the time the morons who placed James’ picture in their tabloid figured out the mistake, they were up to their asses in a lawsuit filed by my cabby friend. Continue Reading
No doubt, the passing of ARETHA FRANKLIN has affected many people. The Queen of Soul sang the soundtrack to so many of our lives. But Aretha’s exit from this world has special meaning for me. I was just 11 years old when daddy came on one of his too rare visits after my parents’ divorce. Always with some records in tow with which to impress mom, my brother and me, daddy played a just-recorded record he’d produced on a new artist with the preface “This girl is fantastic. It’s too bad Columbia doesn’t know how to sell a black artist. Eventually, we’ll lose her. But that doesn’t diminish her amazing talent.” (I’m paraphrasing here). The new singer whose record he played that day was Aretha Franklin. Aretha’s passing almost felt like my father had died again. Continue Reading
Predictably, once the news hit the Daily News about my surprising financial riches, there were escorts who would snuggle up to me in some poorly-camouflaged attempt at accessing my wallet (which by the way, never has even a dollar inside). None of this surprised me as “the crew” are farmers of a sort – their crop being greenbacks and their farms the guys who would yield the almighty bumper crop.
But it did come as a surprise that a volunteer would bust a move – albeit with much more style and subtlety than your average flatbacker. While mingling with the volunteers last Saturday, one of the cuter girls addressed me as “Dollar Bill”…high-fived me hello (I hadn’t seen her for a while)…and then added “I need a million dollars and a pony.” Continue Reading
Every year I will at least once a) take the 60 mile bike ride from East 10th Street to the foot of the Tappan Zee Bridge on the New Jersey side – and back – and b) ride the train to Cold Spring…hike the 3 miles to the trailhead…climb Breakneck Mountain…and take the trails back to the Cold Spring station. Both take a considerable amount of effort – geriatric standing or not.
So yesterday was the Breakneck expedition. Silly me, I thought the temperature and humidity had moderated some. And maybe it had. But you wouldn’t know it by the way hikers (me included) sweated their asses off going up that ridge. It was hot! I must have mopped my brow 200 times in the course of the hike. Continue Reading
Before the last legal nightmare, my life was boring. Now? It’s beyond boring. I dare not associate with any of my old “friends” for fear I’ll catch another promotion charge. Thus, my entire interaction with other humans comes via volunteering – which I only do part time (though virtually every day) – and (sorry to say) not with people I find particularly lively. And so, if I haven’t mentioned it before, I’m bored to death.
While I pay for cable and most of the premium channels, I find it impossible to fill my day with worthy entertainment. And so…I read…and then I nap…and then I read…and then I nap…and then oh forget it. You know what’s next. Continue Reading
I know it’s hard to believe, but once upon a time I had a cute girlfriend who loved me unconditionally. I was but 19 years old and in college when I began dating Jane. In retrospect, I probably should have married her. Certainly, I wasn’t gonna do any better. But that’s all water under the bridge now. If I ever thought “Maybe I should look Jane up and see how she’s doing. We should hang out”…I can forget that now.
For what reason I can’t recall, just this past Friday, I decided to Google an old college roommate. Arnie has a very common name but I knew if I placed “MD” after that name I might find him. And sure enough, there was Arnie, a colitis and Chrone’s disease specialist, working at a hospital in Washington State – and still married with 4 children. In fact, I went to the wedding! Continue Reading
As a student of American History, I’m well aware that the rose-colored glasses our elementary, secondary and high school teachers would have us view our country through might not be founded in reality.
Just for example, we study the Mexican War and resulting annexation of the western third of our territory as if Mexico did something to start that war. But the sorry fact is the USA busted an imperialistic move on a weak nation secure in the knowledge that Mexico would capitulate and American would annex California in the deal. And leave us not talk about how the invading hordes of European immigrants who would become citizens of the USA treated native Americans. We all know about that. Continue Reading
Call it the SHU (acronym for special housing unit)…or SEG…or ISO (as they say in the Tombs). It’s all the same thing. Solitary confinement in the context of the Manhattan Detention Center means the inmate subjected to that style of incarceration can’t leave his cell – and can’t make a phone call. His meals are slipped under his cell door which as with all cell doors there, has a 4 inch space between the floor and that sliding slab of metal.
