Thursday, September 29, 2011

I'm So Gangster

I grew up a small-town boy, living in Northern Michigan.  Winters were cold and long.


My high school was small.  Just today I was trying to remember if there were any black kids.  …Not that it matters.  I was raised well, and never had racial hatred anywhere around me. 

Later in life, I was around more people of color.  I bought and sold dope with black dope-boys.  For a while, I ran a crew of construction workers who were all black.

Then the time I didn’t pay a speeding ticket…  Bastards suspended my license.  I went to get it reinstated and asked out the girl behind the counter – dated her nearly two months.  She was black.  Now prison….

My friend Mack can tell you his side of things.  However, prison was the first place I saw racial hatred in a big way.  White guys walking around with swastikas tattooed on their bald heads… Ugly shit like that.

Prison is probably 70% black.  I would say 90% of my buddies are black.  You will never find a swastika on me, and don’t try me with that racist shit.  Doesn’t matter what color you are, if you are racist, then we don’t see eye to eye.  Racism goes both ways.  Some white people don’t like people who are black, and some people who are black don’t like whites.

If we’re gonna be technical, then I live in the hood.  Don’t bother me.  It’s the black guys who taught me to fight, they have my back, and are even teaching this white boy how to dance.

(Imagine Ester standing in a tiny back office of a Best Western hotel, 
watching this in the middle of the night... yep, that's the closest 
I have come to dance lessons.)

My best friend married a woman who is black, so she must have taught him a thing or two as well.  This is life, people.  Times change.  Unfortunately, hate runs deep.  Something my friend has to face even in the free world.  Well, fuck ‘em, home-boy.

You know what?  When you remove those racial lines, we have a blast.  You should hear the way we talk.  The other day, a buddy came to me and asked if he could borrow a couple bucks from me.  I didn’t have it.  He said, “I know… it’s cause I’m black.”  Then we both laugh.  It has nothing to do with that, and we use the black/white thing as a joke.  Some people are really unsure of the whole thing.

They fed us watermelon and fried chicken for our 4th of July meal.  A friend asked if I was going to eat my watermelon and I said, “Yes!  White people like watermelon and fried chicken too!”  

(Who doesn't??)

...Matter of fact, this white boy loves collard greens.  I also like deep bass, whether it’s at home or in my car.  Cars with big rims make me smile.  A few of my cars had big rims.  I’ve been known to wear a wife-beater, though I’m not a fan of that name (but that’s another topic altogether).

I also like my Nikes, Air Force Ones, and love a chick wearing Apple Bottom Jeans to cover that junk in her trunk.  I’m definitely not a boob-man, I’m an “ass man” all the way.

(heh. Ass man.)

At the ripe age of 16, I bought one of many cars I drove during high school.  It was a Chevy S-10 pick-up truck.  Dare I say the truck came with a tape-deck?  Yeah, and keep your jokes to yourself.  Because in that tape-deck was stuck a tape that changed my life: Eazy-E.

(Oh goodness...)

So at 16, I was riding around in my S-10 “whip” singing about Cruisin’ down the street in my 6-4, jockin’ the bitches, slappin the hos.

Yeah, I was straight gangster.  My best friend was the same way.  He drove an El Camino with two 15” subwoofers behind the seat.  We rolled around town, smoking blunts and chillin with Snoop-Dog and Dr. Dre.  We drank beer from 40-ounce bottles that we called exactly that – 40s.

(hardy-har)

It really doesn’t surprise me at all that my boy would grow up and fall in love with a woman of color.  I haven’t had the honor of meeting her yet, but look forward to the opportunity.  First I got to do this hot minute the po-po’ jammed me up with.  But I’ll be back – tru dat! 

Hey Paulie, have N.W.A. and a 40 on ice ready.  ‘Cause we’re gonna roll out once again, for old time’s sake.  Keep it real home-boys and girls!

-The Hooligan

Sunday, September 25, 2011

Tuesday, September 20, 2011

Forever Brothers

There are two kinds of people in this world:  Leaders and followers.  Many people navigate through life unseen.  Then you have the movers and the shakers - Special people who make a mark - People who light up a room as they enter.  …Possessing energy so strong they literally pull you in.


A year ago, I was transferred from one prison to the prison where I am currently housed.  Transfers suck.  On the bus ride, you see just enough of the free world that it hurts.  You miss your old life and being free.

You reach your destination and are assigned a bunk in a new dorm.  All eyes are on you, sizing you up as you settle into your new home.  You feel alone.


Then, after they have sized you up, someone will walk up and introduce himself.  Not long after I moved into Delta dorm, bunk 113-low, I met a man.  I had no idea who that man would become to me.  I couldn’t see all the hours we would spend together, laughing, crying, drinking coffee and talking about women.

I have tried to push this off as long as possible, but it is now time.  That man, over the course of this past year, became my best friend.  You know him as Scottie. 

I can see his bunk from where I sleep.  Scott goes to bed earlier than me, unless he has a good book to read.  He gets up earlier than me and has coffee.  After his coffee, he comes to my bunk and fucks with me.

He wakes me up by plugging my nose so I can’t breathe.  Other times he tickles my cheek with a q-tip until I think bugs are crawling on me.  He has ‘spooked’ me, put his ass in my face, put his balls by my face, and even shaved his pubes into my shampoo bottle.  This man knows I hate mornings and so he comes to mess with me nearly every day.  He has pissed me off so bad that he’s lucky I never beat his ass.  And bro, you know I would hand your ass to you….

