Laughter

Dad used to tell this story about my mom.  They went to get ice cream and mom tried to pass some sort of slushie through the window.  When it wouldn't fit, mom simply turned it sideways at which time the lid came off and the content spilled down the inside of the door. 

The story always made people laugh, at my moms expense.  Yet any time the story was told, my mother laughs hysterically, right along with everyone.  And that's the woman I call mom.  Seldom offended and quick to laugh, even if at herself. 

I was currently locked in the box for 45 days.  When I come to confinement I have my loved ones send me paper, envelopes and some crossword puzzles.  I don't ask for Sudoku because I don't get how to do them.

After being in the box that first week my packet showed up.  I smiled, then opened it.  Enclosed were the envelopes and stamps I needed, along with a pile of Sudoku puzzles.  Well, I used that paper and envelopes to write home to my lady and remind her it was CROSSWORDS I love to do.....

A few more days pass waiting on the pony express and the next packet arrives. I eagerly open it to find even more Sudokus.  Somewhat frustrated I none-the-less sit down and decide "screw it"....I will figure these things out.  The directions state:

1.  Each horizontal row shown in pink contains each digit exactly once.
2.  Each vertical column shown in yellow contains each digit exactly once.
3.  Each sub-grid or region shown in green contains each digit exactly once. 

Well, I think.  It's color coded so this shouldn't be that hard to figure out.  Some nice, easy, simple directions.  The only problem is that my sweet lady printed them off in black and white.  For some reason I suddenly pictured a slushie sliding down the inside of a window.  What we have here is a classic in the making.

And, it is the little things like this that keep me sane.  At the end of the day, even better than a Sudoku puzzle is real laughter.  Thank you so my lady and my mom for the best gift of all!  :)

Lines

Shits crazy.  Dude asked me the other day how long I've been making art.  I told him only a couple of years.  He asked me what I did before that. 

Before that I was leveling dirt piles with a front-end loader and smoking crack.  The only art I drew were lines across a mirror, then I snorted them.  I still draw lines, just a very different type.  Sure, there's the art, but I draw many lines.  I draw line between me and people I don't like.  There's a nice thick line between me and drugs and the lines just as thick between me and my ex-wife. 

I live in a place full of worthless people.  I'm in the bottom of a septic tank of stink.  It would probably blow my mind had I not been surrounded by much the same even before prison.  Watching people melt dope in a spoon, then pull it into a needle.  Find a vein and plunge themselves into bliss.  If that's what you call it.  A world where your children and the people who truly love you no longer exist.  I sit in a life behind bars and somehow manage to make myself better.  I feel for those who are still chasing an escape from a life they feel has betrayed them.  Mr. T use to say "I pity the fool."  I was once that fool.

Today, I live, eat and sleep around people who spend every cent their hard-working families send to them on drugs.   The prison system is full of that K-2 synthetic marijuana stuff.  It's a chemical mixed up in sprayers and then sprayed over a mixture of herbs or parsley.  Once dried, it's then rolled up and smoked like weed.  Except it's far from a natural high.  You're inhaling a chemical that smells like burning tires.  This is a newly designed drug that fucks people up and nobody know the long-term effects of yet.  Like the idiots they are, these guys line up and smoke it up.  Addicts on the street come to prison and live the same way here.  Their families have no idea their loved one spends all their money on dope.  They think their loved one is treating himself to a hot sandwich or a cold ice cream.  Instead, that 50 bucks Johnny gets is paid to the dope man.  When that money runs out, old Johnny then begins to rob others to support this habit. 

So a guy doing time has to watch his back for guys like Johnny.  He's either trying to take your shit, or he's high and unpredictable.  He may just punch you in your shit.  That's the life I navigate each day.

Today, I draw a lot of lines.  Some are drawn on papers and let me express myself in the form of art.  Other lines have been drawn separating me from people in my past who held me back.  I make decisions and walk a line between good and bad.  When in Rome, do as the Romans do.  Still, I don't want to act like the guys I live with, so there are lines to draw here. 

When I'm released from prison, I will have given them 10 years of my life.   A lot of shit happens in 10 years.  I grew up here.  I got free from drugs here.  My daughter came back into my life here.  I reconnected with my childhood friend here, who now helps me do this project and my time.  I picked up a talent here and it's my art that will support my family when I come home. 

Life is what you choose to make of it.  This place don't own me, I run this shit. 

  

J.J. Meets Big Bird

The other day J.J.'s dad came to visit.  Here they are.....taking their photo with Big Bird, Cookie Monster, Grover and the gang.

Why is J.J. on Sesame Street?  Because Sesame Street recently created a new character named Alex who talks about the stigma of having a parent in jail.  Along with this new character, they have a tool kit for families to use to help their children coping with a parent incarcerated.  

A few weeks ago, J.J.'s friend The Rabbi experience first-hand how D.O.C. used the Sesame Street program to engage with families.  Stay tuned for his story next week!