So what does an inmate have to do for the privilege of gaining entry to the bad boys club? I’m not exactly sure of all the ways a detainee can merit separation. But I can tell you what I observed. Calling an hispanic corrections officer a fucking spic doesn’t do it! And mouthing off to a female CO “Fuck you, bitch” likewise didn’t earn the move! But here are two things that do: Continue Reading
If I didn’t know it before all the legal drama that currently defines my life, I certainly do now. The authorities will go to considerable lengths to strengthen their case against a target. This reality first presented itself even before “the visit” (of five years ago).
An SEO guru told me I should link my Facebook account (which I barely used) with each and every blog post in order to maximize my Google rank. So following his instructions, I did just that without any odd mishaps until one day, twenty or so members requested to be my friend. It was only until I’d accepted the fifteenth or so that I noticed the girl I’d just friended was 15 years old! Continue Reading
So let’s say you’re a big music fan and spend hours a day bopping to your favorite sounds. What happens when you get locked up in the Tombs? Initially, you’re mostly out of luck. Whatever music you hear will come from the television in the common area – mostly in the form of jingles playing behind the commercials. Forevermore, I will be reminded of my vacation at the Tombs whenever I hear the song “These Are a Few of My Favorite Things.” It’s the music from some commercial or other I heard at least 25 times during my stay.
But once the unit’s commissary day rolls around, inmates have an opportunity to improve the situation. Made available for purchase by the corrections department is a see-through Sony radio, ear buds, and batteries – all for about $22. Basically, the unit resembles an old Sony Walkman. Whether it’s AM or AM/FM I do not know. I assume it’s the latter – which even with both bands, offers the listener significantly fewer choices than if he were on the outside. I’m not a big fan of commercial radio but still, if I were in for a while, I’d get that radio if for no other reason than to ascertain what time it was while locked in. Peering out the translucent slat in my cell, looking for hints of dawn’s early light would no longer be necessary. Continue Reading
Since the day IRS agents came a-knockin’ at my door, I’ve done a lot of research in preparation for the possibility of my incarceration. And one admonition I remembered when entering the Tombs was to beware of people offering favors during the early minutes and hours after I got locked up. Yet despite all my reading and the little voice inside my head telling me to beware, I managed to get hustled in those first few hours.
While the arresting officers did offer to let me make a phone call shortly after apprehending me, I declined, thinking I’d get ROR’d – and didn’t need to bother anybody with my unfortunate circumstances. I’ve made worse decisions during this whole nightmare but in retrospect, I’d have been better advised to accept their offer. It wasn’t until more than a day later that I got the opportunity to make that phone call. Yes, my public defender had promised to call my cousin after I was escorted from the court room. But I had no idea if he’d gotten through to her or whether she’d begun the arduous task of qualifying to bail me out. I knew I’d be in for a week. But I was hoping miscommunications wouldn’t make my stay longer. Continue Reading
In our modern society, questionable statements of fact by one person are generally followed by another’s Google search to verify the first individual’s claim. And thus, know-it-alls get outed for their indiscretion. But not so in the joint. Know-it-alls get to operate with impunity in that Google-deprived setting.
Enter a guy I’ll call Harry, a thirty or forty-something black inmate of European heritage who speaks English with a heavy French accent. While watching a soccer match with the boys, I remarked that I never liked soccer and disliked playing it as a child because owing to the size of the field, all the running involved wasn’t for me. In response to that statement, Harry claimed that in fact, a soccer field is just about the same size as an American football field. Somehow, I felt it looked significantly larger, but Harry assured me that all the lines on a football field have fooled me into thinking it’s smaller than it really is. Without Google for verification, I simply let it go figuring “Who the fuck cares, really? Regardless of the field size, soccer’s a snore by me. Time to go read a book.” Continue Reading
I think it’s safe to say that career criminals view the world differently from law-abiding citizens. They’ll excuse – and even advocate – the behavior that lands them in places like the Manhattan Detention Center. But a take on inmate machismo I learned during my incarceration really struck me as odd. Allow me to share.