Truth is I love you, man.  You have touched my life more than you will ever know.  You, my friend, are a shaker.  There is an energy coming off you that is incredible.

I lay in bed and watched you toss and turn last night.  We talk.  I know you’re going through it.  You have begun the transition.  This life is slowly fading and you are preparing for life out there.  I just leave you alone.  This part of the journey, you have to do by yourself.  This way freedom will mean even more to you.  When it comes, you will be ready.  The part that truly hurts me isn’t that you’re leaving here… No, the hurt comes from watching you try to save me.  You want to take me with you, but it’s not my time yet. 

Scott, you have a good heart.  You know how badly I want to reach out to our people – the lost, the down and out.  I’m gonna keep an eye on you.  Trust me when I say I will always be close by.  We are brothers always, not just behind this fence.  The J.J. project has given me a voice – a way to reach out.  You see what I do.  I’m asking you to continue to help me, Scott.  If I’m here reaching out, and you’re there doing the same… you see what I’m saying?  Forever brothers.

Reading this now, you find yourself a free man.  Breathe it all in, Scott.  Take nothing for granted.  But never forget Delta down and a small metal bunk.  A bunk that is empty today, the bunk you laid your head on.  The bunk where we laughed, played cards, drank coffee and hung out.  The bunk where you told jokes, captured an audience, and brought joy to a bunch of prisoners.

I have no doubts that you will continue to touch lives wherever life takes you.  Just don’t forget.  Don’t forget the path we walked.  The journey that made you the man you are today, tried by fire.

You did it brother.  Here’s to you, my dear friend.  You know how to reach me.  Always close by.

For both you and for myself, I ask you to remain a part of Jailbird.

If I may speak on behalf of all my friends, Hooligans around the world, continue to be part of our lives.  You are a part of this project… forever brothers.

I will now leave you with some sayings from this life, ones you remember all too well:

“Stand by for chow.”
“Rec. yard is open.”
“Mail-Call!”
“One time!”
“Shakedown!!!”
“It is what it is.”
“Nuts to butts.”
“Strip down.”    
“Spread them and cough.”

Saturday, September 17, 2011

Insight on Prison Politics from Mr. Mack


(Hi Mack!  And thanks to Mack's lady for sending photos!)

"First, I would like to say that I truly appreciate the kind and heartfelt comments.  I especially thank you for the condolences.  Believe it or not, even from strangers, that means a lot.  Prison has taught me that blood isn’t always thicker than water, and I am very humbled by the sympathy expressed.  Thank you.

Now, with that said, why would I think just because I’m locked up, politics don’t happen?  Well, not only does the administration cause unnecessary problems, but inmates, in turn, cause drama that can or does result in a beating, stabbing, or worse.  Prison is supposed to be a place where you try and “better yourself,” but I find it is a breeding ground for hate, maliciousness, backbiting, snitching, revenge, and other seemingly nefarious behavior.

The other day I went to work at the education building and, upon arrival, I found out one of the facilitators was fired.  Everyone, including and especially me were saying, “What?”  I say “especially me” because he is the second black dude to be fired in a week.  There are only two of us left, and the other one is ‘high yella,’ as they say, with an afro, so he is probably safe.  LOL!  Wait a minute, I’m going too fast.  Let me digress.

First of all, I am a facilitator for a course called “Credit and Debt Management.”  How did I get into this position?  How I got it isn’t as important as the fact that I’m even teaching a class!  I grew up with a very embarrassing stutter.  It was so bad that my mom would bring me to church and have them lay hands on me to cast out the spirit.  One person would stand behind me, one on each side of me, and the minister in front with his hand on my head.  He or she would put blessed extra virgin olive oil on my forehead while violently shaking me and saying, “In the name of Jesus!  Stuttering demon, we cast you out!”  I would fall to the ground just so they would stop shaking me. 

(Ester as voucher: Yes, this IS what it's like...)

Of course, Mom would also take me to the school’s speech therapist.  For some reason, I could hardly speak normally, but as soon as I stepped into the speech therapist’s office, my impediment would disappear.  In the car I would sound like: “M-m-m-mamma, (pause)… I-I-I hope things go w-w-w-well today.”  Then just 10 minutes later, I’d step into the therapist’s office and she would get me to start talking.  Magically, I would start speaking like an English teacher-in-training.  “Yes, I am in your of-fice speaking per-fect-ly be-cause I have perfect dic-tion.  And since I am such a great speak-er, there is no rea-son for me to be here.”  J  HA HA.  

…Eventually I learned to take my time, but I still couldn’t believe I could hold a speaking job.  Well, Disney World didn’t seem to think so.  When I applied in 1995, the casting office threw me right in to the Guest Services desk at the Wilderness Lodge Resort.  

("I want to go to there!" - it's rated as the best hotel in Orlando for kids!)

Alrighty!  Not only was I highly visible and not from Orlando, I had to talk the entire shift.  Think that’s something?  Hmmph!  In 2002, I ended up being the emcee at a dance club called America’s Pub in Kansas City.  Like the therapist’s office, as soon as I got on the mic, especially with the music off, it all went away. 

