You truly do have to love yourself to fully love someone else.
For 33 years my mother has been praying me home. Since I was a boy my mother has taught me by example. After spending some time with my mom, my woman told me that indeed the apple didn't fall far from the tree. I had made a sideways remark to apples and trees and my mom in a post about chairlifts. So, when my woman made this comment I rolled my eyes and said, "you're silly." After more thought, I realized that she was right. My mother have me her heart.
A heart to give.
As I realized this, I realized something else...I am whole again. Today I am not ashamed of the man I have become. Not only can I love and respect myself, I love and respect the people in my life. I called my mom on Christmas Eve. She asked how many people we were cooking for. Let me back up....
Every year I look out for some of the less fortunate here. This year there were 12 guys who didn't have anything. Me and a couple others pitched in and made them a meal. Mom asked if I had enough money. Then she said to tell them Merry Christmas from her.
That's my mom. This is what my mother stands for. All of my life my mother has opened her home to anyone in need. There is no naughty or nice list. Instead, she offers a come one, come all kind of home.
This year 12 dudes walked away full of food and a message. A message of hope. That even here, in prison, people can learn to feel compassion. Broken can become whole. And as they ate, others saw this and began to give as well. Others offered coffee, cookies, and candy. The food grew rather than disappearing. Before long it was our whole dorm and someone even gave up a prayer of thanks. Thanking God for our families, and our loved ones. After the prayer there was a round of applause. I took a seat off to the side and watched. A smile was on my face.
Don't pay me back, pay it forward. That's my mother in me. The joy it brings me to give? That's my mother as well. Me, learning to be an example is my gift to you mom. Me, learning to love myself so I can love others is also my gift to you. Happy Birthday Mom! Another year behind us, and a fresh start on a New Year!
Friday, December 30, 2011
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
J.J. goes Postal
Are you reading this on your phone, computer, laptop, or portable hand-held device? Ironically what you are reading started out as a letter. The post office and a mailman made this possible. If not for the pony-express, this correspondence would not be.
Being a prisoner we are banned from using the forms of technology you use. Instead of e-mailing his family, some wise-ass would be ordering a ladder, 20-foot of rope, and a flashlight. Then, while waiting for the delivery to arrive, porn would no doubt be the next topic of interest. Possibly in reverse order.
I recently read an article in Time Magazine about the possible closure of a large number of post offices. Don't they know better than to screw with the post office? Where do they think 'going postal' came from? Good God! Don't piss off the postal workers. Haven't you learned your lesson?
The offices that will go first will be rural or 'village' post offices. Small community offices that employ local help. Locals who hunt deer to feed their family. Men that have a high powered 30-06 with a scope in their closet. The dude you don't want to piss off. So what's the solution?
Costco and Office Depot have stepped in and now allow people to mail packages from their location. Who else wants to help? Wal-Mart. I was raised in the church. In the Book of Revelation there is mention to the Antichrist. Someone who will step forward and try to rule the world.
I think that Wal-Mart may be the Antichrist! Where else can you have the oil changed in your car, new tires mounted and balanced and order a pepperoni pizza and a Big Mac for lunch? You can calm yourself with a nice Kenny G. saxophone solo, or buy yourself some warm boots and camo. You can mulch your yard, paint your porch, or purchase mood lights. Sounds like the picture the Bible paints of the 'power' that will 'rise' to rule the world. Keep your eye on Wally World, and let's save the post office!
This is a prime example of the rich growing fatter, and the poor well.....shrinking?
Was that the point of Occupy Wallstreet? To point out corporate America? So now on top of brake jobs, a food court and filling your prescriptions....you can also mail a postcard to Great-Aunt Mabel in Delaware.....all from your friendly Wal-Mart.
Oh! Let's not forget you can see a stripper push her three kids down the aisle at 3 a.m. How's that going anyway? The economy sucks, but there are a few things that will always sell. Sex and drugs.
So, when your 'urban' post office closes, don't be surprised when it opens a few weeks later as a bar or a porn shop. Yeah, I see that one already...Old Stan is coming in late again. His wife Margret asks where he has been. Well, he had to stop by the post office. What a fine name for a topless bar. The Post Office. More like the 'pole' office. Where the only 'stamps' are the tramp stamps and the only package deal is a dollar dance and a shot. Nobody is going postal, they're just going home broke.
God, I love America. Land of the brave, the proud, and the free!
For what it's worth, I have no beef with Wal-Mart. My girl isn't a big fan. That could be in part to the fact that I always reference that store along with the working girls. But hell, strippers and Wal-Mart go together like toast and jam, cereal and milk, and macaroni and cheese.
Truth is Justin Bieber is probably the Antichrist. All he needs to do is hook up with either Lady Gaga or Taylor Swift. They will become the super power that rules that earth. Or at least the music charts. My bad. I just pissed on someone for sure. Clearly I should go. The Biebs is about to air and I wouldn't miss it for the world! Ha!Ha! Fuck that! Funny enough, I do love his girl's newest hit: "Love You Like A Love Song." Nice one Selena Gomez!
Being a prisoner we are banned from using the forms of technology you use. Instead of e-mailing his family, some wise-ass would be ordering a ladder, 20-foot of rope, and a flashlight. Then, while waiting for the delivery to arrive, porn would no doubt be the next topic of interest. Possibly in reverse order.
I recently read an article in Time Magazine about the possible closure of a large number of post offices. Don't they know better than to screw with the post office? Where do they think 'going postal' came from? Good God! Don't piss off the postal workers. Haven't you learned your lesson?
The offices that will go first will be rural or 'village' post offices. Small community offices that employ local help. Locals who hunt deer to feed their family. Men that have a high powered 30-06 with a scope in their closet. The dude you don't want to piss off. So what's the solution?
Costco and Office Depot have stepped in and now allow people to mail packages from their location. Who else wants to help? Wal-Mart. I was raised in the church. In the Book of Revelation there is mention to the Antichrist. Someone who will step forward and try to rule the world.
I think that Wal-Mart may be the Antichrist! Where else can you have the oil changed in your car, new tires mounted and balanced and order a pepperoni pizza and a Big Mac for lunch? You can calm yourself with a nice Kenny G. saxophone solo, or buy yourself some warm boots and camo. You can mulch your yard, paint your porch, or purchase mood lights. Sounds like the picture the Bible paints of the 'power' that will 'rise' to rule the world. Keep your eye on Wally World, and let's save the post office!
This is a prime example of the rich growing fatter, and the poor well.....shrinking?
Was that the point of Occupy Wallstreet? To point out corporate America? So now on top of brake jobs, a food court and filling your prescriptions....you can also mail a postcard to Great-Aunt Mabel in Delaware.....all from your friendly Wal-Mart.
Oh! Let's not forget you can see a stripper push her three kids down the aisle at 3 a.m. How's that going anyway? The economy sucks, but there are a few things that will always sell. Sex and drugs.
So, when your 'urban' post office closes, don't be surprised when it opens a few weeks later as a bar or a porn shop. Yeah, I see that one already...Old Stan is coming in late again. His wife Margret asks where he has been. Well, he had to stop by the post office. What a fine name for a topless bar. The Post Office. More like the 'pole' office. Where the only 'stamps' are the tramp stamps and the only package deal is a dollar dance and a shot. Nobody is going postal, they're just going home broke.
God, I love America. Land of the brave, the proud, and the free!
For what it's worth, I have no beef with Wal-Mart. My girl isn't a big fan. That could be in part to the fact that I always reference that store along with the working girls. But hell, strippers and Wal-Mart go together like toast and jam, cereal and milk, and macaroni and cheese.
Truth is Justin Bieber is probably the Antichrist. All he needs to do is hook up with either Lady Gaga or Taylor Swift. They will become the super power that rules that earth. Or at least the music charts. My bad. I just pissed on someone for sure. Clearly I should go. The Biebs is about to air and I wouldn't miss it for the world! Ha!Ha! Fuck that! Funny enough, I do love his girl's newest hit: "Love You Like A Love Song." Nice one Selena Gomez!
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Lost & Found
There are things in life that you have lose in order to find....then, we put together the puzzle of life. Our life. And we create our picture. Cheers to that journey, and the friends we make along the way!
Monday, December 26, 2011
Christmas Memories
Here is one of my favorite Christmas memories......
What is one of your favorite Christmas memories?
 |
| Photo of J.J. with brother Phill and cousin Spencer. |
Saturday, December 24, 2011
I'll Drink to That
You know the saying ‘Open mouth – insert foot?’ …Many times, I feel my bullshit meter is pegged at a full tank.
I’m reminded of the time I purchased a used truck. It didn’t run, so I picked it up on a flat-bed trailer. Driving through downtown Orlando on the 408 expressway, I watched that truck back itself off my trailer. It then drove itself across four lanes of traffic before it smashed into the side of a semi.
Seems I drove it on to the trailer, put the truck in park, but forgot the safety chains.
Watching it back off my trailer, my jaw dropped. When it broad-sided the semi, I said, “Oh shit!” And yes, I tried to keep going as if it didn’t happen. But then there’s a car next to me, honking, making lots of hand signals, flashing his headlights. …The Good Samaritan making sure I realized that a full-sized Chevy service truck just unloaded itself off my trailer.
Thank you, Sherlock! As if I hadn’t fuckin’ noticed! Sometimes we need the obvious stated. That day? …Not so much.
I really like how everyone pays close attention to me, like I’m the car crash about to happen.
You’re driving down the highway at 80 m.p.h. when you’re passed by someone doing well over 100. Five miles down the road, you pass him as he’s pulled over by the cops. As you drive by and give him the finger, you mutter, “Fuckin’ retard.” I like to be the dude giving the finger, but often times I’m the other guy.