Today, enjoy this gangster hangin' with his dad and Big Bird....in his new Reeboks! 

Dear Mom....

God.  I thought August would never end.  Really, the month in itself passed quickly, but the heat...  The other day I broke out with a rash.  It appears to be some sort of fungus.  It's on the outside of my hip, rather than the inside where the typical summer itch would be.   The whole ordeal has left me in discomfort and quite honestly pissed.  The only comfort is to scratch it and that only awakes a fire that resembles hellfire.  On top of all this it's also taken me back to being a teenager.

During my teen years I played football for Roscommon High.  This mainly consisted of drinking large quantities of Vodka, then smoking a joint and last of all strapping on a bunch of pads and smashing into each other.  Pre-season training began in the heat of summer and under all those pads all you do is sweat.

So I'm sweating my ass off and half way through my 16th summer I develop a god awful rash.  This one was between my legs.  I scratched it and it spread and was a fire that unless you have ever experienced you have no idea.

This probably happens to every teen.  Problem was that I was also having sex that summer.  I was deathly afraid I had contracted an S.T.D. and was scared shitless.  My fear was if I went to the doctor they would tell my parents I had sex and caught some "sex disease".  Being the bright, young 16-year old jock I was, I scratched and burned myself through an entire summer.

That was a long time ago.  However, as I have dealt with this current situation, it took me back to all those years ago.  I'm sure I'm not the only poor bastard who has done the same.  Been scared to death his parents find out he's having sex, so dealt with a burning crotch.  That was a big price to pay for my pleasure.  And looking back, I don't believe it slowed me one bit.  I can only assume my mother will have a fine chuckle as she reads this.

Currently I am a 34 year old man and life isn't so awkward for me anymore.  I phoned home today and spoke to my mom. I told her about my rash.  We are both adults, ironically I am currently not having sex.  Uhh....I do believe my mother knows that. 

My mom is an incredible woman.  I am finally pleased to be at a place in my life where I know I too have become an incredible ass.  I mean incredible person.

It took a long trail of tears to get to this point.  My life has given my mother grey hair and caused her to take up smoking.  I'm pleased she hasn't developed a drinking problem as well.  I say this with the utmost love and respect for a woman who not only loves her children unconditionally, but goes to work every day trying to help other families.  My mother is a social worker and works with the department of children and families.  They commonly get a bad rap when shitty people say all they want to do is take people's children away.

My mother spends her week trying to keep families together.  I believe that is why my being in prison kills my mother so much.  While she spends her life trying to help families stay connected and together, her eldest son is states away and locked in prison.  Today, I sit here and remember being a dumb teenager.  Rebelling against every rule my parents set for me.  Yet loving them enough to not want to break their heart.  Teenagers and prisoners have a lot in common.  The mind is a constant battle ground.

I would like to make a slight modification to a well known country song:

"Momma's, pray your babies do grow up to be cowboys...."

Mom, I love you.  Thank you for the heart you gave me.  Thank you for sticking around long enough to see me use it.  ~ Your Son

Freedom Denied?

There was a call-out for me to receive legal mail last Friday.  At the set time, I went and picked up my documents.  The Orange County judge has ruled to deny my motion and uphold the judges original sentence.  Leaving me to finish my sentence of 12 years.

I took a deep breath as I read "denied".  After all, it's my future we are discussing here.  I exhaled, then began to walk again.  That's exactly how I plan to handle this.  One step at a a time.  Phase two begins the appeals process.  During which time I continue to count down the days of my original sentence.  Either way, I'm coming home.  Can't be stopped.  I wasn't given life here, so my day will come.

Not long ago I was a very different person.  I looked for people to blame.  Got angry when things didn't go my way.  Prison has changed that for me.  Some people become ruined here.  I somehow managed to recover some part of me that was lost.  I live a little better, love a lot better and take nothing for granted. 

This blog has become a way for me to get things off my chest.  As form of a confessional, if you will.  At times funny, generally very heartfelt, but even a tag aggravating to some.  My life is at times all of these for some people.  I don't figure everyone will like me.  That's life.

However, instead of go sit in a dark corner and hide, I decided to put my life well into the open and allow people to watch me.  That way you can form an educated decision about who I am.  Rather than come to conclusions based on where I am.

If we truly believe nobody can change then this world is headed toward disaster.  I would ask that you watch me and meet who I am today.  There will be those, of course, who won't.  They will use labels.  They will be influenced by what others think.  They will follow others rather than make their own decision.  Believe it or not, I use to do just that.  Everyone at the table is talking about so-and-so, why not just join is and do the same?  Today I realized that once you walk away from that conversation, it more than likely will become about you.  Some people are just shitty like that.  Jerry Springer has made millions on the fact that our society is full of trash. 

At some point I hope we all slow down and take the time to look over our own lives.  Take a break from looking at everyone else and check on your own lest you become the next contestant on the Jerry show.