Somewhere around midway through the marathon 20 hour intake process, a group of us reprobates were sent from intake up to medical, where we’re weighed, pee and blood-tested, and have our blood pressure taken. In fact, a few guys didn’t want to submit to the blood test until they discovered that refusal carried incarceration in ISO, which means you never leave your cell and can’t use the phone.
While awaiting my turn to see a doctor of Caribbean descent whose accent was so strong I had difficulty understanding his questions, one inmate observed out loud that he used to think that all men who crossed their legs while sitting were gay. But in fact, he knows a few guys who do just that (though not tightly), who aren’t. To this declaration, another of my compadres disagreed. By him, any guy who crosses his legs in any manner while sitting sucks cock. Case closed. At this revelation, I a) shook my head to myself…and b) made sure to never cross my legs in the slam. And there were several times while reading in our unit’s open area, when I began to do just that and then caught myself before being labeled homosexual. Continue Reading
Suffice it to say that I am currently stuck smack dab in the jaws of a two front legal dilemma – faced with the real prospect of serving time in prison. So the question might arise as to how I reacted after being sprung from the Tombs – and what is my current mental condition. I’m amazed at how well I’m taking the strain.
The threat of serving prison time is nothing new to me. I’ve been living in federal limbo for five years on that front. People freaked out when they read the Daily News feature in October of 2016 thinking I’d just been apprehended. But that was in fact very old news. The feds raided me on July 29, 2013 and I still await sentencing on that charge. With respect to the specter of incarceration, I view my week in the Manhattan Detention Center as an orientation of sorts. Whatever the future holds, I’m not going anywhere as bad as the Tombs. And that’s an odd comfort. I’ve survived the initial trial by fire. Continue Reading
Back when I went to Camp All America (basically a summer session of New York Military Academy), showering and shitting were done completely out in the open. Thirty eight kids shared two shower heads and three toilets with absolutely no partition or privacy. So one might ask “Is that what it’s like in the joint?”
Well…I’m glad to say that times have changed. Figuring (and rightly so in my opinion) that such public displays might breed homosexuality and/or violence, the powers that be afford inmates their privacy while shitting and showering. I’ve already indicated that in the Tombs, each man has his own cell complete with a sink and toilet. So I won’t repeat except to say when it came time for a sit-down, you were free to stay as long as you wanted with nobody checking on you unless they chose to peer through the window on your cell door. Continue Reading
One thing I wondered about as the specter of jail or prison time loomed over my head for the past 5 years, was whether I’d be able to get enough sleep when and if I went in. I figured that 8 uninterrupted hours of quiet time was a fantasy I wouldn’t even bother to entertain. And as it turned out, I was dead on. Despite, I did not exit my incarceration sleep-deprived. But since, I sleep no longer than four hours at a time – owing to what my body is apparently still used to from being locked up.
In theory, 9 PM to 5 AM when almost all inmates are locked in would be that 8 hours of quiet time. But that’s not exactly how it worked. At 9, we without immediate job duties were confined to our cells. But several of the inmates remained outside sweeping, mopping and moving tables and chairs each night. That racket continued for at least an hour after lock-in time. Additionally, guys would shout out to each other from the confines of their cells so effectively, relative quiet didn’t really begin until after 10 PM. Continue Reading
While conducting a little email intercourse (of the verbal variety) with a “friend” yesterday, she let me know that on advice of somebody or other and pursuant to my current nightmare, she would not be associating with me until after the next court date. Owing to her precarious position concerning the custody of her child, she felt that action prudent. I get that – except that at some point, she moved a drug-addled junky girlfriend into her apartment who no doubt shot up on the premises while the child wasn’t looking. Inconsistency notwithstanding…not a huge problem. It’s not like I’m in love.