…Reminds me of another saying. Something about planks and beams in your eye. Fix yourself before you flick me off? Yeah – I know – there’s a forest growing in my eye.
I have a new plan. If you don’t like me, just ball-check me. Scottie and I had this down pat.
Speak of the Devil!
SCOTTIE, you little dick weed – where you at? I haven’t been ball-checked, shit on, spooned, mooned, or shown the goat for some time now. Could you just check in? I know sex isn’t taking you this long. Holster the pistol, man!
OK, back to these genius sayings. These nuggets of encouragement.
I wrote some time back, “When life hands you lemons [make lemonade].” A reader wrote, “Find someone with tequila and have a party!” …Now that’s what I’m talking about! Do you cook as well? Tell you what… grab your tequila and meet me in 2018! Don’t worry about cooking. If we get around to eating, we’ll order room service.
For the rest of you who are watching me:
Do you get hung up on the man who broke the law, or do you see the changes?
I talk about being accountable… like driving off after that truck rolled off my trailer. …If nobody is looking, I may just drive off today as well. Thing is, I know this about myself. Growing up doesn’t mean you ‘fixed’ all your errors, you just know what they are and live accordingly.
This project, J.J., has become my preventative maintenance. So please…go ahead and watch me. You can pull alongside me and flash your lights – give me hand signals…. Just prepare to get hand signals back at you.
Nah… changes, people. Changes. I’ll just smile and wave. …While I think to myself, ‘Fuckin’ retard.’
I guess in some ways I am still the same dude. Many of my changes can’t be seen from back here. Or I don’t know how to talk about them.
…Like trying to be a dad to my daughter, being a good big brother to my siblings, or a son my mother can be proud of…Or being faithful to my woman and letting her know she’s my queen.
If you’re one of my peeps, you know I love you. My daughter makes me melt. My boo puts my head in the clouds.
The biggest change you can’t see… I put my people first. I put myself last. Addicts are about number one. That’s the nature of the beast. If you’re watching… I’m clean. Just over 3 years now. Smoke free for 14 months and going strong. I drink coffee, but that’s legal in all 50 states. Weed may be one day too. You can have that shit too. I don’t need it.
Half my family smokes weed, which makes Christmas easy. Doritos for everyone…Tequila for me.
Hey baby! Psst! You awake? Grab your tequila and let’s go… fishing.” J
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Xtreme Body Piercing
Imagine the view God had the day His son hung on the cross for each of us.........
"For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life." John 3:16
"For God so loved the world that he gave his one and only Son, that whoever believes in him shall not perish but have eternal life." John 3:16
Monday, December 19, 2011
Please help the Hooligan...
What am I up to this week? Learning to climb the rungs of the social ladder through creative intimidation....well, you asked!
I write for a blog. A fairly successful blog, but we can do even better. For this reason I am learning how to one-up what I can.
My sister set out to help me be heard. We are. In an attempt to reach out even further, I am now doing my homework. And, it doesn't hurt that our newest partner is all over media work and teaching me it's benefits.
So, I follow other bloggers. I learn about Twitter, and other forms of social networking. Then, I look to outsmart and outperform them in order to rise to the next run of the ladder. Pinkie and the Brain set out to take over the world. I'm right behind you guys....watch out!
Step one...put your best foot forward and shine. You have to catch people's attention. Well, I catch people's attention, but it's not always because of my best foot being forward. Quite possibly it's not my foot at all. One example I read stated..."It's OK to clear the dance floor with any amazing display of footwork. It's not OK to clear the floor by stumbling or projectile vomiting."
OK, so I get an F on that grade.
However, since "parties" has become a topic, let me take this a bit further. When I came to prison there was no Twitter. Myspace was still cool and Facebook was new stuff. Myspace is nearly dead space and let's all say hello to Facebook and Twitter.
Yep, prior to prison, parties were my best form of social networking. And, they are still great. But, I can't attend for some time still. BUT! Thanks to my peeps, you can find me on Facebook.
Personally, I like to party. There is a special way to "own the party." Making an entrance is important. That sexpot partner on your arm is key. Check! I can get that one right. Don't stay the full length of the event. A brief appearance is how I roll. Make sure to make an entrance, then slip out unnoticed. Arrive overdressed...then people will assume your coming from, or heading to something more important. This also fuels your grand entrance. Stay too long and it appears you have nothing better to do.
As you may see, I can do the party scene. Learning to maneuver the other forms of social network is new for me. Add to that...my current circumstances. I'm one step behind a walkie-talkie....I throw rocks.
Nowhere was that mentioned as a form of social networking. Soooooo....like they say...an education can only take you so far. Some days you have to reach for those rocks.
Really, I don't care to ever reach to the top. For me, it's more about the climb. I'm an adrenaline junkie. I love to hang on the side of cliffs...or to just jump. Me and the Hooligan crew already jumped. So much of my life was spent as an addict. Today, I like to put one foot in front of the other. Even if they are baby steps. I'm living life. Even from my prison cell. Since I have your attention, perhaps you would give me a hand here.
The Jailbird started with one person. My sister. She put a link to the blog on her Facebook. Over time, we have made tracks. I still marvel when I see our coverage. Our biggest form of social networking, aside from me and these rocks.....is you and good ole' word-of-mouth. I'm about to run some slick shit on you. My woman calls me her smooth operator...eh...whatever.
When you help someone it makes you feel good. Some choose to work at a soup kitchen. Maybe you donate to a local charity. Perhaps you have dropped some coin in a Salvation Army can as you do your holiday shopping. Listen...I need your help. You can bless this project by telling just one person. Share the Jailbird with just one friend. I will try to not embarrass you too bad! Hell, plug us to your whole Facebook list. Wow! Show a felon some love.
If you enjoy this project...thank the crew of Hooligans that make it possible. Help us network. Be a Hooligan and throw a rock. Share us with a friend. You just did something really cool. I would pat you on the back, but...hey! Watch out! I just threw a rock instead.
Awwww...come on! Tell me Dirty Games wasn't some stooooopid shit! Come on! Pass the word! :)
I write for a blog. A fairly successful blog, but we can do even better. For this reason I am learning how to one-up what I can.
My sister set out to help me be heard. We are. In an attempt to reach out even further, I am now doing my homework. And, it doesn't hurt that our newest partner is all over media work and teaching me it's benefits.
So, I follow other bloggers. I learn about Twitter, and other forms of social networking. Then, I look to outsmart and outperform them in order to rise to the next run of the ladder. Pinkie and the Brain set out to take over the world. I'm right behind you guys....watch out!
Step one...put your best foot forward and shine. You have to catch people's attention. Well, I catch people's attention, but it's not always because of my best foot being forward. Quite possibly it's not my foot at all. One example I read stated..."It's OK to clear the dance floor with any amazing display of footwork. It's not OK to clear the floor by stumbling or projectile vomiting."
OK, so I get an F on that grade.
However, since "parties" has become a topic, let me take this a bit further. When I came to prison there was no Twitter. Myspace was still cool and Facebook was new stuff. Myspace is nearly dead space and let's all say hello to Facebook and Twitter.
Yep, prior to prison, parties were my best form of social networking. And, they are still great. But, I can't attend for some time still. BUT! Thanks to my peeps, you can find me on Facebook.
Personally, I like to party. There is a special way to "own the party." Making an entrance is important. That sexpot partner on your arm is key. Check! I can get that one right. Don't stay the full length of the event. A brief appearance is how I roll. Make sure to make an entrance, then slip out unnoticed. Arrive overdressed...then people will assume your coming from, or heading to something more important. This also fuels your grand entrance. Stay too long and it appears you have nothing better to do.
As you may see, I can do the party scene. Learning to maneuver the other forms of social network is new for me. Add to that...my current circumstances. I'm one step behind a walkie-talkie....I throw rocks.
Nowhere was that mentioned as a form of social networking. Soooooo....like they say...an education can only take you so far. Some days you have to reach for those rocks.
Really, I don't care to ever reach to the top. For me, it's more about the climb. I'm an adrenaline junkie. I love to hang on the side of cliffs...or to just jump. Me and the Hooligan crew already jumped. So much of my life was spent as an addict. Today, I like to put one foot in front of the other. Even if they are baby steps. I'm living life. Even from my prison cell. Since I have your attention, perhaps you would give me a hand here.
The Jailbird started with one person. My sister. She put a link to the blog on her Facebook. Over time, we have made tracks. I still marvel when I see our coverage. Our biggest form of social networking, aside from me and these rocks.....is you and good ole' word-of-mouth. I'm about to run some slick shit on you. My woman calls me her smooth operator...eh...whatever.
When you help someone it makes you feel good. Some choose to work at a soup kitchen. Maybe you donate to a local charity. Perhaps you have dropped some coin in a Salvation Army can as you do your holiday shopping. Listen...I need your help. You can bless this project by telling just one person. Share the Jailbird with just one friend. I will try to not embarrass you too bad! Hell, plug us to your whole Facebook list. Wow! Show a felon some love.
If you enjoy this project...thank the crew of Hooligans that make it possible. Help us network. Be a Hooligan and throw a rock. Share us with a friend. You just did something really cool. I would pat you on the back, but...hey! Watch out! I just threw a rock instead.
Awwww...come on! Tell me Dirty Games wasn't some stooooopid shit! Come on! Pass the word! :)
Sunday, December 18, 2011
Do you play Rock, Paper, Scissors?
So, J.J. heard this on the radio yesterday and got a good laugh from this dude! Check out this man's "logik".......
Rock Paper Scissors, Your Logik Is Not Right
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OMa1i3ITBbo&feature=mfu_in_order&list=UL
Enjoy!!!
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Thursday, December 15, 2011
Dear Santa
Well, it's 2011. December is the month and Christmas is in the air. Only if that smell is 72 snoring, burping, farting prisoners. Let's hope not.