I will continue to move forward in my life.  My family loves me and I can't wait to be free again.  Even when I know I will be the topic wherever there is a group of people looking to point fingers.  Well, if this blog helps me do my time, then perhaps watching me can help you do yours.  Maybe if you'll open your heart, my life could inspire you.

Today I am free.  Free from drugs.  Free from anger.  Free from the life I used to live.  This freedom nobody can take from me. 

Orientation

I was just enjoying my toilet-bowl seat.  My front-row-seat at the Lakers game. 

Since my release from the box, or confinement, I have been housed in what's called the orientation dorm.  New fellas from off the street, fresh to prison come to this dorm.  Here they go through orientation.  Watching movies about prison life.....How to identify a poisonous spider bite.  What staff infection looks like.  How to try and avoid prison rape.  You know....regular stuff every prisoner should know. 

So the dorm is what's called an open-bay dorm.  A large common area with bunks.  Then a day room area with tables and benches to play games and watch TV in. 

The shower and bathroom area are also open.  Eight toilets sit along one wall.  No dividers and there's about an arms reach from the next stool.  Makes it easier to pass the morning paper or loan toilet-tissue to your neighbor. Though I am not a big fan of being sandwiched between two wet swinging dicks in the shower, I noticed I can now watch TV while I take a dump.  Not only that, but it's basically front row seating. 

Before I went to confinement I was housed in two-man cells.  A door closes on your room and you have privacy from the other jack-asses you live with. 

Now, I find myself in open-bay housing sleeping in a whole room full of really dumb people.  One could even wonder if this is some further form of punishment.  I'm quite comfortable in the box.  Once again, it's two-man cells that I find best for me.  Perhaps they figured the best punishment was to stick me with orientation inmates. 

My mother asked me how I liked the open-bay dorm.  Mom likes to know things. 

There's just no respect between these guys.  Men that have been in prison grow to respect another man's space.  These new guys carry on a conversation right over your head to their home-boy three bunks over.  Yelling through you as if you're not even there.  I usually just put my ear buds in and crank up my music. I can see their lips moving, but can't make out what they're saying. 

Then there's the other group of dudes fresh to prison.  All they can think about is getting all tattooed while they are in.  They get all excited when they see me.  Wanting to talk about tattoos.  Usually, they have none, see how many I have, and think I must be the guy to talk to.  So, I have to explain to them that I have 99 problems and a tattoo is not one of them.  In other words, I let them know D.O.C is all up my ass already and I don't need the added stress of being marked as the tattoo guy.

Yes, I have a lot tats....I tend to get tattoos, but I do not give them.  I draw....with an ink pen.  And then I send my art home.  I get money.  I don't need to draw shit for these guys.  Still...they bug me.  Every time I draw, someone asks.  I have nearly 200 pieces of art on the Judicious Jailbird art gallery.  I don't have any interest in drawing the silly bullshit these guys ask for.

These days I remind myself that once upon a time I was new to prison life.  There was a time I was a gung-ho kid that wanted to get a bunch of tats before I went home.  Now, I'm a heavily tattooed man that just wants to go home.   

Given time these guys will change too.  It's all a joke to them now.  Let them do a few years and see where they're at.  I look around me and realize there are a lot of hard lessons to be learned by the guys around me.  Well....nothing like a front row seat at the school of hard knocks.....

Guilty

Hello to another day.  Fresh air and another day towards freedom.  Any day I wake up breathing is a good one.  Wasn't all that long ago I was waking up and off to find some means to alter my mind and get high from.

That was nearly five years ago since I last used a mind-altering substance.  I feel pretty good about that.  My life is a testimony that people can change.  When we truly decide to become a different person, we can.  Even an addict was sober at one time.  They made a choice to use a vice.  They changed the course of things.  So why can't we change back?

It won't be easy.  It's taken me five years to fully feel I've walked a safe distance from drugs.  The distance needed for me to stay free.  Over those five years my confidence has grown.  Not only that, but I want to encourage others who are where I used to be.

The Jailbird blog was once again recently put under an investigation.  When they questioned me, they asked me why I write for this blog.  Why don't I just write to my friends and family?  Why do I chose to write for an online blog?

Well....why wouldn't I?  If you could help somebody and chose not to, then shame on you.

For years I sold drugs and used drugs.  I helped destroy peoples lives.  Now, I have a chance to give something back.  There's a song that talks about letting your light shine.  I'm gonna let mine shine.  Whether it be to make people laugh, or to make them think. Perhaps it's to make you see your life isn't as bad as it could be.  There's always someone worse off than we are.  When asked why I do what I do, I said just that...and it seemed to be a good answer.

In the end they served me a D.R. (or disciplinary report).  Stating that I'm violating the Department of Corrections rule book by operating a business from prison.  I thought you got paid by a business.  I have yet to get paid.  Really I couldn't imagine getting paid to talk shit.  The whole blog is free. And...how, after reading the blog, anyone could write a disciplinary report about it amazes me.