Now I’m standing in front of a bunch of dudes with bald heads, muscles, teardrop tattoos on their faces, and I’m teaching them how to order their credit reports, remove negative items, debt-to-credit ratios, and all types of other credit-related topics.  Yikes!  What’s funny is now I have these 6’5” 235-lb skinheads and thugs calling me “teach” and "teacher" when I walk around on the compound.  Double yikes! 

I like it though, because helping dudes in here is a great thing, and I love to see those hardened, bored, irritated, or I-don’t-give-a-shit-looking faces turn into faces like adolescents when they’re really learning something. 

(Photo by Brian Harkin for The New York Times

Man, that is pure adrenaline.  Cocaine ain’t got shit on teaching….  OK, let’s not go too far.  Ha.

So as I was saying earlier, dude got fired.  What happened was the head lady’s favorite inmate told her something the dude supposedly said in relation to the call-outs.  Instead of her asking the other party if this was true, she just arbitrarily fired him, which he didn’t find out until the next morning as he tried to go through center gate.  You best believe shit hit the fan once everything was sorted out.  Everyone was upset!  Why?

First of all, the dude is liked by most and he is a man of integrity.  Secondly, he was the only other small business concepts teacher.  Yeah, dude was livid!  Unfortunately for the alledged liar, the dude he crossed is an ex-Marine, has a 35-year sentence (25 years mandatory) and is humble… OH, and he's HUGE.  According to him, he lost a job he valued and his integrity was questioned.  Anyone who knows a Marine can tell you that his integrity means a lot, and once a Marine, always a Marine.
  
He told me on the rec. yard that he will give the head lady a chance to be professional, and if not (I quote): “I will destroy that sneaky little coward and show everybody that he’s a bitch.  If I don’t have a job, he definitely won’t have one.” 

Well, there it is.  Hopefully the ex-Marine doesn’t have to go there because the prison is a place where you try to 'better yourself,' right?"    



Thursday, September 15, 2011

RSVP

(Copyright M.S., 2011. All rights reserved).

Would you like to schedule your appointment with the skin artist well in advance?  Check your calendars!



Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Again, I Say Thank You

Looking Through the Glass and Dark Days have become two of the heaviest pieces I have written to date - A small glimpse into my world - The way I see things from this side of the fence.  Those pieces had such an effect on a few of you that I have had a couple people step up and open a window for me.  It has touched me in such a way that I would like to share.

I start with my baby sister.

Grace lives in New York City.  She works hard and plays a tad harder.  Grace saves up and travels.  Since I came to prison, Grace has walked me all over NYC with her. 


I’ve been to Times Square, seen the Statue of Liberty, and walked the Brooklyn Bridge.  


I’ve been to Battery Park – a.k.a. Graffiti Park – and been to watch a concert.

(Photo by G.S., Band Featured: Not Blood, Paint

You see, she takes pictures for me, then tells me the story.  I saw all these places through her eyes.  Gracie knows I love body art, so she takes great pictures of people with art on their skin.  …But absolute best?  She took me to Africa.  I got to see the Victoria Falls. 

(Thank you for the photos, sister!)

…One of the natural wonders of the world!  It was great!

My girl Cari lives in the dirty south and takes me along for birthday parties and back-yard BBQs.  On Memorial Day, we went and watched fireworks.  Every time Cari sees someone I know, she makes them sign something for me.  I have cards, pieces of paper, and plenty of bar napkins with messages from my old crew.

(Borrowed from Passive-Aggressive Notes)

Elizabeth has been reading for some time, and after Dark Days, she wrote me.  We were talking about when the fair came to town.

(Borrowed from Pure Michigan)

I love the fair.  Dunk tanks, the Gravitron, winning stuffed teddy-bears, eating elephant ears and cotton candy….   Well, it was a date.  We went to the fair together.  Eating cotton candy, popping balloons for a prize, and watching the drunk "carnies" load rides.  I even got to pet a pig at the petting zoo. 

(Disclaimer: Not Elizabeth)

…All from the comfort of my cell block.

As you can see, it’s been a pretty busy month for me.

Brooke wrote and told me that she had tickets to see Willie.  …That would be Willie Nelson. 

(Photo by Shawano Cleary for the Kalamazoo Gazette... click on the photo for a full article)

Yeah, I had never seen him before.  She didn’t tell me that she and her sister were going to take me along.  The only thing missing was a hang-over!  …And a very special thank-you to both of you wonderful ladies.  We’ll have to go again – just let me know.

California Candy piled me up with the whole fam-damily and we headed to the comedy club.  You all know how Candy can talk… and talk.  She nearly had us thrown out, but we made it. 

(Language warning: Lots of the F-word... Also: Not Candy :)

…And a fine time it was.  Next time, tattoos and hang-overs are on me!!  

I said before that you are a bunch of fine Hooligans.  A fella couldn’t ask for a better group of friends.

I’ve been to shows, fairs, parties, the beach….  Family reunions and camping and never left my cell.

No, people, I haven’t lost it.  Quite the opposite.  …Seems a group of you wants to make certain I don’t lose it.  I would like to thank you.  My baby brother took me mudding with him and his dog, and my friend Justin invited me to his wedding.  I considered trying to talk him out of it (from Ester: sounds familiar, playboy!), but once I met Tammy, I realized he was doing the right thing.