Just the same, kids around the world are making their list, and checking it twice. Santa traded the sled in for a Cadillac on 24s. We are in for a hood-Christmas. Years ago a little kid sang that all he wanted was his two front teeth. This year he wants a platinum grill with any icy chain.
Somewhere deep within the department of corrections a man scratches his chin. Will he make the list? Does the good outweigh the bad yet? How will the naughty or nice list read this year? Just in case...a list is made....
Dear Santa,
This year I don't ask for much. My requests are not in any certain order. Of course, Peace on Earth is first. Forgetting that would be like Little Wayne and Nikki Minaj forgetting to thank their Savior Jesus Christ at the Grammy's for their extraordinary talent.
Second on my list? A bull whip. Ever since I saw Indiana Jones save the world and find the holy grail....all with the help of a bull whip? I have wanted one.
I'm not even sure if my next gift idea even has a name. It looks fairly simple. Have you ever seen Crocodile Dundee, Santa? Remember the aborigine dude who made the phone call? Well, he twirled that string thingy with a chunk of wood tied on the end. It made this humming noise that was heard across the jungle. Yeah...I could really use that here.
I'm not sure if the property sergeant will let the bull whip in. Maybe if you package it as a "fitness tool"? Well, it kind of looks like a jump rops. Maybe you could put some pink handles on each end. No, I don't want a bull whip with pink handles. I'm just trying to throw the property sergeant. That may be enough to distract him. Who knows...he's a littly 'funny'.
I have read over the large handbook of prisoners. All the 'thou shalt nots'! But nowhere did I see any stipulations on pink-handled jump ropes. Hey, bull whips are not mentioned for that matter. Well, it's worth a shot.
And then the jungle cell phone. They don't carry them at Toys-R-Us. You may need to google it. Try Crocodile Dundee aborigine portable cell phone. If that doesn't work, try eBay. I will settle for a used one. That's OK. I will be the envy of the pound, no doubt.
When I stand on the reck field and begin to twirl that string, I will instantly gain superior status. Perhaps I will even wear the traditional groin cloth. I am super excited. Now you can probably send that in as a religious relic. Well, I mean dudes get their special hats and these floor mats sent in to them. Oh! Prayer mats....that's right. So, if they can get a chunk of carpet sent in....there should be no problem with a small piece of wood. Worse case scenario? Just roll it up in one of those mud flaps and send it in.
If it's not too much, I would like to ask for only one last thing. Could you roll past my Grandma's and grab me some of her peanut brittle? She makes the best! But, listen Santa. If you drive the Cadi, turn the bass down at Grandmas. And if you still have those big rims? Don't stay too long. Granny may think she's being robbed and spray your ride. Don't mess with Granny! She's packin' enough heat to make the ghetto proud. Just snag some peanut brittle and slide out, OK?
You can look her up on mapquest. Just punch her into your GPS. She lives in a little place called Houghton Lake. And listen, mail me my shit, OK? You roll in here and they will jack your shit, for sure!
Sorry, there is no way I can leave out cookies and milk here. Not happening. These boys will steal your rims and leave your whip on blocks 'yo'.
Word. Santa! Just shoot it Dawg!!
Just the same, kids around the world are making their list, and checking it twice. Santa traded the sled in for a Cadillac on 24s. We are in for a hood-Christmas. Years ago a little kid sang that all he wanted was his two front teeth. This year he wants a platinum grill with any icy chain.
Somewhere deep within the department of corrections a man scratches his chin. Will he make the list? Does the good outweigh the bad yet? How will the naughty or nice list read this year? Just in case...a list is made....
Dear Santa,
This year I don't ask for much. My requests are not in any certain order. Of course, Peace on Earth is first. Forgetting that would be like Little Wayne and Nikki Minaj forgetting to thank their Savior Jesus Christ at the Grammy's for their extraordinary talent.
Second on my list? A bull whip. Ever since I saw Indiana Jones save the world and find the holy grail....all with the help of a bull whip? I have wanted one.
I'm not even sure if my next gift idea even has a name. It looks fairly simple. Have you ever seen Crocodile Dundee, Santa? Remember the aborigine dude who made the phone call? Well, he twirled that string thingy with a chunk of wood tied on the end. It made this humming noise that was heard across the jungle. Yeah...I could really use that here.
I'm not sure if the property sergeant will let the bull whip in. Maybe if you package it as a "fitness tool"? Well, it kind of looks like a jump rops. Maybe you could put some pink handles on each end. No, I don't want a bull whip with pink handles. I'm just trying to throw the property sergeant. That may be enough to distract him. Who knows...he's a littly 'funny'.
I have read over the large handbook of prisoners. All the 'thou shalt nots'! But nowhere did I see any stipulations on pink-handled jump ropes. Hey, bull whips are not mentioned for that matter. Well, it's worth a shot.
And then the jungle cell phone. They don't carry them at Toys-R-Us. You may need to google it. Try Crocodile Dundee aborigine portable cell phone. If that doesn't work, try eBay. I will settle for a used one. That's OK. I will be the envy of the pound, no doubt.
When I stand on the reck field and begin to twirl that string, I will instantly gain superior status. Perhaps I will even wear the traditional groin cloth. I am super excited. Now you can probably send that in as a religious relic. Well, I mean dudes get their special hats and these floor mats sent in to them. Oh! Prayer mats....that's right. So, if they can get a chunk of carpet sent in....there should be no problem with a small piece of wood. Worse case scenario? Just roll it up in one of those mud flaps and send it in.
If it's not too much, I would like to ask for only one last thing. Could you roll past my Grandma's and grab me some of her peanut brittle? She makes the best! But, listen Santa. If you drive the Cadi, turn the bass down at Grandmas. And if you still have those big rims? Don't stay too long. Granny may think she's being robbed and spray your ride. Don't mess with Granny! She's packin' enough heat to make the ghetto proud. Just snag some peanut brittle and slide out, OK?
You can look her up on mapquest. Just punch her into your GPS. She lives in a little place called Houghton Lake. And listen, mail me my shit, OK? You roll in here and they will jack your shit, for sure!
Sorry, there is no way I can leave out cookies and milk here. Not happening. These boys will steal your rims and leave your whip on blocks 'yo'.
Word. Santa! Just shoot it Dawg!!
 |
| Santa's Ghetto by guerrilla artist Banksy Photo from London Evening Standard More about this can be found at http://www.thisislondon.co.uk/arts/article-23376642-christmas-greetings-from-banksy.do |
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Big World. Small Planet. (Guest post by Tasha)
Note from Ester: This is a follow-up post to Michael's piece about his daughter.
When we were in our mid-20s, my girlfriend posted this on her personal blog. I had never met her father, and had no idea that he had spent a portion of his life - a portion of her life - in prison. This post is an amazing insight into one family pulled into pieces by one event years ago, and how they found healing. Thank you, Tasha, for sharing your story.
"I was fourteen. Whenever I spoke about the incident, I always thought I was younger than that.
I always started off saying that I was eleven. But I was fourteen.
It was April, 1997.
My grandpa, the only grandpa that’s ever been worth mentioning in my life, was in Louisville getting a bone marrow transplant in a last ditch effort to provide some treatment to his prostate cancer. My Grandma Reba, the only grandma that’s ever been worth mentioning in my life, was beside herself with grief.
She asked my Dad to dinner at Applebees attempting to smile, even momentarily. My Dad faked pleasant conversation and even mentioned that they should see a Reba McEntire concert together. (My grandma is a ringer for Reba McEntire. Dead on.) He said that everyone’s always saying how much she looks like her, but he’s never seen her perform.
As coincidence would have it, my grandma had been offered tickets earlier that day. (Yah! I know, right? That shit NEVER happens to me.) Reba was performing at the Rupp Arena in Lexington. And they went. My grandma frequented the Rupp Arena. An avid hockey fan, my grandpa got the two of them season tickets to an inaugural hockey team called the Kentucky Thoroughblades. (Clever name, I know). So, many of the people there recognized her and they were buying my dad free beer all night. Which, he drank of course. Who turns down free beer at a hockey game?? You almost have to get a second mortgage to afford the alcohol at sporting events.
Upon arriving back to my grandma’s house, she asked my dad to stay and he chose to head home. He stayed up a little later composing music, playing the guitar, and finished off the beer in his fridge.
5:30 a.m. the next morning my grandma was calling asking him to check the oil in her car because she wanted to head to Louisville and see my grandpa. My dad obliged, checked the oil, and when my grandma left at 6:00 a.m., he was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a cup of coffee and reading the newspaper.
When she arrived home and 6:00 p.m., there was a message on the answering machine that he was in jail, caused an automobile accident injuring three children and the accident was on the evening news.
My dad received a phone call from a friend asking him to help fix their car for $50. My dad agreed, wishing to use the money to visit my grandpa in the hospital. Times back then for him were pretty, much the way time is for us now…financial duress. He got in the car, drove a few blocks, turned on Winchester Rd, missed a traffic light and slammed into the side of the vehicle.
Two women in the front seat, four kids in the back. One with a broken leg. One suffered major injuries, the other, critical. My dad said he'll never forget convincing the people that stopped to help NOT to move the little boy in the back seat. Head and back injuries were sustained in the crash and my father was worried about him being even MORE hurt. Turns out my dad’s insistency on leaving the boy where he was may have saved his life. He was in a coma for quite some time after the accident.
…And why the need to tell you all this?
Well, my dad went to prison. For nine years. He’s never been able to attend anything of mine. Not my graduation, my wedding, the day my daughter was expelled from my uterus...and last Thursday, my brother, Donnie, graduated boot camp in Fort Jackson, SC. As usual, dad wasn’t going to be able to attend. In his defense, he can’t request time off work and can’t risk losing his job to miss work.... BUT he received a phone call at 4:30 a.m. on Tuesday night saying they wouldn’t be working until Monday. …Right in time for him to jump in his car and head to SC and see my brother graduate. Once again, that shit NEVER happens to me.