Well, I'll take the D.R.  I'm guilty of giving inmates an opportunity to stay connected to their families with a shout-out.  Guilty of sharing my life in hopes someone may see there is hope.  However, you will never be charged to hear me rant and rave.  Brooke will never charge for the hours she spends typing all this up.  It's hard to find free stuff these days.  There's usually some catch.  Well...there's no catch here.  All we ask is that you smile.  Go tell someone you love them.

Mail Room Part II

A few weeks back I decided to exercise my right to grieve the mail room.  Two weeks later my grievances were returned.  "Rejected" on all three counts I brought up to dispute.  If I thought their mail room sucked before, you should see the amount of suck I'm dealing with now. 

My mother's mail was rejected last week because she sent me too many stamps.  Another packet of my art was rejected for tattoo patterns.  Currently, a piece of my art is being held by this prisons security because of possible "gang" references.

If you will look in the art gallery you will see a piece of art that says "ALL IN"...a reference to gambling and the goofy street life of money as a "king".  Unknown to me, the dice in the picture have a visible three, a two and a five.  

Well folks, as you know there are 50 states.  Each state has thousands of three digit area codes.  Nearly every small town across the nation has a group of kids using their area code for a "sign".  I'll bet if you Google your local area code there is some article about local kids using it as their gang sign. 

Two years ago I had no idea I used an Ocala area code in the dice I drew.  And that I had unknowingly referenced a group of goat-fucking, cow-tipping, farm-hands from the rodeo town of Ocala.  Both me and my lady were surprised to learn that my art was confiscated for not a possible tattoo pattern this time.  Now it's graduated to gang paraphernalia.  

This has all of a sudden put me on some list of sorts.  If someone did their homework on me, they would find that I am a quiet man.  I stick to myself.  I like art, I have a sweet tooth, and I enjoy long strolls in the park.  I am not a gang banger.  I have no time in my life to try to do stupid shit to gain approval from a squad of pure idiots.  I'm trying to come home to my family.  So I was shocked when I was pulled from my prison cell the other day to meet the gang task force, where I was questioned as to whom I'm affiliated with, and why I have stars tattooed on me.

Where I come from, the stars and stripes represents a country that for centuries men and women have gave their lives for.  Many of my friends and family have fought for our freedom.  So how on earth has a group of Spanish guys taken our historical symbols and turned them into gang signs? 

The ironic part of this, is that there's a special force hired by the prison system to investigate guys like me.  And this, my friends, is your tax dollars hard at work.  They could save some time and money if they just monitored the reck yard activity occasionally.  Since all their gang bangers meet up out there to flash their gang signs in the wide open all reck.  They are not hiding their symbols in dice.  They make up these complex hand shakes so they know who's who.

If a man walks up to another man and grabs his dick, I'll assume he's gay.  If you grab my dick, I'll punch you in your shit.  And when you investigate my dice in a piece of art?  You're a dumb ass.  Thank you, and please come again.  

Just Killin' Time

Guess your probably posted up in front of a computer.  Perhaps you hold in your hand the latest gadget in technology.  Something brought you to this place in time where right here and now you're sharing thoughts with a prisoner.

Imagine that.  Later today when you meet your friends for lunch you should tell them what you did today.  Let them know that earlier today you hung out with an incarcerated man. 

Way back in the far back when Jailbird started I made a promise.  You would not always agree with me, my thoughts more than likely will not be your own.  But, I will always make you think.  Since day one, I have done just that.  Wherever you were just prior to this is now history.  You are hanging with a Hooligan and I am about to fire up and bend your ear. 

Since the dawn of time there have been good guys and bad guys.  As far back as I can remember I have always taken the bad guy.  To this day I smile when the bad guy gets away.  Riding off into the sunset with the loot.  Long gone are the days of the outlaw.  You can barely run a stop sign these days.  They send you a ticket in the mail and a picture that a camera took of your rear end California-rollin' through 5th and Main.

Somehow I had to find a compromise of sorts.  We wouldn't be having this chat if I were not on the wrong side of the fence.  I'm not even certain if many of you would talk to me if not for the convenience of the internet.  Like, "cool, I have five minutes to burn in my day, how about I check and see what that prisoner dude is up to."

So my compromise is this.  I trade my past life as a bad guy for an ink pen and a tattoo machine.  Even then, some of society still frowns.

They say you can boil a toad if you ease the water to boil slowly.  Blindside the poor sucker.  We all laugh at the thought.  If you ever tried this method, you're one sick puppy.

Then again, when you see a heavily tattooed biker park alongside your new Beamer, do you engage in conversation, or do you hold your purse a little tighter and double-check your door locks?  My point exactly.

So when you meet your girlfriend for lunch later, you go on and tell her you been having your ear twisted be a convicted felon lost somewhere in the prison system.  Today you put a little hooligan in your life.

Nah, I'm just playing with you.  What you are is a little more like that poor toad.  You been sitting here just killing five minutes of your day....while all the time I've been turning the heat up a little at a time.  Crazy, huh?