You know, it’s amazing what a few pictures and a paragraph of your thoughts can do for a dude behind bars.

Erica sends me pages of jokes: dirty, raunchy jokes.  We pass them all around the dorm and all the guys get a laugh.  Another friend carries a pad of paper with her and writes me whenever she has time - A lunch break, in the waiting room at the doctor’s, or at a boring conference meeting.

I go shopping, to the park, the pool, long car-rides, vacations up North and in other countries.  


…All because you care.  All because you take a few seconds to snap a picture or write a paragraph.  This piece is for you. 

To the angels.  …My angels: A heartfelt thanks to you.

And what the angels don’t fix, Superwoman will.  Eminem says Superman ain’t saving shit.  Well, no doubt.  A man is sure to fuck it up.  Leave it to a woman… Superwoman.  …Come to scoop me up, save the day, fix all the wrong.  Leave the "manly" stuff to a man.  …Like pushing buttons, popping hoods, and changing fluids.

To all you camera-toting, letter-writing, beautiful people, I say thanks.  My hat is off to you.  At times I feel like I’m living more now than I have for years.  Brooke, you told me to replace the bad apples with good ones.  I listened.

None of this would be possible without my dear sis, Ester.  She even found a way to let me watch while she got her tattoo.  Not only did I draw it, I saw it done.  Next one’s on me, sissy.

Much love to all you fine people out there showing this Tattoo’d Hooligan some love.  You be blessed, each one of you.

To all of you who want to write but never got around to it, pat yourself on the back for nothing J  They say it’s the thought that counts… well, in this case, not so much. 

Nah, I’m just playing.  My hand is about to fall off, for real!  Ester will need more posts soon, and I’m busy writing all you women… Ahhhh.  Who is complaining?  Not me!





Saturday, September 10, 2011

September 11 Tribute

"I was at work, in my truck, when the newscaster broke in on the radio and said a plane just hit the tower.

At first they said it was accidental.  But when the second plane hit, the radio announcer said, “No, this was no accident.”

I drove to a local country store where they were watching on a T.V.  It was wild to watch our country come under attack surrounded by redneck country boys.  Dudes who have shot-guns hanging in the back window of their 4X4s, Skoal rings in their back pockets, and these dudes were pissed.  …Brings to mind the line where Hank Williams, Jr. says, “I’d love to spit some beech-nut in that dude’s eyes and shoot him with my ol’ 45.”

I think damn near every red-blooded American saw it that way.  Toby Keith went on to say, “We’ll put a boot in your ass – it’s the American way.”  Whatever gets the job done.

Personally, I thought I would give a moment of silence to pay respect.  Instead, I give you 23 hours-worth of ink pen scribbled on a piece of copy paper.  Much Love, New York!"


(Copyright M.S. 2011, All Rights Reserved.
...And as always, click on the photo for more detail.)


Mike asked me to write a piece about where I was at, and I may have gotten a little carried away...

"September 11, 2001 was the very beginning of my senior year of high school.  Government was the first class that day, and boy, did I have a hard time wrapping my tired brain around the electoral college first thing in the morning.  I never fell asleep in school, but I was much more vulnerable to doing such a thing during that class.  The teacher, bless her heart, was droning on and on, I was likely drawing cartoons on my notebook and sharing them with my neighbor in class.  The telephone in the classroom rang, and everyone’s ears perked up, because generally a call to a classroom meant someone was being called to the principal’s office.  I checked myself… Did I leave anything suspicious out in the ashtray in my car?  Did I dress like a hooker today?  Am I wearing my Miller High Life t-shirt?  Nope, nope, nope.  I’m alright, then, must be somebody else.

Our teacher cradled the phone receiver on her shoulder and attempted to turn on the TV set, which was hanging from the highest corner of the room.  She was one of the more petite ladies in the school, and the tallest kid in the class went to help her turn it on.  After flipping through several channels of ant-race fuzz, we saw the picture clear and beheld a shaking camera-shot of the World Trade Center towers, one standing intact, while the other looked like a burled tree with a fireball protruding from its side, dark smoke drifting up into the sky.  I had never seen New York City, and hadn't watched enough movies at that time to know its skyline, and I waited for our teacher to hang up the phone and say, “This just happened in New York City, a plane ran into one of the towers of the World Trade Center.”

We all sat quietly, staring at the TV screen.  Nobody really grasped what was going on.  The TV reception came in and out, big waves of fuzz washing over the picture. 

We were taken from our classroom, down the hall to the library, where another couple classrooms of kids were perched around a larger TV.  We quietly entered and took places around the room, some kids finding a friend from another class to sit with.  I was standing by a bookshelf, listening closely to the announcer, when the second plane hit.  Holy shit -that was not an accident.  My heart caved in, I choked on tears and ran to the girl’s bathroom across the hall.  I was bawling by the time I got there.  My teacher followed me.
  
That day in the library, when I saw the second plane hit, I decided This Is Armageddon.  The whole world is ending right here and right now, in front of my very eyes.  I might not ever see my family again.  Holy shit!  My Mom is supposed to be on a plane right now!  Where is she?

I was freaking out in the girl’s room, crying and not wanting anybody to know.  My teacher came in and gave me a hug.  She asked if I was OK and I said, “No!  This is the end of the world!”