My mom, Grandma Angie and I flew in Wednesday night at midnight. My Gma (Reba), my brother’s girlfriend, one of her friends, and my brother’s best-friend, Dwayne, arrived a couple hours before us, and my dad shortly after them. We all made sure we stayed at the same hotel. My brother’s friend Dustin was supposed to come but couldn’t make it. So instead of all my brother’s friends sleeping in one room and my dad and grandma sleeping in one room, Dwayne and my dad had a room, and my Gma and the girls had a room. I bunked with my mom and Grandma Angie. …Who snores like a drunk sailor, btw.
Family Day was a blast. …For everyone but me. Tired, jet-lagged and pregnant isn’t a good combination. I spent some of the day sleeping in the car. Seeing my brother, Donnie, for the first time was incredibly emotional...Dwayne and I cried like babies. …Both of us. We then left to entertain ourselves. Dwayne and my Dad rode together, I was stuck with Mi madre and Grandma Angie and my Gma, the girls and my brother rode in another car.
Donnie couldn’t leave base so we pretty much...shopped. An insane amount. I bought nothing. My grandma Angie has diabetes, arthritis and asthma and wasn’t doing well with all the flying and walking. Dwayne stayed behind with her most the day, lending an arm. He’s been like a little brother to me for the last five years. Dustin introduced my brother to him. Dustin is the son of my grandma’s next door neighbor. Ever since I can remember traveling to KY for Summer, he's always been our next door neighbor.
Then, as fate would have it, Donnie and Dwayne attended the same church youth group and have been best friends ever since. I haven’t visited Kentucky since 2003 without spending my time with Donnie, Dwayne and my grandma.
By Friday morning I was so exhausted, I didn’t even make my brothers graduation! I’m awful, I know. However, after graduation, he was able to leave base, so everyone agreed to meet me at the hotel before they went out to eat. They took two cars. Seating arrangements changed. My mom, dad, Grandma Angie and Donnie. My Gma and the rest of my bro's friends. My mom and dad were commenting on how nice Dwayne is. And he is! …Such a good kid. He's family. My brother was saying Dwayne’s the best friend he's ever had, and he gets angry because people are always saying he’s slow.
"He's not slow. He was just in a car accident awhile ago and has plates in his brain and spine. He's been through a lot."
My dad asked what Dwayne’s last name was. My brother told him.
Time stopped.
My dad said, "Donnie. Dwayne ******** is the kid I hit."
"No. No it isn’t, Dad. Can’t be."
"I’ll never forget that name, Donnie. I prayed and prayed that he would survive the accident. Every day."
My brother ran to ask Dwayne when his accident was. It was the same day. Same road. Same car.
My dad approached Dwayne tentatively. Said, "Im sorry to have to tell you this son, but I’m the one that hit you."
Dwayne took a step back.
How the hell do you tell someone what that’s like? How can I even begin to tell you how agonizing it was? It’s inexplicable. …Just to think that he’s been in our life for six years. RIGHT THERE IN FRONT OF US - becoming family - and we never knew. …Never even thought for a second. It’s a miracle.
I wish I could describe what everyone felt at that moment, but I wasn’t there. I was home sick. And even if I had been there, I don’t think it would be possible.
And the unexpected...he forgave my dad. There were a lot of things in the middle of him hearing it, and accepting it, but after some time... He said things along the lines of:
"I forgive you but I’ll never tell my mother. She hates you."
"Your son and daughter have become a brother and sister to me. They’re family. If it had been any other circumstances..."
"God knew eleven years ago that this day would happen."
They spent two days and two nights together. Riding around. Sleeping in the same room. Talking about my dad’s success in NOT drinking. He has a sponsor. Six years alcohol free. Neither of them mentioned the accident during all the things they spoke about. Ironically. The one thing that would have related them was never brought up. I doubt my dad proudly boasts of that moment and would understand that he doesn’t mention it to "just anyone." I’m sure that Dwayne has pushed it out of his memory as much as possible. It was half his life ago. Still, the coincidences are astronomical.
And my dad and Dwayne continued to ride around together the rest of the day. And still shared a room that night. Dwayne said for some reason, it brought him closer to my dad.
If Dustin had been able to come, they would have never slept in the same room and had the intimate, private talks they did. They wouldn’t have rode around together for two days straight.
If my Dad had to work, he would have never made it.
If I hadn’t been sick Friday morning, the seating arrangements would have never been changed around and my dad wouldn’t have thought to ask Dwayne’s last name.
And most ironic, the only people that were affected by the accident that were NOT there was Dwayne’s family. Every single person in our lives that was directly affected by this trauma was right there.
If that’s not a miracle, I don’t know what is.
And when the goose-bumps go away; Id like someone to say SOMETHING. I mean, this isn’t just a blog. This is half my life at peace now. This is life at peace for almost all of us now. What a perfect time for Thanksgiving."
Monday, December 12, 2011
Tis the Season.......
......for many things! I love to snowboard. What do you look forward to during the winter season?
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| Picture of Alex Duckworth |
Friday, December 9, 2011
Crack Kills
It's said you can boil a toad in water if you increase the heat slowly. Personally, I have never had the desire to boil a toad. Yet this seems reasonable...why not? I mean I went from smoking some pot to smoking some crack. Well, there were some steps in between that process. Kind of like bringing lukewarm water to a boil under a frog's ass.
And, had I taken up boiling frogs, I could have quite possibly avoided my current situation. At the very least I would have boiled less of my brain cells.
I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone...but they've always worked for me. Are you completely lost? Join the club!
You have to remember that I am a man well-schooled in heavy drug use. Perhaps it takes a mind as twisted as mine to grasp what I am trying to say. If you have never experimented in the use of mind-expanding drugs, then you are completely lost right now. Then again...perhaps not. Quite possibly it is I that gets lost at times. Perhaps an easier question would be "Have you ever boiled a toad?"
You see, who has the problem now? However, what's a problem if we can explain it away? Take the phrase, "everything in moderation." Wherever you see that quote, you should immediately find a warning sign posted close by. Think about it! When was the last time you heard someone say that? Did they hand you a piece of triple-dipped dark chocolate fudge? Here, try this...in moderation! Or was is that voluptuous blonde at the company Christmas party? Here, touch these...in moderation! I'm gonna guess not! No. Most likely that was a drunk trying to explain away his drinking problem. Or the weekend 'recreational' crack-smoker trying to explain away his habit.
What about this one..."What's good for the goose is good for the gander." Meaning that what 'one' goose likes, all the gooses must like. Well...thank the good Lord we aren't geese. Although I have been told I'm a real quack, full of shit, and I love to fly into the V. (As in...OK, you must get that.)
Then the holidays roll around. The radio begins to play the real gems. Like A Partridge In A Pear Tree. Need I even visit this train wreck? How about Granny Got Ran Over By A Reindeer? Well, sure you laugh. People, we made these songs classics!!!
Let's not forget my personal favorite...A Christmas Story. I love this movie. The whole movie is about a Red Ryder B.B. gun and a lamp made from a mannequins bare legs. "Be careful boy...you'll shoot your eye out!"
OH, OH!! Willie Wonka's Chocolate Factory. Talk about mind-expanding drugs. Who wrote that anyway? You don't need to spike your eggnog to take a trip when you watch kids turn into blueberries. What the hell?! Whoever wrote that probably boiled some toads as well. And I thought I lived a wild life. I was only a recreational goose smoking crack in moderation.
Ahhhh. It's been fun, but we need to go back. Earlier, I stated drugs, alcohol, and violence worked for me. Only for a time. All three of those have nearly killed me. I think a cold beer, an occasional mixed drink with a shot will keep me just right. What that neglects, my lady can handle. These truly are the finer things in life...the cold beer, a warm home and a nice wife. Or perhaps that was a nice home and a warm wife. I'm sure no-one wants a cold wife, and a warm beer.
In the end I'll probably always be the crazy goose. I also traded the crack for that voluptuous woman and fudge. Let's not forget the triple-dipped chocolate fudge. The only thing better than that is my voluptuous woman drizzled with fudge. This reminds me..."Honey! Can you get some whip cream and a toad while you are out? Yes, and don't forget the toad...I want to try something."
And, had I taken up boiling frogs, I could have quite possibly avoided my current situation. At the very least I would have boiled less of my brain cells.
I hate to advocate drugs, alcohol, violence, or insanity to anyone...but they've always worked for me. Are you completely lost? Join the club!
You have to remember that I am a man well-schooled in heavy drug use. Perhaps it takes a mind as twisted as mine to grasp what I am trying to say. If you have never experimented in the use of mind-expanding drugs, then you are completely lost right now. Then again...perhaps not. Quite possibly it is I that gets lost at times. Perhaps an easier question would be "Have you ever boiled a toad?"
You see, who has the problem now? However, what's a problem if we can explain it away? Take the phrase, "everything in moderation." Wherever you see that quote, you should immediately find a warning sign posted close by. Think about it! When was the last time you heard someone say that? Did they hand you a piece of triple-dipped dark chocolate fudge? Here, try this...in moderation! Or was is that voluptuous blonde at the company Christmas party? Here, touch these...in moderation! I'm gonna guess not! No. Most likely that was a drunk trying to explain away his drinking problem. Or the weekend 'recreational' crack-smoker trying to explain away his habit.
What about this one..."What's good for the goose is good for the gander." Meaning that what 'one' goose likes, all the gooses must like. Well...thank the good Lord we aren't geese. Although I have been told I'm a real quack, full of shit, and I love to fly into the V. (As in...OK, you must get that.)