Now that you've come this far with me, one last thought...

Next time you park next to the heavily tattooed biker, why don't you give him a smile?  After all, you two have friends in low places.  That's stolen straight from Mr. Garth Brooks.  Better get out of the water now.  Hop along little toad....

Vultures

Waiting to the catch the bus to the road kill cafe. 

Copyright 2012 by Tattoo'd Hooligan.

Make A Difference In Somebody's Life

Today, J.J. reflected back to this time of year when he was a free man.  A free man on his Harley, loaded with toys for Toys For Tots, taking off for a Toy Run with thousands of other bikers.  He remembered the joy he felt when delivering toys to children that may not have a Christmas.

In the words of J.J. "It was so cool to watch all these bad-ass bikers load up their bikes with huge stuffed animals and other toys.  Then watch their faces glow as they make a difference in children's lives.  God, I can't wait to do that again!"

Don't judge a book by it's cover.  A bad-ass can have a soft heart.

These toys travel from the bike to a child's arm...giving them a very Merry Christmas!  Be sure that you stop and smile.  See the people around you.  Make a difference in somebody's life.  And please, say a prayer for the millions of families that are missing their father/mother, husband/wife, son/daughter, brother/sister, or friend as they are on the other side of the fence.    

 

A Regular Joe

I walked down my hallway to talk on the phone.  While passing the bathroom I caught movement in my peripheral that caused me to quickly glance and catch some dude leaned against the wall jacking off.  After I passed the shooting range I made that phone call.

The call was placed to Brooke where she told me her dog was in the backyard eating another dog's poop.  Sometimes I wonder if my life is super crazy or does everyone have days where it seems your living in a movie?  I'm a regular dude.  I wake up in the morning and tie my shoes just like the next guy.  I then head off to the reck yard where I work out for about one hour.  I then grab an empty vitamin bottle with holes punched into the sides and catch grasshoppers.  They're called "hoppers" because they tend to do just that....hop away from you.

It's quite comical to watch a dude corral grasshoppers I'm sure.  And if you wondering why I do this....I do this for my Diablo, my spider.  He is a Florida Regal.  Most commonly referred to as  the jumping spider.  He eats a grasshopper every other day.  It's my responsibility to capture the food for him.  Then I pull off it's big jumper legs, stick it on the wall and let it walk to its death.  Diablo comes out of his web and handles the rest.

All this seems normal to me.  Then again, if my life was normal, I don't suppose this blog would still be growing every day.

I'm 34 years old.  I hang out on the playground with my friends and catch grasshoppers.  I still think farts are funny, have burping contests, and say "balls on your forehead!"

Most of my life lessons have come through trial and error.  Usually by the error means.  Then again, that's where lasting lessons come from.  I live my life like chicken pox.  Do it once, and it should never happen again....right?

Although there have been cases where the pox hits twice.  Ironically it's usually where the first case was mild and not very extreme.  I was removed from school and placed in a bathtub full of oatmeal for three days unable to swallow.  What's oatmeal have to do with chicken pox anyways?  Was that just my parents genius at work?  "He he....let's put him in here then we'll know where he's at." 

One time I complained of being tired and my mother told me I probably had mono.....the kissing disease.  Her next question was who had I been kissing on.  Moms are super nosy.

I'll never forget the time I came home and she just looked at me, then began to cry.  She then says, "My son...you just gave away the gift you can only give to one woman."  Yes, you may have guessed.  I gave her a special ride on my bicycle.  And how the hell did my mom know?  That was my question.  She'll swear to this day a mother just knows these things.  And I'm screaming...."BULLSHIT!"

If you had any idea how many times I gave that "special gift" away you would have died from a heart attack!!  I'm gonna just guess you couldn't help but catch the glow radiating from me.  The dazed and confused look a man gets just before he passes out to take an after-sex nap.  I know....all you ladies want to do is cuddle.  That's cool....you cuddle while we sleep.      

Meet J.J.'s Buddy Chris

To all the readers:

This is the first time I have written a post for J.J.  So first let me introduce myself.  My name is Chris Manikowski.  Now I am DC # Q20682.  I am currently incarcerated with J.J.  I have know him for over two years, along with being co-owner of the granola bar/jolly pop business.  So when he asked me to write a post, I said sure thing.  This was a couple of months ago, but I could not figure out what to write about.

Apparently, what happens in here on a daily basis is interesting to all of you.  But nothing stuck out to me as worthwhile (although the prison hustle piece came from some brainstorming on our part while walking the track).  Then, J.J. came up with the Thanksgiving Day shoutouts (so, if you want to see what I look like, scroll down the page a little....I'm on there).  And it got me thinking....

What am I really grateful for?  Well, I'm locked in a building with a bunch of dudes, I'm told what to do and when to do it, I can't see my family or friends and all for the reasonable future...but it could be worse.  I get outside twice a day.  Break the rules almost as often as I follow them, and see my friends and family at visitation on the weekends.