I don’t know what other Christian homes teach, but I was raised in some fairly radical Christian churches (people ya’ll might know as “Holy Rollers,” a term, I learned when I was 22 years old, was a reference to me).  The entire emphasis of the churches I frequented as a little girl and as a young adult was this:

1.  Basically, everything you [Ester, specifically – I can’t speak for anybody else] do or want to do or think about or say is a sin.
2.  Armageddon is going to come during your lifetime, and if you haven’t asked God for forgiveness every single day of your life, you are going to be left on the Earth and tormented and your head is going to be chopped off, and you still will probably go to hell.
3.  You are pretty much definitely going to hell, Ester.

Can you see why Armageddon really freaked me out?

I figured out later that day, thanks to my very first cell phone, that Mom was OK, she wasn’t on a plane, she had not even left for the airport yet.  She promised me that this probably wasn’t Armageddon, it was just some people who were really messed up and angry who did a terrible thing, and that I wasn’t going to Hell today.

I left school at noon and went to a girlfriend’s house to watch the news.  We puffed down cigarette after cigarette, and I thought over and over and over, ‘Nothing is going to be the same.’

And it won’t be.

Just as our generation does not remember the day JFK was assassinated, wasn’t subject to bomb drills where school children hid under their desks, fearing Cold War threats of nuclear attack, our generation and its children will scarcely remember what the world was like before the bombing of the Trade Center Towers, what the world was like before 10 years of war in the middle east, won’t remember a time before phone-tapping, “no-fly” lists, body-searches at the airport, they won’t recognize the Trade Towers in older movies….  

Instead of these things serving as a daily reminder of the day when a great tragedy occurred in America, it has since become a new way of life, a new way of being, and now is just “normal.”    

We do have reminders all the time of 9/11, even if we don’t know one person personally who was in New York City that day, even if we don’t know anyone who was near the Pentagon.  We have [very] heightened security at airports, we have pat-downs and paranoia. 

I was listening to the radio a year ago, driving to school, and the talk-show host asked, “Does 9/11 still affect Americans on a daily basis?”

My hands were shaking.  I got tears in my eyes.  Because I think there might be millions of Americans who really only think about 9/11 around and on 9/11 every year.  However, if you were married to, or gave birth to, or loved in any way someone who became an American Soldier, you think about 9/11 on a pretty frickin’ regular basis.  When my husband spent 2.5 of our first 3.5 years of marriage deployed in Iraq and Afghanistan, you bet your ass I remembered 9/11, because it was the only way I could explain to myself why he had to be gone, why he was in danger, why I tossed and turned and felt sick all day and all night, wondering if he had food to eat and someplace warm to sleep, wondered if he was alive or dead, wondered if I would spot him on the news….  I know that military families think about 9/11 – we remember that it is at least one reason we say goodbye to our loved ones for a year or more at a time, sending them into the depths of hell without a promise in any way, shape, or form that we will ever see them again.  That's something we never, ever get used to, but it's part of our lives on a daily basis.        

...Families going to work at the World Trade Center that day did not sign the same contracts soldiers do.  We remember the mothers and fathers who dropped off the kids at daycare and went to work as they did every other day.  We remember rescue workers who gave their lives to save another's, the families who lost children, fathers and mothers, sisters and brothers.  We remember that the greatest city in the world, the state which harbors the Statue of Liberty, is resilient no matter what enemy tries to bring it down.

We remember the thousands of American soldiers and soldiers from all over the world who have sacrificed their own lives because they believe in taking down terrorists who not only plan attacks on us in America, but who terrorize, kidnap, torture and kill their own neighbors.  

We remember America as it was before and love America as it is today.



Though I spent many of the first years of my life thinking about Armageddon on a daily basis, I now spend a good lot of my time thinking about hope, about redemption and healing, about families and friends.  J.J. is part of what gives me hope for the future.  9/11/01 was a horribly hopeless day for me.  Looking back over the past 10 years, I am so blessed that somehow, life goes on.  We can rise above and beyond the horrible parts of our past and still have hope.

Where were you on 9/11?

What gives you hope?

  

Monday, September 5, 2011

Happy Birthday to Our Baby Brother (by Ester Jean)

I still remember the day my baby brother was born.  All of us were born at home, just Mom and Dad together, bringing little miracles into the world.  For the first several births at home, they'd send the majority of the kids to a friend's house overnight and we would come home to meet the newest addition to our ever-expanding household.

Spud's birth was different.  Mom was over 40 (and I hope she doesn't mind me mentioning that...it's kind of a miracle - without artificial anything...).  I, Ester, was 8 years old when he was born.  We were all at home, tucked away in our beds, and early one chilly September morning in Northern Michigan, I woke to my dad running from one end of the house to the other in his long-john thermal pajamas, waking us from the center of the house with joyful cries, "Wake up!  You have a new baby brother!  Hallelujah!  Praise you, Jesus!  You have a new baby brother!  Come meet your baby brother!"

I raced out of bed and met the rest of my siblings in our parent's room ,where our glowing, exhausted mother proudly held a squirming, beet-red baby boy, the very first THAT-newly born baby I had ever seen in my 8 years of life.  His is the only birth I remember of all my siblings, and I am so blessed that I do.

(1992)

Because the rest of us were a bit older than our new baby, we thought of him as OUR NEW BABY.  He has 3 older sisters, who were 6, 8, and 10-years old at his birth, and he was a real live, laughing, crying, pooping human baby.  We raced one-another into mom and dad's room when we heard the faintest cry as he woke in the morning, and passed him to one-another all day long, sharing as good kids do, and covering him with love.