Then the holidays roll around. The radio begins to play the real gems. Like A Partridge In A Pear Tree. Need I even visit this train wreck? How about Granny Got Ran Over By A Reindeer? Well, sure you laugh. People, we made these songs classics!!!
Let's not forget my personal favorite...A Christmas Story. I love this movie. The whole movie is about a Red Ryder B.B. gun and a lamp made from a mannequins bare legs. "Be careful boy...you'll shoot your eye out!"
OH, OH!! Willie Wonka's Chocolate Factory. Talk about mind-expanding drugs. Who wrote that anyway? You don't need to spike your eggnog to take a trip when you watch kids turn into blueberries. What the hell?! Whoever wrote that probably boiled some toads as well. And I thought I lived a wild life. I was only a recreational goose smoking crack in moderation.
Ahhhh. It's been fun, but we need to go back. Earlier, I stated drugs, alcohol, and violence worked for me. Only for a time. All three of those have nearly killed me. I think a cold beer, an occasional mixed drink with a shot will keep me just right. What that neglects, my lady can handle. These truly are the finer things in life...the cold beer, a warm home and a nice wife. Or perhaps that was a nice home and a warm wife. I'm sure no-one wants a cold wife, and a warm beer.
In the end I'll probably always be the crazy goose. I also traded the crack for that voluptuous woman and fudge. Let's not forget the triple-dipped chocolate fudge. The only thing better than that is my voluptuous woman drizzled with fudge. This reminds me..."Honey! Can you get some whip cream and a toad while you are out? Yes, and don't forget the toad...I want to try something."
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
A Christmas Gift from the Tattood Hooligan: Free Art!
Last year I drew a tipsy Santa. It was funny. Ha! Ha!
This year I wanted to capture the story of Christmas. In the bottom corner is the Virgin Mary. Her face is unshaded to show purity. You will see three crosses. Then you see the likeness of Christ with the crown of thorns.
The story goes that God so loved the world that He gave His only son. That baby was born an earthly birth to Mary for the sole purpose that He could one day die for the sins of man. He completed His earthly life when He died on the cross. It's said the spirit ascended to heaven in the form of a dove. This is the Christmas story this art portrays.
The birth, the death, and the resurrection of the Savior to the world. In His death, He gave life to all who will accept His free gift.
Merry Christmas to you and yours, from all of us Hooligans. Please share this art with your friends and family. Remind your loved ones of His gift to each of us.
Much Love!
Monday, December 5, 2011
Occupy Wallstreet :: Occupy Prison
I first heard about the Occupy Wallstreet movement last week. There was a small article in the newspaper. Honestly, I didn't pay much attention. Now, I'm handed the November edition to Rolling Stone and once again....Occupy Wallstreet. So, after I read about George Clooney for awhile, I switched busses. Next stop? Occupy Wallstreet.
What is it?
Well, we have demonstrators, drummers, some tents, and of course, the cops. Everyone has an opinion, but it appears the end goal is change. The articles I read mention a lack of goals. This thing grew into much more than was expected.
(Photo from http://www.entrepreneurs-journey.com/9071/occupy-wall-street/)
I have always been a fan of the band RUSH. Perhaps my favorite lyrics by them are...."If you choose not to decided, you still have made a choice." Regardless 'why' these people gather, they stand on one common ground. Seeking something different.
Protesting has been a means to get attention for years. My world here in prison is no exception. We are governed by a set of rules. Most often referred to as Chapter 33. The problem with any protest is how often violence rears its head. This is especially true during protests on my side of the fence. It's hard enough to run a peaceful protest out there. Try protesting with convicts. This is exactly what happened at the prison I am currently serving time at.
The prison system is over budget. So, they quit giving us a napkin at meal time. Instead of one piece of fruit with breakfast, they give us juice. It's easier to water down and stretch the juice supply rather than providing fresh fruit. Instead of the required serving sizes, they short us on portions. We call it 'shaking the spoon'. Your walking out of chow as hungry as you walked in. Only thing different is that now your pissed as well. It's like giving a coke head a half gram....a half-hour later he'll be pissed and calling back for more. Well, someone decided to protest the feeding schedule. Or the lack thereof.
I read where Occupy Wallstreet had to resort to the people's mic. That in itself is empowering. Protesting in itself is to have your voice be heard. So activating the people's mic is like a call to arms. A form of unification. This is exactly how word is spread on this side of the fence. I first heard about a sit-down at reck yard. Word traveled by the people's mic.
This compound houses 1,500 inmates. The idea was a peaceful protest. Nobody eats the midday meal on a set date. Like any protest, the big question is.....who will show up? Or in this case....who won't show up?
Of 1,500 inmates, only 40 or 50 some ate at the chow hall. An hour later the warden, assistant warden, and the food director came to address the general population. Over the next week our compound went on high alert. Officer manpower doubled and even trippled. All movements were controlled movements. Any persons involved with organizing this movement, were locked up and shipped to different prisons.
All this because of a peaceful protest. Unity is not tolerated here in prison. That activates code red. Whether there is a display of violence or not. For the record our portions of food were proper size for about two weeks. Currently, we are back to the old 'shake the spoon' method.
Unity is a powerful weapon. I hope that Occupy Wallstreet is able to accomplish something. Even if it only boils down to individual gratification.
What is it?
Well, we have demonstrators, drummers, some tents, and of course, the cops. Everyone has an opinion, but it appears the end goal is change. The articles I read mention a lack of goals. This thing grew into much more than was expected.
I have always been a fan of the band RUSH. Perhaps my favorite lyrics by them are...."If you choose not to decided, you still have made a choice." Regardless 'why' these people gather, they stand on one common ground. Seeking something different.
Protesting has been a means to get attention for years. My world here in prison is no exception. We are governed by a set of rules. Most often referred to as Chapter 33. The problem with any protest is how often violence rears its head. This is especially true during protests on my side of the fence. It's hard enough to run a peaceful protest out there. Try protesting with convicts. This is exactly what happened at the prison I am currently serving time at.
The prison system is over budget. So, they quit giving us a napkin at meal time. Instead of one piece of fruit with breakfast, they give us juice. It's easier to water down and stretch the juice supply rather than providing fresh fruit. Instead of the required serving sizes, they short us on portions. We call it 'shaking the spoon'. Your walking out of chow as hungry as you walked in. Only thing different is that now your pissed as well. It's like giving a coke head a half gram....a half-hour later he'll be pissed and calling back for more. Well, someone decided to protest the feeding schedule. Or the lack thereof.
I read where Occupy Wallstreet had to resort to the people's mic. That in itself is empowering. Protesting in itself is to have your voice be heard. So activating the people's mic is like a call to arms. A form of unification. This is exactly how word is spread on this side of the fence. I first heard about a sit-down at reck yard. Word traveled by the people's mic.
This compound houses 1,500 inmates. The idea was a peaceful protest. Nobody eats the midday meal on a set date. Like any protest, the big question is.....who will show up? Or in this case....who won't show up?
Of 1,500 inmates, only 40 or 50 some ate at the chow hall. An hour later the warden, assistant warden, and the food director came to address the general population. Over the next week our compound went on high alert. Officer manpower doubled and even trippled. All movements were controlled movements. Any persons involved with organizing this movement, were locked up and shipped to different prisons.
All this because of a peaceful protest. Unity is not tolerated here in prison. That activates code red. Whether there is a display of violence or not. For the record our portions of food were proper size for about two weeks. Currently, we are back to the old 'shake the spoon' method.
Unity is a powerful weapon. I hope that Occupy Wallstreet is able to accomplish something. Even if it only boils down to individual gratification.
Friday, December 2, 2011
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Eviction Notice Part 2
Check this out! So, not long ago we ran 'Eviction Notice'. Quick recap....
My last bunkie sucked, and pissed me off daily. After over a year of sleeping below this guy, he finally transferred. Meet my new bunkie...
The new kid moves in. He's 26, and we get along good. He sits and watches me draw. He likes art. He's clean, and he is silly stupid...just like me. We can make the whole dorm laugh, much like me and Scottie use to do. "HI SCOTTIE!!" :)
So late the other night, me and the bunkie are still awake. The dorm is quiet. No noise. We can whisper and be heard. All of a sudden my bunkie pops his head over the edge, like a freakin' squirrel and says, "Mike!" in his normal, loud voice. I say, "What dude?" And this is our conversation, in the middle of the night. Lights off. Voices at normal volume...so the whole dorm of 72 dudes hear this shit...
"Mike! I know you're a panty snatcher!"
I say, "What the fuck are you talking aboug?"
He goes on..."Dude, I know you're stealing my panties."
Ok, this is fine. So we're gonna play. You put me on blast, I'm gonna put you on blast. So I reply with, "Bro, I don't want your panties, and quit leaving your high heels beside my bed. You're making the block hot."
Now, dudes are waking up. People are now laughing. Hooting. Cat calling. We are center stage. He then points at my laundry bag, which is full of clothes and says, "Bro, I see your bag is full of panties. You can't hide that bag!"
"Ok, yeah, you caught me bro. Maybe if you smelled more like a man we wouldn't have this problem. But you smell like a chick."
The bunkie is laughing. The whole dorm is laughing. And I'm inspired. So, I continue, "And listen. I'm only gonna tell you about these high heels one more time. Quit puttin' them by my bunk!" He continues to laugh, and yells, "Panty-sniffer!"
So, I continue..."And, if your gonna stay out all night 'trickin' you need to start coming home with some food. At least some soup or a honey bun. Don't tell me you just give that ass away!" (Uhh...see what I am dealing with here?) This kid is funny. Super witty. I dig the guy.
Right now it's 2 a.m. and again, he just leaned over the side of the bunk. "Dude! Dude! Put your radio on 101.5 fm!" (He's really excited.) He goes on...."Marilyn Manson is on and Beautiful People."