Still, it's a good question that many people never stop and take the time to consider.  Before I was imprisoned, it seemed like I had the perfect life and was on track to achieve everything I wanted out of life.  I had just finished my second year at Florida State University, was in a fraternity, had great grades, lots of friends...you get the idea. 

Then, in one night, I lost all that I had worked the last 20 years for.  I went to Spring break in Panama City, got into a hit-and-run, and here I sit.  After five years, I have a pretty good idea of what's important to me, who I am, who I want to be.  That's the great thing about prison...you have plenty of time to think.  Many people (especially on the street) are either too busy or don't care enough to do this.  I know that I didn't when I was out there, but it gives you a good perspective on life.  It takes some significant event, usually catastrophic, to prompt someone to evaluate these things.

This piece is both a supplement and a challenge:  this holiday season, I'm urging all of you to sit down for an hour or two, once a day/week/month, and reflect on what/who you are thankful for.  Ask yourself who would still be there if you ended up in prison tomorrow?  Of five years down the road?  What do you want to be doing in the next few years?  Where do you want to be?  Who do you want to be?  Sometimes we just get stuck on autopilot and never realize our blessings.  Appreciate the now.  Live in the moment.  But always with an eye on the future.  Don't go through life like a robot only to find out 30 years have gone by and you feel like you've missed out on so much.  Before I came to prison, I took my family for granted, along with my friends, even my freedom.  I won't make that mistake again and the people who are important to me know how I feel.

I suggest you do the same.  So the next time you have a few minutes to think, ask yourself those questions and you might be surprised by the answers.  Happy holidays everyone.  I'm out.

The Wimpy Kid

Well, I had some new art added to my resume the other day.  Here I was thinking it was quite gangster.  Then my lady informed me that it is in fact "adorable".  A word that I asked her to please not use when referencing me.  She laughed and said I was cute.  Bleh!

In fact what has happened to me is that I now live in the Diary of A Wimpy Kid.  For real.  I have a white Steve Urkel for my bunkie now.

All summer long the kid wore a sweatshirt and was cold.  Now he's sick.  Coughing and sneezing and wants the window closed all day.  Instead of go outside and get fresh air, he piles up under his covers with a glass of warm tea and reads romance novels.  Yeah.  With titles like "A Long Summer Night" and "Tender Devil".

My grandmother used to read these books.  They are soft porn for Christ's sake!  So yeah....

Someone had to be gangster around here.





An officer came and tossed our room the other day.  My bunkie was gone at school and that left me in the room.  The officer turns to me holding a copy of "Tender Devil" and asks if it's mine.  There's a damsel in distress, with her dress falling off with some Fabio want-to-be leaning her back ready to rock her world in a bed of roses on the cover.

Tender Devil....fuckin' A.  And now this officer stands here asking me if it's mine.  Can't he tell it's not?  Can't he see how gangster I am?  Whatever.

I'm sure I offended some of my people.  My dad's reply was that I turned my whole body into a canvas.  Well, shit...that beats being called "adorable".  When it comes to regrets, my tattoos are nowhere on that list.  My ink has meaning.  Each piece reminds me of some place in my life.  Still, I get some people won't agree.  

So, here I am living with Diary of a Wimpy Kid while he lives in the Diary of a Mad Man.  Really, I'm not mad. I'm just sitting here with a smirk on my face.  Thinking about what a bad-ass grandpa I'm going to be one day.

Isn't life amazing?  I mean, someone out there wants to bitch about what I do, yet there's others who can tell me that I'm adorable.  Then again....I guess if you took the time to get to know me you would see I'm a pretty cool dude.  I walked down some roads most people couldn't survive.  The shit that didn't break me, made me.

So here I am.  Being harassed for romance novels and making sure nobody steals Urkels lunch.  No wonder my lady says I'm "adorable".  If all my haters could see me now.....

My gangster life has turned into some sort of a joke.  And....the joke may be on me.  My bunkie just walked into the room.  He's wearing long john tops and bottoms, with a pair of gym shorts pulled up over the bottoms.  I have changed my mind.....Steve Urkel don't have shit on this dude.

Hail Mary

J.J. was moved to draw Mother Mary the other day.  He listened to Hail Mary by Tupac as he drew.

J.J.'s wish for you: may you always make your dreams come true. 

Copyright Tattoo'd Hooligan 2012.

Prison Food

I heard a man once say his old lady’s cookin’ sucked so bad the flies pitched in and bought them a screen door.  This makes me think about the food they expect us to eat around here.

You know that toast and jelly, cereal and milk, and salt and pepper go together.  A steak and potato, a soup and salad, garlic and butter….I’ve been hearing these dishes go together all my life.  But prison?  Not so much. 

I’m not real sure who made up these menus but they fit together like water on your cereal.  Who thought of giving full-grown men two pieces of bologna and no bread?   Just roll up the meat and eat it.  Sometimes I wonder if this is some twisted joke!

