My Life Part I: The 'Cronic'les

Have you ever smoked pot before?  …Please raise your hand.

I’m just playing.  If you raised your hand, the answer to that question is probably yes.  If you still have your hand raised, the answer is definitely yes.  Put your hand down, stoner!

Like for many others, pot was the first drug I ever tried.  At this time I already smoked cigarettes.  I would have been about 15 years old.  One of my friends and I were building a fort in the woods – you know, doing shit kids do.  He pulls this thing out of his pocket and tells me it’s a joint.  He goes on to tell me how he got it from his older brother, and we should smoke it.  I’m game.  Why not?

Looking back now, I see things differently.  Fifteen is a little young to get high.  Perhaps 18 or 20 is a better age.  No, but really – jokes aside – I could give you 99 reasons to just say no.  That day, I didn’t say no.  I said yes.  We abandoned building that fort and rode our bikes around, stoned, just looking at shit.  You know: Trees, birds, cars, mailboxes.  I remember thinking, ‘We need to get more of this.’

Before long, I knew every kid in my high school who smoked.  A group of us would skip class and head to the parking lot.  One of my classmates drove a full-sized van.  You know, one of those basically an apartment on wheels – the only thing that’s missing is the kitchen sink.  We would pile into that van and get so stoned we could hardly stand up.  Some of us would abandon the rest of the day completely.  A few would head back to class and try to finish the day out.  We were a mess.

Paying for my drugs became a problem.  I had no money.  Many of my buddies took their older brothers’ stash, until big brother wised up and put his foot down.  I ended up going to one of the local dealers and began selling their pot for them – not to make money, just to keep me smoking.

Everything was small-scale.  We were kids.  I would get a half-pound and break it up into smaller baggies.  I ended up getting a pager.  Yeah – remember those things?  Talk about a pain in the ass!  Get a page, go hunt down a phone, and by the time you’d find a phone, that person had left wherever they were….  Major pain!  This continued through my teen years.

At the age of 18 I left Michigan.  I headed south as far away from Michigan as I could go.

My first real job was doing construction work.  Moving dirt with front-end-loaders, digging ponds, paving roads… I loved it.  Of course I was still smoking pot.  Everyone on my crew smoked.  In a year’s time, I moved up and became the foreman of a crew.  Half of my crew was Mexican.  I mean, don’t-speak-English and drive-low-riders-to-work Mexicans.  We became friends.  I began to learn Spanish.  They told me about mota.

Mota is marijuana.

Mexican’s don’t play.  When they told me they had mota, they showed me a trunk full of marijuana.  Do you know how big the trunk of a 1962 Impala is?  They could put like 10 people in there.  Maybe they did – smuggle dope and people.  Why not?

About the same time, I began riding Harleys.  I had one foot in the biker world and another in the Mexican drug cartel.  I hear my biker buddies talk about how much they pay for a pound of weed.  The Mexicans are much cheaper.  …Anywhere from two to three hundred dollars cheaper per pound.  I’ve done this before.  No problem.

…Except there is a difference.  We’re not talking half-pounds anymore.  We’re not talking about dime-bags and papers and kids.  This is way out of my league.

The first buy is a trial run.  Everybody wants to see how this thing works.  This is a cake-walk.  Easy money.  First I go to the bikers.  This whole thing is not registering to me.  It begins to when I’m handed a Crown Royal bag full of cash.  I’ve never had that much money in my hand.  $20,000 is a pile of cash.  The guy asks me if I have a gun.

“…For what?”

“In case they try to rob you.”

Hmmm…  I really didn’t think that far ahead. 

The thought crossed my mind to just give the cash back.  You know what - let’s just scrap this idea, can we?

Instead, I took the bag.  Why not?

So I’m 20 years old.  I’m sweating bullets.  I had to travel about 8 miles to pick up my package.  Yeah.  Right now I’m still thinking ‘package’ – why not?  $20,000 fits in a Crown Royal bag… thirty pounds of Mexican weed will not!

I pull into an apartment complex and begin to clean the trash out of my truck at the car wash located inside the complex.  This is exactly what I was told to do.  I don’t see anyone and I’m waiting for the S.W.A.T. team to jump out of the bushes and arrest me.  Nothing is happening.

After what seems like an eternity, a painter’s van pulls into the bay next to me.  A guy gets out in his overalls, covered in paint, and begins to clean out his van.  He opens the side door and unloads six five-gallon paint buckets into the back of my truck.  I give him the Crown Royal bag, and the transaction is made.  …Time to sweat a little more as I deliver the package.