This may not be that crazy to you. However, my bunkie is black. And he listens to country and rock & roll. He hates rap music. This kids is a fuckin' trip. And together, we're nuts. He only has two months left before he goes home. I swear he's the best bunkie I've ever had.
I do a heavy chest routine. My pecs are freaky. This nut-bag calls them my "man boobs." He either calls me 'dude' or 'man boobs'. Yeah, it's funny as hell. I can't help but laugh. Some days I have the upper hand. The other day he tore me up with "Hey, man boobs! You know when you get old, you're gonna have titties! Then you can wear those high heels for sure."
All I can do is laugh. The kid's funny. Plus, I'll get beat up for a good laugh. He went off. Man boobs. God, the people you meet here.
I've been blessed. It helps your time pass quicker when you keep it light. This kid is 24-7 pulling pranks. I'll get up at 2 am to piss....come back and he's in my bed curled up. Fuckin' idiot. So, really this has no point. Just Part II of Eviction Notice.
I hope that you are blessed with a great bunkie. If you are not....hit him (or her) with an eviction notice! And don't snatch panties or leave high heels out. Someone could get hurt...or the wrong idea.
Word!!
My last bunkie sucked, and pissed me off daily. After over a year of sleeping below this guy, he finally transferred. Meet my new bunkie...
The new kid moves in. He's 26, and we get along good. He sits and watches me draw. He likes art. He's clean, and he is silly stupid...just like me. We can make the whole dorm laugh, much like me and Scottie use to do. "HI SCOTTIE!!" :)
So late the other night, me and the bunkie are still awake. The dorm is quiet. No noise. We can whisper and be heard. All of a sudden my bunkie pops his head over the edge, like a freakin' squirrel and says, "Mike!" in his normal, loud voice. I say, "What dude?" And this is our conversation, in the middle of the night. Lights off. Voices at normal volume...so the whole dorm of 72 dudes hear this shit...
"Mike! I know you're a panty snatcher!"
I say, "What the fuck are you talking aboug?"
He goes on..."Dude, I know you're stealing my panties."
Ok, this is fine. So we're gonna play. You put me on blast, I'm gonna put you on blast. So I reply with, "Bro, I don't want your panties, and quit leaving your high heels beside my bed. You're making the block hot."
Now, dudes are waking up. People are now laughing. Hooting. Cat calling. We are center stage. He then points at my laundry bag, which is full of clothes and says, "Bro, I see your bag is full of panties. You can't hide that bag!"
"Ok, yeah, you caught me bro. Maybe if you smelled more like a man we wouldn't have this problem. But you smell like a chick."
The bunkie is laughing. The whole dorm is laughing. And I'm inspired. So, I continue, "And listen. I'm only gonna tell you about these high heels one more time. Quit puttin' them by my bunk!" He continues to laugh, and yells, "Panty-sniffer!"
So, I continue..."And, if your gonna stay out all night 'trickin' you need to start coming home with some food. At least some soup or a honey bun. Don't tell me you just give that ass away!" (Uhh...see what I am dealing with here?) This kid is funny. Super witty. I dig the guy.
Right now it's 2 a.m. and again, he just leaned over the side of the bunk. "Dude! Dude! Put your radio on 101.5 fm!" (He's really excited.) He goes on...."Marilyn Manson is on and Beautiful People."
This may not be that crazy to you. However, my bunkie is black. And he listens to country and rock & roll. He hates rap music. This kids is a fuckin' trip. And together, we're nuts. He only has two months left before he goes home. I swear he's the best bunkie I've ever had.
I do a heavy chest routine. My pecs are freaky. This nut-bag calls them my "man boobs." He either calls me 'dude' or 'man boobs'. Yeah, it's funny as hell. I can't help but laugh. Some days I have the upper hand. The other day he tore me up with "Hey, man boobs! You know when you get old, you're gonna have titties! Then you can wear those high heels for sure."
All I can do is laugh. The kid's funny. Plus, I'll get beat up for a good laugh. He went off. Man boobs. God, the people you meet here.
I've been blessed. It helps your time pass quicker when you keep it light. This kid is 24-7 pulling pranks. I'll get up at 2 am to piss....come back and he's in my bed curled up. Fuckin' idiot. So, really this has no point. Just Part II of Eviction Notice.
I hope that you are blessed with a great bunkie. If you are not....hit him (or her) with an eviction notice! And don't snatch panties or leave high heels out. Someone could get hurt...or the wrong idea.
Word!!
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Happy Holidays
"The Holidays are here.
Isn't this the time of year you look back and reflect? ...Make your silly little resolutions that sound nice, make us feel better, then we never do them and leave ourselves feeling like failures. Like the gym membership that will be used once or twice. A vow to quit smoking that lasts only until your in-laws show up to have dinner. Then you're on the back porch, sucking down a Camel.
Or how about drinking less? Isn't that what the holidays are for? If you're a kid, you think presents. If you're an adult...you think booze and food. I like to booze while I hang the lights.
So I'm looking back. ...All those nice memories. Like the time I crafted the perfect ice ball, then hid in the bushes to catch my big brother when he stepped outside...only to have him duck and my ice ball smashed into his six-year-old daughter's face. I am instantly the worst uncle in the world. "Sorry Sheila!"
Then the time I demonstrated my immense skill to pedal a BMX bike to record speeds. While passing our campsite, my little brother Phillip steps into the road and I hit him dead center. He goes flying, blood is everywhere, and once again....all fingers are on me."
(*Note from Ester: Drugs did something bad to Mike's memory, because that was on Spring Break one year, and all fingers were pointed at Ester because I hit him... riding Mike's bike, which, unbeknownst to me, had NO brakes. Phil has a black eye and a concussion and my mom couldn't look at me for a couple hours, so my brother and Dad took me to see the movie Sgt. Bilko. We were camping in Biloxi, Mississippi, and Mike's stinker ass was sneaking into an Aaron Tippin concert, which I didn't know 'til I typed up this post for him. Just to clear all that up - We all would have corrected him if he had tried to make this claim around the holiday dinner table too, so... anyway. Sorry for that detour. On with the show:*)
"Of course, there are all the hunting and fishing memories. My dad put me in the front of his canoe one year. Big mistake. Ten year old boys love big splashes. So it didn't matter if we were fishing sunfish, I was using a deep-sea lure with half the hooks in my tackle box. I guess I wound up to cast that sucker all the way across Houghton Lake. And...my lure must have resembled a bug. For that quick second it dangled in dad's face, he felt the need to swat it out of his way. At that very second I hooked my dad and made a memory that we will both never forget.
That's really my life in a nutshell. The picture perfect days, well...they are really only remembered for a short time. It's those major mishaps that last a lifetime.
Giving tattoos in prison is frowned on. So, it's an undercover operation. You need a look out, and a hidden corner. We have both. Personally, I sew a hidden pocket on the inside crotch area of my pants. For special occasions. Like when the cops come in and you're in the middle of a tattoo. Very quickly, I cram the tattoo machine and battery pack into this hidden pocket that hangs between my legs. The idea is if they search me, hopefully they won't go high enough into my crotch to feel my nuts, or my stash spot.
So, the machine is stashed. The cops walk past. ...Doesn't get five feet away from me and the power wire reconnects to the machine and the needle is now piercing my ball sack. Intense pain follows. Just as the officer turns to look, I smack the machine to disconnect the power wire. Thing is, the officer and all the guys just see me smack myself in the nut sack. Bottom line, I got away that day. That's good. However, I tattooed, then smacked, the family jewels. I have been called a freak, but even that was a little far for me.
These memories, at the time, make you feel two inches tall - make you wish you could just disappear - yet later down the road they make you laugh. Those are the memories you will never forget. They're the memories that become the very staples of our lives.
What are you grateful for? Ask yourself that. I'm thankful for my peeps. My family. My woman. I would like to tell you Happy Holidays. Thank you all for being a part of my life.
May the Detroit Lions rule the field Thanksgiving Day. And don't get tangled in the lights and fall off the roof.
On a sidenote, J.J. is thankful to Sevendust, as it took 1st place for the most used keyword, bringing in a ton of traffic to the blog. At number two: "Porn for Women." ...This touched me somewhere deep inside. God bless you. I take the first place award previously given to Sevendust, and bestow it on you. May God also bless whoever linked that as a keyword. Fuckin' genius! And...if J.J. is bringing in MEN searching for "porn for women," then shame on whoever used that as a keyword.
ESTER!! Are you playing jokes on me again? I told you I don't need anymore pen pals. Silly wabbit! This dick is for my chick.
Ok, before I am completely sidetracked.....hug your family, call your momma, kiss your wife.
Happy Holidays from the King Hooligan!"
***Hey guys and girls! Remember to "Follow" the blog through Google Friend Connect for a chance to win great prizes! We'll have a drawing when we have 50 followers!
Isn't this the time of year you look back and reflect? ...Make your silly little resolutions that sound nice, make us feel better, then we never do them and leave ourselves feeling like failures. Like the gym membership that will be used once or twice. A vow to quit smoking that lasts only until your in-laws show up to have dinner. Then you're on the back porch, sucking down a Camel.
(Yeah -- this kind, you sick-o!)
Or how about drinking less? Isn't that what the holidays are for? If you're a kid, you think presents. If you're an adult...you think booze and food. I like to booze while I hang the lights.
So I'm looking back. ...All those nice memories. Like the time I crafted the perfect ice ball, then hid in the bushes to catch my big brother when he stepped outside...only to have him duck and my ice ball smashed into his six-year-old daughter's face. I am instantly the worst uncle in the world. "Sorry Sheila!"
Then the time I demonstrated my immense skill to pedal a BMX bike to record speeds. While passing our campsite, my little brother Phillip steps into the road and I hit him dead center. He goes flying, blood is everywhere, and once again....all fingers are on me."