Here you can see one slice of bread on the tray.  Today the bread is no longer added.

One of our dinner trays is referred to as “tacos” on the DOC menu.   Instead of taco shells, they give you two pieces of bread.  Taco Bell?  I say Taco Hell!  Can you imagine the mess?  Two pieces of bread….

Where I come from we call that “shit on a shingle.”  They took the “taco” off the tray.  They only thing Mexican about the meal is the Chihuahua dog they got the meat from.  Tacos my ass!

Whoever department of corrections has doing their meal plans is smoking crack.  They serve us the same patty and it changes names each time.  Some soybean-cardboard patty is southern fried on Monday.  The patty is a “zesty” patty on Wednesday and somehow turns into a Salisbury steak on Friday.  This is a bigger lie than most men saying their Salisbury steak is ten inches!  It is false advertisement folks.  Plain and simple.

I told my lady the other day I’ll eat anything….well…within reason.  You either eat their food or go hungry…especially when you’re in confinement.  When I first came to prison you got a carton of milk with breakfast.  That was your dairy serving.  You also got a fruit; either an orange or a banana.  The food director decided to do away with both dairy and fresh fruit.  They found it’s too hard to stretch an orange.  When you step on it, there’s a big mess.  Same with the bananas.  They found it’s easier to water down and stretch a fruit juice.  Now we get our fruit serving in a cup that’s been cut down so bad by water there is no nutritional value left.  This is worse than telling someone O’Doul’s will get them drunk.  It’s all a lie. 

How’s that song go...women lie, men lie?  That’s right…and so does the food director.  It’s a shame.  Back here we love to hear there’s an “inspection” coming up.  That’s the only time of year the food trays have proper serving sizes on them and the juice actually tastes like juice. 

Really, I’m not bitching.  It is what it is.  But it’s all false advertisement.  Even the flies won’t eat this shit.  They don’t need a screen door to keep them away.  Prison food make 7-11 chilidogs look like a gourmet meal.  Yep, even that 4-day old weenie that someone forgot about.   That one that’s been turning on that rack and has shrunk into a piece of beef jerky.  Put some chili and cheese on that shit and grab a Coke Icee.  That’s five star dining! 

J.J. Joins Us via PHONE!

Brooke (childhood friend who is proud to keep this blog going) and Ester (J.J.'s sister who started this project!) work together with J.J. on speakerphone straight from prison to create his new hustle - Prison Pops, made with Jolly Rancher candies.

Unfortunately, a Prison Pop is not created, but enjoy hanging with us!   (NOTE J.J. gets very hard to hear between 1:30 and 4:00, but at 4:00 you will hear him again loud and clear.)

Later after this call Phillip (baby brother to J.J. and Ester) showed up and cranked out a Prison Pop with J.J. 

Here is what a Prison Pop looks like when done:

Anything can be your canvas....

 

J.J. was catching up on his news with USA Today when he stumbled upon some amazing art!  Landscape (specifically the Roger Williams Park Zoo in Providence, Rhode Island) was transformed into an art gallery.  Passion for Pumpkins calls it an organic gallery.  And you can see why..... 

“…one of the most brilliant displays of holiday artistry anywhere in the U.S.” - offmetro.com/ny/ - 2011

J.J. loves art.  All art.  He plans to go see this spectacular display one day.  One day when he is on this side.  Free.  Free to move from one spectacular place to another!

 

A Memo Re: Life in Prison

This has been passed all over, from inmate to inmate at J.J's new camp.  Another inmate wrote this, and is letting us share this with you!  (Sorry, this has been scanned to publish, which makes it slightly difficult to read.  But a good read none-the-less.)

Enjoy!

To Challenge Your Thinking

I recently was pleased to visit with Michael at the prison that is currently his address.  It had been 13 months since my last visit….very overdue.  Up until this past year I was able to see him about every six months.  Due to a change in jobs I could not make my normal mid-winter visit and thus the long interval.  Regular readers of JJ know me as The MOM. 

Yes, I have read every post on the blog.  Some have been extremely hard for me to read, some make me laugh, some make me cry and others have made me shudder.

Prison is not rehabilitation, but rather punishment.  There are lots of differing philosophies in that regard, but I won’t bore you with them.  I wanted to bring an interesting topic to the forefront as it is something Michael and I discussed at length during one of our recent visits.  That topic is drug addiction.

Readers know that Michael was an addict for several years.  Yes, he was raised in a strict and religious home.  If I can digress for a moment….rules without relationship brings rebellion.  (That was free!!)  At about the age of 17 he had an experience that shattered his world as he knew it.  I remember the day he came home, got in his car and drove to Florida.  For the next dozen years he buried himself in drugs.  I lived far enough away to not know all the “in’s and out’s” of what was going on….but I knew things were not right.

During that period of time he made many poor choices and many wrong decisions.  The consequence of his actions, while under the control of drugs, is prison.  His underlying problem was drug addiction. 