(1994?)

Today our baby Spud turns 19 years old, and I called him (ANSWER YOUR PHONE!!!) and left a Happy Birthday message for him.  We are singers in our family.  I finished off with "You are my sunshine, my only sunshine... you make me happy when skies are gray...." because for the first forever and ever years of his life, that baby boy was my very best friend (and taught me that song when he was in Kindergarten).  We went everywhere together, trips to the lake, building sand-castles and floating around with schools of minnows, hauling him along the Lakeside trails where we grew up, him in a wagon, trying to teach him to ride a bike years later, and eventually walking to and from the bus stop.

(1996 -Yeah, that's Miss Ester Jean - it's a long story.  Don't hate.)

We don't get to talk as much anymore as we used to, but he's still my best little brother friend and I miss the shit out of him!  I cried this morning, listening to a voice-mail from him.  He's always gonna be my little baby brother.

(2008)

Will ya'll leave Happy Birthday messages for my baby brother today?



(Don't hate me for sharing this, Spud.  It's one of my favorites.  
If you call me and MAKE me, I'll take it down, but for now it stays up!)

YOUR FAMILY LOVES YOU PHILLIP!!!!

Mike Playing Pearl Jam

Et Hem - Let Me Clear My Throat

I realize there are some things I say that might be offensive.  But in the end, it’s those very things that have painted me so “real.”  People I’ve never met can write to me and talk to me like they’ve known me for years.  …Blows my mind.

Too many people go through life trying to paint a pretty picture of their life.  Why?  Because somebody said that’s what you’re supposed to do?  What the hell?

We all fart, our shit stinks, we make mistakes, bad decisions, piss people off, and unless you’re a square – masturbate.

Yeah, I know that’s not politically correct to talk about, but fuck it!  I just did.

I just talk about this stuff openly.  Why not?  I think it causes people to realize it’s OK.  It’s OK to be you. 

I have tried to make myself look like a really great guy (and that was back when I was a piece of shit!).

When I met people, I was young, good-looking, successful, had a house, a car, a truck, a motorcycle… Life was good, right?

No!  I snorted Oxys off my dresser at 4:30 a.m. to wake up, drank G.H.B. all day, and smoked both heroin and crack.  Oh, she’s your girlfriend?  Leave her around me and I’m sure to fuck her.  Don’t like it?  Well, fuck you too!

I have spent nearly all my life as a huge piece of shit who painted whatever picture I needed to get ahead.  …Whether ‘ahead’ was making money, taking advantage of you, or getting some pussy.  I lied my ass off.  I was a straight up con-man.  Anyone who knew me called me the used-car-salesman.  I was scum.

Today, I have changed all of that.  Here I am, trying to help myself…yes!  But not at your expense.

Biggest difference is that along with helping myself become a better man, I want to help you too.  No, I’m not asking you for money – this isn’t about money.  If you like my art, please feel free to buy a shirt from Miss Ester Jean.  Or don’t.  I don’t care.  Stick around and enter a contest and maybe we’ll give you one for free!

…Cause that’s how we do it.

Matter of fact, we are now looking for a way to lower the prices on the shirts so more people can get one without digging too deep in anybody’s wallet.

Some of the art looks great on a shirt, but those Zazzle price-tags?  Not so nice!  I feel ya!  It’s one thing to spend $15 or $20 on a shirt you’re gonna love.  However, $30 is a tank of gas (note from Ester: remember he hasn’t bought gas in a long time…), dinner for two, or some hot lingerie for your lady.  OK, I take that back… unless you’re shopping at Wal-Mart, $30 isn’t going to get you much…. 

And now I’m getting side-tracked J

Wow, I need to get laid!  (Who said that?

Ester wanted to be the all-American girl (buying American-made apparel).  Well, nice guy finishes last, sissy.  So we are now looking at Chinese sweat-shop shirts.  Nice, huh?  Your shirt will now come packaged with love by a 6-year-old.  When you see “Made in China” stamped on the tag, just remember all the money you saved.  That money you saved will buy you a Happy Meal from McDonald’s on your way home today.


Don’t question us!!  Just support your local felon.  Come on, be a Hooligan!  I know, you’re pissed off.  That wasn’t cool, and you don’t want a child-labor-manufactured-special-edition Hooligan shirt.  God, you sound just like my sister!  It’s OK.  You women always win, don’t you?  It’s just not fair, I say!

OK, so maybe we can accommodate you.  We can have your shirt made in America by some pissed-off, underpaid, middle-aged American who hates his job and had a hang-over from drinking 6 too many Milwaukee’s Best the night before.

Jeez, why can’t I just make the shirts?  Can’t I just make a cardboard-cutout stencil and spray-paint the shirts?  That should bring the price down!  Plus, what says “Hooligan” more than that?  Some felon, spray-painting t-shirts in an alley somewhere.  …Might as well do some graffiti on the nearby walls while I’m at it!  Fuck yeah!  Now we’re talking Hooligan language!

Now I should stop.  If this is supposed to be a form of advertisement, then I just failed miserably.