(*Note from Ester: Drugs did something bad to Mike's memory, because that was on Spring Break one year, and all fingers were pointed at Ester because I hit him... riding Mike's bike, which, unbeknownst to me, had NO brakes. Phil has a black eye and a concussion and my mom couldn't look at me for a couple hours, so my brother and Dad took me to see the movie Sgt. Bilko. We were camping in Biloxi, Mississippi, and Mike's stinker ass was sneaking into an Aaron Tippin concert, which I didn't know 'til I typed up this post for him. Just to clear all that up - We all would have corrected him if he had tried to make this claim around the holiday dinner table too, so... anyway. Sorry for that detour. On with the show:*)
"Of course, there are all the hunting and fishing memories. My dad put me in the front of his canoe one year. Big mistake. Ten year old boys love big splashes. So it didn't matter if we were fishing sunfish, I was using a deep-sea lure with half the hooks in my tackle box. I guess I wound up to cast that sucker all the way across Houghton Lake. And...my lure must have resembled a bug. For that quick second it dangled in dad's face, he felt the need to swat it out of his way. At that very second I hooked my dad and made a memory that we will both never forget.
That's really my life in a nutshell. The picture perfect days, well...they are really only remembered for a short time. It's those major mishaps that last a lifetime.
Giving tattoos in prison is frowned on. So, it's an undercover operation. You need a look out, and a hidden corner. We have both. Personally, I sew a hidden pocket on the inside crotch area of my pants. For special occasions. Like when the cops come in and you're in the middle of a tattoo. Very quickly, I cram the tattoo machine and battery pack into this hidden pocket that hangs between my legs. The idea is if they search me, hopefully they won't go high enough into my crotch to feel my nuts, or my stash spot.
So, the machine is stashed. The cops walk past. ...Doesn't get five feet away from me and the power wire reconnects to the machine and the needle is now piercing my ball sack. Intense pain follows. Just as the officer turns to look, I smack the machine to disconnect the power wire. Thing is, the officer and all the guys just see me smack myself in the nut sack. Bottom line, I got away that day. That's good. However, I tattooed, then smacked, the family jewels. I have been called a freak, but even that was a little far for me.
These memories, at the time, make you feel two inches tall - make you wish you could just disappear - yet later down the road they make you laugh. Those are the memories you will never forget. They're the memories that become the very staples of our lives.
What are you grateful for? Ask yourself that. I'm thankful for my peeps. My family. My woman. I would like to tell you Happy Holidays. Thank you all for being a part of my life.
May the Detroit Lions rule the field Thanksgiving Day. And don't get tangled in the lights and fall off the roof.
On a sidenote, J.J. is thankful to Sevendust, as it took 1st place for the most used keyword, bringing in a ton of traffic to the blog. At number two: "Porn for Women." ...This touched me somewhere deep inside. God bless you. I take the first place award previously given to Sevendust, and bestow it on you. May God also bless whoever linked that as a keyword. Fuckin' genius! And...if J.J. is bringing in MEN searching for "porn for women," then shame on whoever used that as a keyword.
ESTER!! Are you playing jokes on me again? I told you I don't need anymore pen pals. Silly wabbit! This dick is for my chick.
Ok, before I am completely sidetracked.....hug your family, call your momma, kiss your wife.
Happy Holidays from the King Hooligan!"
***Hey guys and girls! Remember to "Follow" the blog through Google Friend Connect for a chance to win great prizes! We'll have a drawing when we have 50 followers!
Monday, November 21, 2011
Sex, Chair-Lifts, & Falling Space Debris
I’m looking back at the month of October. Fall is here. The temperature begins to cool off. My boy Scottie is a free man. This month I hit 33 years old, and J.J. is soon going to hit the one-year mark.
The other day I went and shaved my head. My head, silly. But now I have you wondering, huh?
“Manscaping” was posted and my own mother said it’s the funniest piece she has ever read.
Then again, I called my mother last weekend and she was at a ski-resort. She had been riding the chair-lift the night before.
I guess there’s a bar at the top of the hill and one at the bottom. That is so that during the winter, people who are there to ski can warm up and have a drink. Please note, it’s not winter and my mother doesn’t ski.
*Not really our mother
(Also not the kind of chair-lift she was probably riding... Probably.
...Who knows? Man, I want one now.)
I guess there’s a bar at the top of the hill and one at the bottom. That is so that during the winter, people who are there to ski can warm up and have a drink. Please note, it’s not winter and my mother doesn’t ski.
…So that leaves the drinking and riding the ski-lift. In the late summer. So you think I’m a crazy-ass dude? Apples don’t fall far from the tree.
I heard a guy down the street from me got a D.U.I. while driving his lawn-mower to the store drunk. Why he didn’t just lower the deck and cut the median on the way… seems that would look less conspicuous.
Then again, they said he was drunk, right? I wonder what gave him away? The lawn-mower pulled over the curb in front of the 7-11? …Or was it the case of beer between his legs?
Uhh… stick to the chair-lift, Mama. And I love you. Coffee? Say… Saturday around 8 a.m.? Will you be up? OK – see you then!
Scottie! So main-man, what’s up? Miss you brother! You know I have to ask…did you get laid yet? Right! How was it, anyway? A case of premature ejaculation? She grabs your hand and pulls you toward the bedroom… hello, release #1.
OK – I’ll cut you some slack. So you made it to the bedroom. Panties drop, and you drop…your load. Was she laughing? “But Scottie…you didn’t even put it in yet!”
I’ll bet once you get into to the deed, you’ll sound like a traffic cop: ‘Slowly proceed… OK, slower… STOP! No! Stop! Hold still…don’t move!’
It’s ok dude – every man has been there. Finally you’ll just say fuck it, thrust like a jack-hammer, then collapse. That’s what women expect anyway J
Do what I would do. Get off before you even go to meet her. Try to get off twice. Lose some tension.
I would say to try that disconnect thing – like thinking about something else. But, my friend, that’s not going to help either. As soon as you see her London and France, you’re gonna pretty much lock in. God… you lucky bastard!
I hear guys say, “Well, my first meal will be a baked potato with steak.”
Yeah, I’ll take some meat. RAW. And eat at that Southern joint. I think that comment just went south on me….
Scottie, be nice you little shit!
The day I’m out, I’m gonna hug my Mama, tell her I love her, then grab my own girl and go off to do my own premature ejaculation. I figure about two weeks should cure me of that. I’ll leave as Cabin Boy and come back as Superman. I wonder if she wears panties. Hmm…I’ll find out.
So, homie – I see you checking in as “Scott-Free” – I dig it! Stay true. I love you, brother!
Just one last topic before I go.
A dude steps up to me the other day and says, “Don’t go outside on Friday. Space Debris will be falling and may kill you.”
Umm… what the fuck did you just say?
Now, we have some whack-jobs in the chain gang. However, this dude is pretty stand-up.
So I’m waiting for some punch-line.
Then he says, “You know – pieces from satellites, shit from airplanes, a screw from a space shuttle, so on.”
I’m still looking at him sideways. Space debris? Is this for real?
(Sorry guys - this is how out-of-date this post became while Ester's been camping...)
He tells me most will be burned up before reaching Earth. However, some pieces will make it through.
Well, people, if you’re walking your dog and get killed by a screw from a space shuttle…then I’m afraid it was your time to go.
So just in case… let’s just say a broken satellite chunk comes and kills me while I’m running the track. Ester, you’re in charge, OK? I love you all!!
Nah- I’m putting my faith in God and superheroes. Just in case some shrapnel takes me out – Ester, sell the damn thing. Put it on eBay (the space shrapnel) for sale – “slightly used. Make an offer.” Ha!
Rock on, Hooligans!
Watch for falling debris.
-J.J.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Butterflies
Note from Ester: Shortly after Michael's daughter started writing to him, I noticed his artwork suddenly broadened into lovely, soft, feminine pieces. ...Like this one :)
(Copyright M.S. 2011, All Rights Reserved).
Oh yeah! I decided to do an early drawing, because if we wait til we have 100 or even 200 followers, my child will be old enough to say "Hooligan." So all you have to do to enter is FOLLOW THE BLOG. That's it. I;m going to do a drawing soon and if you are a follower, you'll have a 1-in-50-chance of being The Winner of Rad Shhtuff. So follow the blog. And win something. Maybe :)
Monday, November 14, 2011
Meet My Daughter
"Since the beginning, I have thrown myself under the bus. I began J.J. with a short series called “My Life.” That created a time-line. Many parts from during that time went unmentioned. For various reasons. I had no idea the direction Jailbird would take.
Let’s go back. Way back. Some of you may know more about me than others. I’m gonna fill in some blanks. …Like the fact that I have a wonderful 14-year-old daughter.
I was 16 years old. My parents dragged me to church every Sunday. Only one thing made this bearable: A beautiful young lady who attended my youth group.
We began dating and, at the age of 17, learned we were going to be parents. Being kids ourselves, we had no idea what we would face. It didn’t help matters when I cheated on my daughter’s mother. That for sure made it all around our little town. Just having a baby at 17 was news enough in a place like that – add to that, I’m now a cheater. I fucked it all up. And I’ve said sorry a hundred times. It doesn’t help, but I learned a lesson.
After a little over a year of me being a royal pain in the ass, my [now] ex-girlfriend and I sat down. It was time to decide what we would do. We both loved our little girl. Yet we were also kids. We made the hardest decision of our lives way back then, many years ago. We decided to give our little girl up for adoption. We chose the parents, and the day we met them in that courthouse to sign the papers… me and my high-school sweetheart signed our lives away.
That is the day I broke. I walked out of that courthouse, packed my car, and in two days was in Florida.