I cut the bikers a deal and still walked with nearly three grand. 

…For one hour of work.

This began a whole new lifestyle for me.  I felt like a gangster.  …Untouchable.  I was suddenly living in an underground world of guys in their 20s and 30s who were driving pimped-out rides, had girls everywhere, and V.I.P. status wherever they go.  Up ‘til this point, I was a small-town country boy.  Quickly, that all changed.

Those Crown Royal bags kept coming and going.  There are no flashy briefcases like you see in the movies.  We used bowling bags, fast-food bags, and – my favorite – a regular backpack, slung over my shoulder like a skater punk.

…That’s the easier of the packages.  It’s the paint buckets, suitcases, and trash bags full of weed that you really sweat.

Not every transaction was in and out.  Sometimes I had to hold 50 pounds or more of weed at my home.  Then there were times when I had to split a package for a couple buyers.  At one point I had a picnic table set up in my garage.  We were using machetes and screwdrivers to peel open bales of compressed weed on that table.  When we were done splitting and repackaging, I would sweep the floor.  There would be 8-10 pounds of just seeds.  That’s when it began to sink in.  This is a lot of dope.

I think back to that day many years ago when two boys smoked their first joint.  They say weed is a gateway drug.  I had no idea the path I chose to walk down that day.  It doesn’t work that way for everyone, thank God.

I remember walking into a gun store and buying the biggest, most expensive .45 caliber handgun they had.  I was on top of the world.  I was 21 and I was king.  This began my life of crime…. 

My Life:

These days I am pretty laid back.  I think about the life that led me to where I am today.

In order for you to know me better, I put it out there.  You’ve seen the funny side of me, but there is a serious side as well.  Don’t get me wrong, there’s plenty more funny shit to come.  Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever grow up, then I look over my life and see how far I’ve come.  …From a straight hellion who lived for me, to a man who loves his family more than anything.

My greatest passion is for the people who are addicted to drugs.  The very drugs I sold are killing my friends.  I want to do something about that.  Before I became so badly addicted myself, I was a pusher.  To catch you up to where I am today, I need to start at the beginning.

This may seem like a rollercoaster ride.  I might make you laugh, perhaps you’ll cry, you may get mad, but I’ll make you feel.

Welcome to my life.

Q & A With Candy: How Long Does it Take to Finish a Piece?

Candy commented on Jailbird's Facebook page, saying, "Such a talent! Do you know how long your brother typically works on a piece such as this?"

Mike replies:

"Candy, I'm glad you’re diggin’ my art. Pretty wild stuff. Many times when I finish one, I sit back and marvel - I did that? Before I came to prison, I had no idea I could draw.

My first drawings were done in pencil. Then I began to tattoo. I got in some trouble for tattooing and at that time tried to use a pen to draw. I want to tattoo when I get out, and a pen is the best practice for that. You can’t erase ink pen. You can’t look at anything you do as a mistake. Instead, you work with every mark you make. Same with a tattoo machine; No mistakes, just marks you work with.

Two of my best pieces - “Trippin” and “Biker Boy” are full of 'mistakes,’ if you will, but it’s what I did with those mistakes that make the pieces perhaps the raddest pieces I’ve done so far (I’ll be damned - almost sounds like a life lesson in there!)

“Biker Boy” was done in 12 hours and half an ink pen later. I saw that complete picture in my head, so all I had to do was duplicate that on paper. “Trippin” was different. I created Trippin’ as I drew. I knew the story I wanted to tell, but I didn’t see the picture at first. Trippin took me nearly three weeks to complete - about 18 hours - and over half an ink pen.

I use circles. Tiny circles, because I can control the flow of ink better. I draw like people tattoo. I sit back and study where shading needs to go. I’m working on 3-Dimensional shading - positive and negative shading - and my own freestyle. I learn as I go. Every piece tells a story. So personally, I like them all. I’m happy to hear you enjoy them as well. Thank you Candy!"

American Badass

Copyright M.S. 2010

This is a tattoo Michael designed at my request, when my husband returned from a year in Afghanistan with the military, his second year-long deployment in 3 years. This was before the blog project started up, so I am gleaning pieces from the letter he sent with it.

“Ester…as you see, I drew you that picture. Well, it’s as much for [your husband] - you asked me if I would draw him something. I realized I really hadn’t drawn you one yet. …In your words, you asked for a ’bad-ass’ picture. I feel the picture is bad-ass, however, if not bad-ass enough, I also wrote bad-ass on it.”