Like I said, whether you buy a shirt or not, doesn’t matter.  However, the prices still need to fall.  Isn’t that the Wal-Mart slogan?  Something about their prices are falling all the time?  Then again, see what sweat-shop labor will get you?  Mmm hmm….



You know, I have this blog I write for every day, but I have never seen it.  I know the general lay-out, thanks to Ester’s updates and description.  Ester’s last update shows we hit 15,000!!  My first goal for J.J. was 500.  I don’t screw around, so my goal after that was 10,000.  Well, I just set my new goal.  You ready?  Well, are you READY?  It’s you – yeah, Y-O-U who can make this a reality: 50,000.

Yeah, so call your cousin, call your friend, tell them about the jack-ass yelling shit from his prison cell.

Looks like the West Coast is beginning to pick up.  Very nice!  Ester sends the print-out of our map, which shows where people are signing on J  I laughed when I saw a reader sign in from a no-name place in Africa.  No – for real!  The town was called “No Name.”  I was laughing as I pictured 6 black dudes hovered around a lap-top in a grass hut….  Saying, “Look what the crazy American is up to now.”

Hey, Ester!  Can we send them some Jailbird mugs?

Ohhhh yes, I can see it now.  They are all standing around the lap-top with “Support Your Local Felon” coffee mugs!  Beautiful!!

OK, right, time to stop the madness.  I’m out – peace!!

Much love,

The Hooligan 

Saturday, September 3, 2011

Random Thoughts

You ever want to say something but just can’t find the words?

It’s like the answer to some question in on the tip of my tongue, but I’m not sure what the question is.

Usually, when I write, I have a story or a particular thought in mind.  I’m not even going to bull-shit you – I’m drawing a blank.

So, step into my head.  J.J.’s random thoughts and let’s just see what happens.

Kenny Chesney and some lady with a pretty voice are telling me how tequila drives them crazy.  That’s what’s on my headphones.  Pleasant.  



I’m actually listening to a lot of country these days.  The other day, somebody was telling me how cool Lady Gaga is.  Perhaps you bumped your head and need to seek immediate medical attention.  Oh!  This is nice!  Now some dude’s telling me how his chick thinks his Tractor’s Sexy… leave it to Country music.  This dude hit his head for real.

Oh yeah… Lady Gaga.  Her music is catchy.  I have actually listened lately to see what I’m missing.  She’s a money-making-machine. 

(What was your first clue?)


Can’t knock that.  However, I want people knowing I sit around listening to Lady Gaga like I want people thinking Brad Pitt is better looking than Johnny Depp.


(YES)


(Dude doesn't even have any visible tattoos - pshh...)


So, moving right along….

Come on, you can’t tell me Johnny Depp isn’t the absolute shit in those pirate movies he’s in.

Then again, you’ve also got Penelope Cruz to look at in those films.  Still, Depp is way cooler.

Hey, let’s talk about J.J. for a minute.  Ester sent me an update today.  This one covers The Answer is Love, Matters of the Heart, and Dark Days.  Whew!  Heavy stuff.

Occasionally, Ester sends me the pictures she used in the post.  I could tell there was a picture on one of the pages, so I flip ahead of myself to see what it is….  Cool!  It’s a very pregnant woman sitting in a thicket.  …Or some woods.  Now I gave my full attention.  What’s going on here?  OK, I’m looking closer now.  No, doesn’t look like she’s in trouble.  At first, I thought perhaps she was doing some last trimester hiking.  Then maybe she began to feel tired and sat down to rest.  Nope, she doesn’t look tired.

Being in yoga now, I’m thinking perhaps that was a quiet spot to work on some breathing exercises.  Maybe you just completed some ‘sun salutations.’    

(I get tired trying to keep my balance, too.)

Bottom line: this is a beautiful woman very with child (Ester likes that term better than “pregnant”).  Whatever you were doing on that hillside, I’m thankful that someone came by with a camera.  Good thinking on their part to capture that special moment.  I like it!  Thank you J

And jokes aside, the picture truly is beautiful.  I am an artist, and I see wonderful art in that photo.

I am also an ass, so I had to give you hell for a minute.  May I tell you a very sincere congratulations?  …And thank you for lending Ester a hand with that wonderful photo.

Let’s talk a little more about my art.  Ester and I are learning as we go here.  I was really excited to create art for our giveaway winners.  I did feel bad that, initially, one of the winners drawn was one of my lady friends.  All she needs to do is ask me for something and I’ll try to make it happen, ‘cause I’m cool like that.  So to keep things fair, I asked Ester to draw another name.

(Yeah, yeah, we know this is old news – this is another piece Ester lost right around her birthday, what with all the drinking and camper-living…).

Phillip (regarding comments left on "Dark Days"), I would agree with Ester.  Less drinking and more… I’m not sure?  You’re not even old enough to drink!  Yeah, that one always works well.  Isn’t that half the fun?  You know, shit like this makes me feel old, lecturing kids.  I say something like that and I realize you probably just rolled your eyes at me.  What do I know? 

Great question!  What do I know?  Never mind, read the blog.

Hey, Osh-Kosh-Ondad or whatever….



You’re coming around with something to sell, huh?  Can’t exactly do you like I used to do the Jehova’s Witnesses when they bum-rushed the house that one time.  I swear, they must have a list.  …Like they come to the house and check you off?  Um… He’s not interested!  (check)  He’s got frickin’ pit-bulls!  (CHECK!)

