Love in prison

Okay, it’s time to do a little myth-busting here. I’m a little bit tired of friends and loved ones working under the assumption that my “male virginity” has been in danger since I walked in the front door of this place. Some of them have even been bold enough to ask (and you know who you are) if I’ve turned gay yet. Or better yet, if I’VE BEEN TURNED gay yet.

Listen, people, no matter what HBO and your local wacky morning DJs say, I have never been attacked by a gang of bikers looking to steal my “treasure.” Maybe 50 years ago there were gangs of bull queers roaming the prison hallways looking to burglarize someone’s britches, but nowadays it just doesn’t happen like that.

Am I saying there’s no man-on-man action in here? Absolutely not. But it’s consensual. Homosexuals get arrested too. The ones that end up here usually decide to either hide it or flaunt it. There’s a lot of money to be made in offering sex in prison. So that’s what a few of them do, just like a working girl out there on the street. The price is usually reasonable, too—though I am not speaking from personal experience. This is actually seen as a good thing by the guards. If a guy can book a whammer over in C-Block for 10 bucks, why would he risk life and limb trying to take it from somebody? Let ’em get the stress out.

Not all guys who are inclined to that sort of behavior are looking for cheap, tawdry sex. So yeah, sometimes they’ll fall in love in here and even get “married.” You’ll see them out walking on the recreation yard hand-in-hand, just like lovers strolling in Central Park, but usually in the background are catcalls, whistles, and guys screaming, “It’s Adam and EVE, not Adam and STEVE!” But they’re committed and don’t care, and that’s the extent of it. And honestly you don’t want to push ANYONE in here too far, gay or not. I’ve met some guys in here who made Ru Paul look straight, but would tear your head off if you messed with them. Literally.

So that’s about how it goes in here. There’s no booty bandit named Bubba prowling the cell blocks looking for fresh meat. There’s a new bus coming in almost every week, and if you’re looking for love (or just a good time), there’s probably a likely candidate in the group. But most of the guys like to think of themselves as “manly men,” and are too busy pissing to mark their territory to use than they do for anything else. 99% of the time, you’re either already gay when you get here, or never at all. Most of us run a perfectly efficient “solo operation,” and keep our libido satisfied that way. I’ll tell you about that another time. For now, I’m glad I could help straighten things out, and for the last time, Lauren, no, I have not lost my innocence!

Getting drunk behind bars!!!

We’re going to lighten up this time. I figure after my last couple entries, you could use a drink. So I’m going to tell you all what you need to know about making prison wine. We call it hooch.

First and foremost, let me say that what I’m about to tell you how to do actually shouldn’t be done, is almost certainly bad for you, and may not even be legal. Further more, if you are under the drinking age, you shouldn’t even read this, something resonates about “contributing to the delinquency of a minor.” With all that said, here’s how we get drunk in prison.

What you’ll need:

A 5 gallon container

A straw
2 Heavy Duty trash bags

A rubber band

3 lbs. sugar
24 pieces of fruit (oranges, grapefruit, bananas)
A 16 oz cup
Makes 3 gallons !

Okay, the first thing you need to do is make a “kicker.” This is a small amount of alcohol that will jump start the reaction in your big batch. Take 1/4 of an orange, and put it in a cup with a tablespoon or two of sugar, then fill the cup 3/4 full of warm water. Set it on a counter or in a cabinet for 2–4 days, until you can see bubbles moving to the top. When it is bubbling at a decent rate, it’s time to make your batch.

Line your 5 gallon container with both trash bags. Now peel your fruit, and mash it up well as you throw it into the trash bags. Add your kicker. Now throw in the sugar and fill the bags with 3 gallons of water. You’ve got your batch put together. Finally, take a straw, and close the trash bags around it (using a rubber band) so that the straw is half in, half out of the bag. This will allow the wine to “breathe.” Gas is a by-product of the process, and if it doesn’t have somewhere to go, things will get messy. In other words, your bags will explode.

Now you need to find somewhere to keep the wine. It has to be a warm place, cold will kill your batch. We like to keep it in the shower, that way a couple times a day we can run hot water over the bags to get the thing going. You can do the same. Just make sure you point your “breather” so the water can’t get inside the bag. Shake it a little, too.

Your batch should get to rumbling after a day or two. If you use clear trash bags you can see through the sides, otherwise you’ll have to open them up and look, you want to watch how much it is bubbling. When it is done bubbling, it is ready. All the fruit should be floating to the top.