I began to run that day. Been running ever since. Ran so long and so hard, I forgot what I was running from. I was running from failure, and drugs became my numbing agent. I became a slave to them.
I began to run that day. Been running ever since. Ran so long and so hard, I forgot what I was running from. I was running from failure, and drugs became my numbing agent. I became a slave to them.
Nearly four years ago, I came to prison. Many years had passed and I hadn’t seen or contacted my daughter.
During my stay here in DOC (department of corrections), my daughter came looking for me. Bless her heart! She found one broken-ass, angry man. Not a man to be proud of. Not a man to call Dad. No, not much of a man at all.
Now…you read my blog. You have read about the old me, and you have come on a journey with me. You see where I am in my heart today. Thing is… my daughter had the biggest part to play in the best changes in me, and until now I have kept her off the pages of J.J.
Ester wrote today and suggested that I write about my baby. There was no hesitation. She’s half me. She’s the only thing, to this day, that Mike Smith didn’t fuck up. She holds my heart and she is the very best of me. If you have kids then you know what I’m trying to say. She is perfect.
I see myself in her eyes. Her eyes are blue. So blue they penetrate you. She writes me. She calls me her birth-father, she calls me Michael. But when that 14-year-old girl writes Michael, I hear a thousand angels singing my name.
If this blog wasn’t personal enough already, it is now. This is my kid. My baby. My heart and soul.
My daughter is an artist and we draw pictures for each other. She asks me to show her new techniques. Different styles. She’s the best.
I don’t care if she ever calls me Dad. She knows who I am, and she knows I love her.
Going back to that day allowed me to be healed. I just hope having me back in her life can heal a little part of her as well. I’m sure it will… she came and found me.
My baby will be 20 years old when I am free. She will be a woman. In some ways, I am missing her growing up. In other ways, she is right here with me. I was given a second chance. A second chance to do it right this time. Baby, your birth-father loves you. God, you make me laugh. You keep your chin up, little lady. I’ll be home before you know it. Hey – you owe me a letter!"
Friday, November 11, 2011
A Hooligan Turns 33
On November 14, 1978 I was born in a small farmhouse in Lawrenceport, Indiana. The first son to Guy and Debby Smith. We had very little. We had one-other and a chicken coop full of chickens. Those were simple times. That was a lifetime ago.
From that farmhouse, we moved several hours north to a small town in Michigan. My dad bought an old school bus, packed our things, and moved us to the very place my mother still lives today. There was no house there nearly 25 years ago when we moved North. My dad built the house while we lived in that school bus. Those too, were some simple times.
During my teenage years we moved to yet another small town nearby. I went to the local high school, hunted deer, fished nearly every bit of water in that area, and in the winter raced sled dogs. ...And then life became complicated for me. You can read it. The 'My Life' series you see on Jailbird began.
I'm about to spend yet one more birthday in prison. This year I will turn 33 years old. And I am looking back. ...Catching a glimpse of a blonde hair, blue eyed little boy. A boy who was happy. Then I see that boy grew up. Turning into a chunky teenager with bad acne. Struggling to pass classes, beginning to notice girls, and being a teenager. Tough times...tough times.
If I could go back, there's a couple things I would change. Then again, those are the very scars I see, and remind me of who I am. Who knows just how many more birthdays I will spend back here. Time will tell.
As a kid you get excited about gifts you'll get. As an adult, well, you just say..."Damn! One year closer to 40!" Really, come on 40! I'll turn 40 out there. That's the best part about me reaching 40. I'll be a free man. This year I hope to give a gift back to my family. That would be me.
I wasn't born in a hospital. No, my dad delivered me in that simple little farmhouse, 33 years ago. Just me, my mom, my dad, and God. To hear my mom tell it, God was right there. And tell it mom does.
That's our yearly tradition. My mom tells me about that day. The day she had her son. I've heard this story every year. I can recite it word for word. Doesn't matter...every year I ask mom to tell me 'my' story. And she does. As if I've never heard it before. As if it's the very first time. This year I will call my momma. She'll tell me Happy Birthday. We will visit. We will chat. And mom will wait...
She will wait on me to ask..."Mom, will you tell me about the day I was born?" I will hear her smile over the phone. She will smile with pride, as if I've never made a mistake in my life. As if I'm still her little angel. She will smile. And say, "Of course, son." And she will begin...
"Well, Michael, I woke up that day and I knew...I knew this was the day you would be born."
I will be quiet and I will listen. I will try not to let mom hear the tears that slide down my cheek. But I can picture my mother. The woman who brought me into this world. Sitting on the other end of the phone line. Pride and love in her voice as she tells me once again the story of me.
It won't matter that I'm in prison. ...Broke the law all my life. Hurt people. No, my mother will smile and swear I'm still her little blonde hair, blue eyed boy. Chasing chickens in the yard. And I will be real quiet. Because for that minute in time that's exactly who I am. A little boy who needs his mom to love him. Take his side and hold him.
So mom, you know I'll be calling. 33 years have went by. Do you think I'm tired of hearing my story? Not a chance. Matter of fact, every year it becomes more important to me. So, when you hear me get real quiet, just keep on going. I'm right here. And, in some crazy way you're right here with me.
It won't be much longer mom...I'll be coming up the back trail. I still have the blonde hair and blue eyes. That little boy grew up, but the man turned out OK. Diamonds in the rough...
The 14th is on a Monday this year. I'll call you between 8 and 9 mom. We'll do that thing we do. Hey! I love you!
Aaron, Abigail, Ester, Grace and Phil...your big brother loves you. All I want this year on my birthday is for each one of you to call mom and tell her you love. Do that for me. That's all folks.
Much Love.
From that farmhouse, we moved several hours north to a small town in Michigan. My dad bought an old school bus, packed our things, and moved us to the very place my mother still lives today. There was no house there nearly 25 years ago when we moved North. My dad built the house while we lived in that school bus. Those too, were some simple times.
During my teenage years we moved to yet another small town nearby. I went to the local high school, hunted deer, fished nearly every bit of water in that area, and in the winter raced sled dogs. ...And then life became complicated for me. You can read it. The 'My Life' series you see on Jailbird began.
I'm about to spend yet one more birthday in prison. This year I will turn 33 years old. And I am looking back. ...Catching a glimpse of a blonde hair, blue eyed little boy. A boy who was happy. Then I see that boy grew up. Turning into a chunky teenager with bad acne. Struggling to pass classes, beginning to notice girls, and being a teenager. Tough times...tough times.
If I could go back, there's a couple things I would change. Then again, those are the very scars I see, and remind me of who I am. Who knows just how many more birthdays I will spend back here. Time will tell.
As a kid you get excited about gifts you'll get. As an adult, well, you just say..."Damn! One year closer to 40!" Really, come on 40! I'll turn 40 out there. That's the best part about me reaching 40. I'll be a free man. This year I hope to give a gift back to my family. That would be me.
I wasn't born in a hospital. No, my dad delivered me in that simple little farmhouse, 33 years ago. Just me, my mom, my dad, and God. To hear my mom tell it, God was right there. And tell it mom does.
That's our yearly tradition. My mom tells me about that day. The day she had her son. I've heard this story every year. I can recite it word for word. Doesn't matter...every year I ask mom to tell me 'my' story. And she does. As if I've never heard it before. As if it's the very first time. This year I will call my momma. She'll tell me Happy Birthday. We will visit. We will chat. And mom will wait...
She will wait on me to ask..."Mom, will you tell me about the day I was born?" I will hear her smile over the phone. She will smile with pride, as if I've never made a mistake in my life. As if I'm still her little angel. She will smile. And say, "Of course, son." And she will begin...
"Well, Michael, I woke up that day and I knew...I knew this was the day you would be born."
I will be quiet and I will listen. I will try not to let mom hear the tears that slide down my cheek. But I can picture my mother. The woman who brought me into this world. Sitting on the other end of the phone line. Pride and love in her voice as she tells me once again the story of me.
It won't matter that I'm in prison. ...Broke the law all my life. Hurt people. No, my mother will smile and swear I'm still her little blonde hair, blue eyed boy. Chasing chickens in the yard. And I will be real quiet. Because for that minute in time that's exactly who I am. A little boy who needs his mom to love him. Take his side and hold him.
So mom, you know I'll be calling. 33 years have went by. Do you think I'm tired of hearing my story? Not a chance. Matter of fact, every year it becomes more important to me. So, when you hear me get real quiet, just keep on going. I'm right here. And, in some crazy way you're right here with me.
It won't be much longer mom...I'll be coming up the back trail. I still have the blonde hair and blue eyes. That little boy grew up, but the man turned out OK. Diamonds in the rough...
The 14th is on a Monday this year. I'll call you between 8 and 9 mom. We'll do that thing we do. Hey! I love you!
Aaron, Abigail, Ester, Grace and Phil...your big brother loves you. All I want this year on my birthday is for each one of you to call mom and tell her you love. Do that for me. That's all folks.
Much Love.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
Slash
A short time ago Ester posted me and my guitar. I sang some song by Pearl Jam. I love Pearl Jam, but one of my biggest influences was learning from Slash of Guns 'N' Roses. One of my first CDs was "Use Your Illusion" I & II. 'Civil War,' 'Knockin' on Heaven's Door,' and 'November Rain' were some of my favorites on those records. As a band,Guns 'N' Roses has pumped out hits over and over again. 'Paradise City', 'Sweet Child O' Mine'....just to name a couple. Slash is a phenomenal guitar player. So I drew him. The guitar is probably my favorite part (as far as the detail goes). If you look through their band pics, they were always near a bottle of Jack Daniels. Cheers to great music, killer guitar players and good liquor!
Rock On!
The Hooligan
Rock On!
The Hooligan
(Copyright M.S. 2011, All Rights Reserved)
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