So dude, thanks for telling us all about how much money your mother makes.  After all, this is a ‘help project.’  From what I can tell, you’re trying to help someone make a lot of money.  What are you, some type of a fairy?  You have enlightened us all now.  Thank you.  Perhaps I could help you in return.  ...Help you right off Facebook.  That’s the only help I have for you right now.  You’re welcome.

If you read the blog, you would know that I already know all about making sales from home.  I spent my high-school years selling weed from my parents’ home.  Then I went on to sell cocaine, pills, and heroin (which I DO NOT CONDONE).  Here’s a closing idea for you.  …Get paid $1,500 a week to stuff envelopes from home.  Maybe $2,000 a week assembling bird-feeders at home.  And for free, I can put my foot up your silly ass.  You’re dealing with hooligans on this blog – eat your Wheaties, son! 

Thursday, September 1, 2011

Mail, Drunk-Texting, and Damage-Control

“Writing letters seems so old-fashioned.  Then again, they are much the same as, say, texting or sending e-mail.  Sure there are differences.  A letter is not instantly delivered.  However, one aspect in the same… once it’s sent, it’s sent.

From time to time, I send letters and then go OH SHIT!

There is a mailbox here where all mail is dropped.  I have more than once dropped a letter in that box then went OH SHIT.  I still have to walk by that box for the rest of the day realizing that something I said wrong or too harshly is only inches from my grasp.  Perhaps dumpster-divers feel the same at times.  …Hanging upside down from the lip of a canister with the crown jewel only inches from their finger-tips.  That must suck!  I know it does for me.  Um… yeah, not the dumpster-diver part, but the letter part.

If you send a text or e-mail to someone and piss them off, they have the option of calling you directly.  Then they can tell you to fuck off, threaten to put their foot up your ass… well, you get my point.

*


With a letter, you just have to keep thinking, ‘Oh shit, what have I done?

This continues for days until you find out the amount of damage done.  Then what?  You try to kiss ass – pick up pieces, make amends – any way possible?  I call it ‘damage-control.’  Yes, I fuck it up often enough that I have actually coined a phrase to describe my ass-kissing, back-pedaling, whatever you want to call it.

A prime example of this would be when I called out a family member of mine here on the blog.  For her sake (and mine), I won’t mention any names.  However, that took a lot of ass-kissing.  If I had a dollar for every time I’ve told her sorry since, my canteen money would be as long as Donkey Kong.

My biggest mistakes are with women.  Then again, I have a strict policy of no ass-kissing guys.  Yes, the direction of this is even beginning to confuse me….

So I send out some random, possibly hurtful thoughts that my broken filter was not able to decipher.  Being so outgoing and up front is many times a curse rather than a blessing.  Now, on top of trying to avoid harmful situations, stay under the radar of the prison guards, and do my time, I also get to sweat how much damage-control will be needed to pick up the pieces from that grenade I just threw.  Worst part is… I will wonder and wonder for a week or more until the mail-man beings me answers.  Where is a Blackberry when you need one?

Here’s yet another one I used to have a problem with: Drunk texting.  The best way to avoid this would be to take the ex’s number out of your phone.  Then again, you need to be able to identify them when they call, so you can reject their call. 

So I’ve spent all day on the beach, doing shots, slamming beer, and have a sunburn to match the flames of hell.  

**


I am once again in love with my ex.  How about I call her real quick and tell her?  Hmmm… no, it’s 3 a.m.  …How about I text her instead?

This can turn out many different ways.  I’m passed out on my floor and someone is beating on my door.  I crawl to the door and open it.  There stands my ex.  “Umm… I’m here!  You asked me to come over?”

Then, of course, the times I hit the deck so hard the knocking won’t wake me.  I wake up the next day to 99 messages on my phone.  “I’m here!”  “Hey, are you home?”  “…OK, asshole!  I’m leaving now.”  “Mike, you suck!”

God forbid they come in, you have sex, then pass out.  …Only to wake the next day going, “What are you doing here?”

***


You know, I can’t be one-sided about all this either.  No, that wouldn’t be fair.  So yes, I’ve had that woman… the one who wakes me up at 2 a.m. and I go and wait for her drunk ass to show up.  Then she passes out drunk next to me.  I’m left to twirl her hair around my finger and recall all the times I could have done her different, but didn’t.  …Trying to fight off sleep so I can look at her a little longer, knowing full well that when she wakes, she will leave without a backward glance.

There’s a saying, No matter how beautiful she is, there’s some dude out there who thinks she’s a bitch.

(Ester asks, Really?)

“Well, I have one too.  ‘There’s also some dude out there who is still fucked-up over her.’

OK, you happy now?  Even the players and the assholes fall in love.

I’m left at times wondering what life is all about.  The guy who says “life’s a beach” or a walk in the park was smoking that funk.

Miley Cyrus, at the ripe old age of 16, told us it’s about “The Climb.”  Then again, she was smoking that stuff herself not long ago.

...or something

At this time in my life, I feel like I’m cliff-hanging and trying to upgrade my parachute.  I openly express my thoughts on life and love, but who am I?

…Definitely not your leader.”

* I know this looks like a total cop-out on Ester's part
** Because I have the same designer's pictures used throughout this post
*** But really it's a great promotion for someecards, in case you've never heard of them :)

You're welcome.