Strain the fruit, and pour yourself a cup! There should be a dry, dirty gym sock flavor. The sweetness should be gone. About 2 quarts should give you a nice buzz.

What you have there is the easiest way to make prison hooch. We don’t always have the simplest ingredients, so we have to improvise. Any fruit will do, from tomatoes to blueberries to kiwis. Fruit isn’t usually the problem. Sugar can be harder to get. The key thing is that it takes 1 pound of sugar to make one gallon of wine. We’ll use anything from skittles to jelly, honey, or even atomic fireballs. You just look at the package, see how may grams of sugar are in each serving, and do the math. This is why we now receive diet jelly with our toast.

If it occurs to you that you are basically drinking rotten fruit, well, yeah, but it’s rotten fruit with attitude! You will probably only try this once, but what fun you’ll have. May I suggest a prison-themed party and a whole vat of the stuff?

Dinner with a Cannibal

I never thought I would have dinner with a cannibal. I suppose that life could have taken me down a different path that involved a trip to a South American rain forest to study the Yanomamo tribe, but it was unlikely. So I figured the closest I would come to cannibalism would be to see Hannibal Lecter relishing some one’s liver with some fava beans and a nice Chianti. Then I met Buzz.

You never want to ask too many questions around here. Minding your own business is the key to survival. The less you know, the less you can be held responsible for. Plus, hey, there’s just some things you don’t WANT to know.

When I first got here, some of the guys introduced me to an older fella named Buzz. He was in his 70s, and seemed to have all those qualities that usually come with age: wisdom, patience, and perspective. He really couldn’t have been a nicer guy. We would sit and play cards, he would eat dinner with us, and I’d stop by his cell every now and then just to see if he needed anything. I genuinely liked him.

Then one day I found out what Buzz was in for. It turns out he was picking up young prostitutes in the Pacific Northwest, and after various other atrocities, cooking them and eating them.

Now, I’m not one to overreact, but I was a little bit stunned by this news. But I wasn’t sure who I was mad at; Buzz for eating people, or the guys that introduced me to him and didn’t bother to tell me. I decided to deal with the latter first, but despite my argument that a penchant for cooking hookers was a character trait that should be included in a description of someone, the general consensus was see no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.

As for Buzz, well, things just weren’t the same between us. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t bring myself to walk in and ask him all about it. I just plain stopped talking to him. If he wondered why, he never said anything. I’m guessing this wasn’t the first time this has happened.

Anyways, you can probably guess that moral fortitude in here is not very common. People come in all kinds of packages, and most of them aren’t easily shocked. I guess I’m a little more grounded than usual. To the other guys, Buzz was just another guy doing time.

I learned a big lesson from that whole experience, and now I’m a little more careful who I cozy up to. But you never know. Mark Twain once said, “It ain’t what we don’t know that hurts us. It’s what we know that ain’t so.” I agree.

Artemus Ward

There’s an old story told by Artemus Ward, about a baby-faced fourteen year old kid from Arkansas, who killed his parents with a meat ax. He was convicted by a jury, but before he passed his sentence, the judge asked the young fella if he had anything to say. “Why no,” the boy replied, “I don’t think I do, but I hope yer honor will show some consideration FOR THE FEELINGS OF A POOR ORPHAN!”

This sentiment is echoed all throughout the prison system. Most of these guys have the biggest sense of entitlement I’ve ever seen. It’s almost like once they get here, they forget they even broke the law. They think they’re at a bed and breakfast in the Hamptons or something.

You see, the truth is that we get taken care of pretty well in here. Our meals are always waiting for us, they never run out of clothes in here, and the health care isn’t great (they tend to think that ibuprofen cures EVERYTHING), but it’s free. I mean, we’ve got cable, and they rent movies for us to watch on the weekends; how bad could it be?

I guess the biggest punishment of all is taking away the chance to be with our families, but here’s my point (and my first real social commentary since starting this thing): Nobody knows what prison is for anymore. You’ve got a bunch of guys running around in here like they’re on vacation. The best Education THEY will give you is a G.E.D. The place is full of drugs, and they’ve got Jerry Springer and Bob Barker babysitting us. Most of us are coming back out there with you, and we’re no better for being here. Even worse, we’re armed with a criminal education that deserves a degree. This is Sofflaw University. I know how to commit crimes I didn’t even know EXISTED when I got here.