Now he is free of those addictions.

Our recent conversation went something like this.  “Son, people would say to you that it is easy to say you are free from drugs when you are behind bars.  The real test will be when you get out…will you be able to stay clean?”  That sounds like a reasonable question.  We both laughed.  Why?  Because drugs are as available in prison as they are outside….they probably just cost more.

I remember when I had those same thoughts.  Then I did some research.  You can check it out on the World Wide Web or have a conversation with someone who has done prison time.  Drugs ARE readily available in prison. 

Michael’s being drug free is his choice, not imposed on him by his incarceration.  He makes that choice everyday…sometimes multiple times a day.  If you thought about it….the temptation to “bury how you feel and self-medicate” might be even greater when you are in prison than on the street.  Hundreds and thousands of men and women, the majority of them are healthy, with absolutely nothing to do.  And if they don’t have a good support network on the outside….all they have for peers are other convicted felons. 

They cannot shower, go to the toilet, play games, watch TV, work out, or even work….unless and until someone gives them permission.  They are not supposed to lie on their bunks and sleep during the day.  Yet they have nothing to do for the most part.  Some might have jobs, but not many.  That is ripe ground for abusing substances, especially if you went to prison already addicted.  Yes, his choice to be free from addictions is his choice and not due to a lack of opportunity.

Excerpts from article published…..

Wednesday, January 27, 2010 from The Washington Times

In many large state prison systems, a mix of inmate ingenuity, complicit visitors and corrupt staff has kept the level of inmate drug abuse constant over the past decade despite concerted efforts to reduce it.  A recent boom in cell-phone smuggling has complicated matters, with inmates sometimes using phones to arrange drug deliveries.

Florida has implemented anti-contraband strategies that its legislative watchdog office says match or exceed those in other states, including drug-detecting dog teams, metal detector searches of staff and visitors at all prisons, and even random pat-down searches of staff, rarely done in other states.

Yet, despite these efforts, 1,132 random drug tests of inmates in 2008-2009 were positive---the same positive rate of 1.6 percent as 10 years earlier.  Even more striking, officers seized 2,832 grams of marijuana and 92 grams of cocaine at the prisons during the year, by far the highest figures of the past decade.

“People are always trying to smuggle drugs in,” said Gretl Plessinger, spokeswoman for the Florida Department of Corrections.  “Our ultimate goal is to get rid of it, but I’d be a fool to tell you that will ever be realized.”

....Conclusion of excerpts from article published.

Judicious Jailbird has been an opportunity for Michael to get rehabilitated in a system that is not designed to provide those opportunities.  He has taken the time to write about his sins, shortcomings and addictions.  And, I must admit, a lot of foolishness as well!!  He spends hours every day writing and drawing.  Believe me, he could choose to waste those hours, or again….to make poor choices.  Instead, he writes and draws.

He has reconnected with old friends….

One of them is publishing this blog and sending Michael’s art out to be enjoyed by thousands of others via magazines and articles.  None of which provide monetary gain….but a sense of value and accomplishment…and perhaps giving Michael a sense of purpose right now when he feels no purpose.  Some hope in a hopeless environment.  And better yet…hope for his future when he gets out!

Other old friends write….

to reminisce about being children together.  A chance for Michael to remember those good days and draw strength from them.  To help my son know that he does have to do his time….but he is not forgotten.

Others who write....

share about their own loved one who is struggling with addictions.  That gives my son the chance to pray and reach out to another with compassion…..because he has been there himself

And he has made new friends…..

Norm, an amazing man.  A father to his own sons and a veteran of Viet Nam.  Norm recently lost his own mother and father, yet still took the time to write my son.  (Hey Norm…..your letter was the first one he got after he was sent to solitary confinement.  You can’t imagine how special it was to him.  But, I’m sure he will be writing to tell you himself.)  Michael and Norm never knew each other on the streets but Michael considers Norm his friend.  This man has taken the time to “put into” my son.  Norm has shown Michael that there are people who will not judge him just as a convicted felon, but will give him a chance. 

Those who comment on the blog….

You will never know the joy that your comments brings to the author of these stories…JJ himself.  He feels that he knows each one of you and is always eager to know what you have said.  He asks about you by name….or at least what you call yourselves!

All of this has happened because of Judicious Jailbird.  It started with Michael’s sister from Alaska posting some letters, ranting’s and heartfelt stories from her big brother behind bars.  Now it has become a project.  A project that hopes to reach out to many others to inspire change.  And, a project that is giving hope to Michael and letting him become rehabilitated while he does his time. 

So…thank you for continuing to read.  Thank you for being a part of this journey that Michael’s family is on with him as he does his time. 

And when someone tries to tell you it is easy for an addict to “stay clean” when he is behind bars…..LAUGH AND TELL THEM THEY HAVE NO IDEA WHAT THEY ARE TALKING ABOUT!!!!

The MOM