But the exchange got me to thinking. This girl is one of a company of women who walked away scot-free under the current legal initiative. She was in the trenches doing what the girls do and for reasons only the New York DA could tell you, went unprosecuted. I surmise the assumption is that those who own or run a business in the escort realm are the masterminds who would manipulate simple-minded worker bees who if the bosses weren’t around availing the girls of the opportunity to ply their wares, wouldn’t be doing what they’re doing. Continue Reading
In a previous entry, I claimed to be the only white boy in my unit while locked up in The Tombs. That’s not exactly true. For the first three days of my visit, there was another caucasian along with me. Crackhead Charlie (what I called him for obvious reasons) was a piece of work all right. A tile layer by trade (when he was employed), Charlie spent most of his time (by his own admission) either stealing or smoking crack. No fewer than 30 times had he been in and out of custody thanks to his constant illegal activity and addiction to the rock.
At 49 years of age and close to medically obese, Charlie wasn’t really a tough guy. But that didn’t mean he wouldn’t sound off if he fucking felt like it – a reality which got him into trouble when his mouth flew out of control. As a person with an inquiring mind, I questioned Charley about the worst place he was ever locked up. His answer was Rikers, where after saying something sassy to a crip, he awakened to a severe beating dished out by no fewer than 8 of the offended inmate’s brothers. Continue Reading
As I ponder my current dire circumstances, certain ironies and hypocrisies associated with my condition rear their ugly heads. Without revealing too much, I can convey to my readership that I am currently being prosecuted pursuant to an initiative which has been in the works for many months and possibly even years. As proof of that supposition, I offer part of the prosecution discovery package which cites an email I sent in April of 2015.
And what that means is the District Attorney under whose watch this case commenced is one ERIC SCHNEIDERMAN. Mr. Schneiderman is no longer our state’s DA because he recently resigned after it was alleged by no fewer than 3 of his previous girlfriends that during the act of sexual intercourse, he spit in their faces and in one case, told a dark-skinned Indian girlfriend that she was his “brown slave.” Continue Reading
I don’t mean to throw shade on the federal government (for obvious reasons), but I’d be remiss in my self-appointed reporter duties if I didn’t comment on three recent circumstances that have left me shaking my head.
First up…social security. Studying my statement (available on the government website), I see the amended returns and pursuant SS contributions are not in evidence on my report. In short, the IRS has not told SS about the seizure, plea, nor money that should have been forwarded to the Social Security Administration. Continue Reading
One of the few light moments associated with my one week incarceration came courtesy of a public defender who when questioned by my cousin (a suburban career woman) “What’s it like inside The Tombs,” he fairly exploded “They’re barbarians and animals!” This from a guy whose job it is to defend the accused!
Ok! So that’s his take on the population based on years of clients he’s represented on the state’s tab. But he’s never spent a week inside. I had my own take. One of the first questions I asked after getting locked up was “Doesn’t anybody white commit crimes in New York? What the fuck?” This of course met with applause from my new friends of color all of whom cited racial profiling as the reason what seemed like 95% of the inmates were black or hispanic (mostly Dominican and Puerto Rican). Continue Reading
As evidenced by the smorgasbord of prison shows on television, inquiring minds want to know what prison (or jail) life is really like. While I wouldn’t claim to know the system at all levels throughout the various jurisdictions, I can certainly illuminate and enlighten when it comes to county (and specifically New York County) jail. In the coming posts, I’ll be doing just that…describing what life is really like on the inside. First up, prisoner cuisine.
A day in Tombs life begins at around 4:30 AM when the breakfast cart rolls in and anybody who wants to get up can chow down. We didn’t have clocks or watches (not allowed) during 9 PM to 5 AM lock-in, and so, I’d peer through the skinny translucent slat/window in my cell. And if I saw the light of day beginning to shine on the horizon, I knew 5 AM was nigh. Continue Reading
Just after 9 PM lock-in last night, my cell door crashes open and a corrections officer appears in the opening. “Mersey! Grab your blanket, tans, and sheets. You’re going home.”
“Can I return Upper 19’s books before I go? I want to do the right thing,” ask I. He doesn’t give a crap about that. So I simply place them on the card table next to my cell where for the past 6 days a group of Puerto Ricans has been playing some unidentifiable card game at 120 decibels. Continue Reading