I guess all I’m saying is if any of you feel sorry for us in here, don’t. We’re doing alright. We’ve got a lesson we need to learn. Right now, I’ve got to go, it’s almost time for “Desperate Housewives.”

Around here....

Around here, you don’t often have a choice about who your cellmate will be. They don’t mix races together, and generally don’t put two guys from rival gangs in the same cell together, but other than that, almost anything goes.

Me? I’ve got a cranky old bastard. The guy used to fly planes full of Pablo Escobars’ money back and forth, and had the world at his fingertips out there. Now, he’s never getting out.

This can lead to some uncomfortable situations. There’s some things you just don’t talk about around a guy like that. For a guy like me who gets out fairly soon, it’s hard to bite your tongue sometimes. I mean, I’m looking forward to the future, and this guy feels like I’m rubbing freedom in his face every time I start fantasizing about my first cheeseburger or the hooker I hope is waiting for me in the parking lot. Well, just kidding about the hooker. Kind of. I’m a man, it’s been 8 years since I had sex, you do the math.

Anyways, you do the best you can. You tiptoe around the sensitive stuff and find a common ground. Whenever my “celly” and I get uncomfortable or heated, we switch our conversation to movies or music. It’s hard to find controversy there. The first thing you learn when you get here is to avoid talking about race, religion, and politics. Those three things will have you beat up faster than you can say “Middle East peace talks.” People don’t tend to be very flexible in their views around here. Debate and logic are not these guys’ strong suit.

Once again, a beautiful juxtaposition that shall go unnamed.

We’ll stay peaceful for now, my crotchety old cellmate and I, I just hope I don’t make him mad. I think he has a few connections still. Remind me some time to tell you the story about him and the Columbian General.

Bye!

Do you know what you're obligated to do as a convict?

You’ve got to hate “the man.” You know, the hacks, the screws. It’s almost cartoonish how some of these guys in here run around trying to convince each other how wrong they're being treated. I’m half convinced that Ma Beagle is going to come bust some of these guys out of here any minute.

But you know what the truth is? We get 3 square meals, clothes, sheets, a shower every day, and everything after that is gravy. And most of the cops in here treat us pretty decent. There’s just one problem: You’ve got to talk greasy to them to get what you want.

No, the polite police aren’t allowed to patrol this town. You say please or thank you, and you’ll be waiting until you hit the streets again to get your roll of toilet paper or your bar of soap. But you tell that dirty son-of-a-something that he better go get your stuff or he’ll be as sorry as K-Fed the day after he got the divorce papers, and he’ll be back with it before you can say “She’s the crazy one.”

So what happens to nice guys in here? You know the saying. Back of the line, punk. What do I do? As the man upstairs for a little forgiveness and tell these “jerks” what they need to hear. Because that’s what they’re used to. Sad? A little. But I’m willing to make the sacrifice. Sometimes you’ve got to man up and be mean.

Do you know what's going to happen on May 14th of this year?

If you follow the news, you might think you do, but let me tell you. Our prison economy is going to CRASH. It’s going to be just like it would for you if the government came out and told you a dollar bill wasn’t worth a dollar anymore. Fiduciary chaos.

You see, the price of stamps is going up on May 14th, and everything in prison here costs stamps. Let me explain.

Everything is for sale here. From a piece of chicken out of the chow hall to a piece of “Pretty Ricky” over in D-Block, there’s a black market for everything. So we’ve got to have some sort of currency, and we’re not allowed to have cigarettes anymore. Besides, cigarettes went out of style a few years ago anyways, they’re too big and bulky. Some of these guys do big-time business, and it’s hard to hand over 100 packs of cigarettes with the guards watching.

Anyways, here’s how it works. Each stamp is worth a quarter, no matter what it costs from the commissary. You’ve got a book (20) of stamps? You’ve got five dollars in purchasing power. But the reason the whole thing works is that eventually someone buys the stamps and uses them to mail a letter home to ask for more money. what happens when our “cash” isn’t worth first-class postage anymore? Black Monday.

This will work itself out in the long run, but for a little while we’re going to be at a standstill. A few opportunities will seize the moment and find a way to short sell the damn things or something, but mostly we’re all going to have to prop the economy back up by coming out of our pockets and buying a whole bunch of really expensive stamps. Sound a little familiar? I’ll let you do the dot-to-dot work. But I like to think of it as buying “incarceration bonds.” See you next time!