[To my husband]:
“I have not had the chance to meet you. Unfortunately, it may be many years before we have that chance. What I know about you makes me like you. You love and care for my sister, and that is important to a big brother. I love my sister very much. I missed a lot of her growing up. Coming to prison has slowed me down… I see how much my sister loves you, and I can’t help but feel the same. I am happy to have you as a part of our family.

“Ester wrote and asked me to draw you a picture, possibly for a tattoo. That’s what I do. …Well, not lately since they sent me to the box last time. Not much fun in there. So I jumped at the opportunity to put something together for you. Normally I would ask you what you like, if you have an idea of what you want. In this case, I couldn’t do that. However, I know a little bit about you from my sister. You’re all she talks about. You care about your country, you drink P.B.R. and like to play hard. …An all-American guy. I was tempted to use the rebel flag” [note from Ester: thank you for not being tempted too much] “…but instead I just put a twist on the American flag - literally. I see flags all the time, but I wanted to do something unique for you.

“I’ve twisted the flag and made it a little abstract. I placed the banner in the middle and considered putting your name there - your unit or company or whatever you like. I’m a Kid Rock fan and just wanted to use “Bad-Ass.” Plus, Ester said to make it bad-ass for you….

“All I had to work from was a sketch of the tattoo you already have. Ester sent it to me, so I drew around it. Sometimes guys want to cover things, but Ester said this one might have meaning for you, so I used it. Yes, the Statue of Liberty is a little off. I couldn’t find a picture, so I drew it from memory. My homies say it looks like a dude. Well, fuck ’em. I was considering putting a smoking gun in place of the torch - now that would be raw! - but I left the torch.

“When I think of our country, the eagle comes to mind. Our grandfather fought in World War II, and he passed away two years ago. In memory of him I have a flag and eagle wrapped around my wrist to elbow. I put an eagle tearing out of the corner on yours. All in all it’s pretty patriotic. I tried to rush deliver it by the 4^th of July. I’m kind of funny like that. I had my grandfather’s memorial piece done on Memorial Day. My tats mean a lot to me. They each have real significance. Every tat I have has its own story.

“…Whether you just enjoy the art or use it for a tat is up to you, but there it is. Every time I put a small tat on me or anyone else, it always is added onto. So bigger is better. Put it in high gear dude! Lay that fucker on there, elbow to the crown of the shoulder. That’s a half-sleeve and a cool one at that. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you. Hell, I’ll put it on you when I get out, but that’s a long wait. Take care of yourself (and my sister).”

Much love to you,

M.S.

Shout-Outs from M.S.

"I spoke to my sister Ester for almost an hour last night.  She explains to me how this thing works.  Right now it’s amazing for me to see how many people are reading my shit.  Yeah, I see you over there in Korea – you rock!  Holla! 

To the Lakeside crew – I have tons of memories from camp.  Thank you so much for checking in.

My hometown, Houghton Lake – thanks for checking me out. 

Roscommon, you bastards expelled me from your school, but I still have some great friends from that experience – you know who you are :)

I see Texas – what up sis!?  Standin’ tall in the long-horn state.  Much love!

New York – your silly stories to me gave me the idea to pass it on.  Look what I’ve gone and done now.  Thanks for your friendship and support.  Keep an eye on my baby sis – love you both.

Many of you I know, many I don’t really have a clue about, but you all have one thing in common – you all know way more about me than I do about you!

I see you in Georgia, North Carolina, Alabama, South Dakota, and California.  Thank you all for taking time out of your day to see what I’m up to.

Imagine if each of you told just one person… maybe one day we’ll have every state lit up.  Crazy!

Did you think I forgot about you Florida?  Last but not least, the Sunshine State.  You all are representing strong, and I see you.  Much love to you Orlando.  To all my friends in the paving and patching business, you know who you are… thank you.

Ester, you make this possible.  …Bringing us all together.  Not only are you my sister, you are my friend.  …Not to mention my associate, secretary, office manager, and publisher of my bullshit!!  Two kids who never really grew up.  I love you sister!"

Prison. Sex.

Some of the wildest shit I’ve ever seen in my life takes place behind these walls.  …And I have seen some crazy stuff.  Even my mind is blown from time to time.  When Ester and I decided to do this project, I began to carry a pen and paper in my pocket.  These are a few of the quotes I’ve heard, things I’ve seen, and things I wish I knew nothing about.  If you are homophobic, have a weak stomach, or have a problem with bathroom humor, please do not read any further.  In my defense, perhaps you will begin to understand why I have no filter, and say whatever is on my mind.

The day you come to prison you are stripped of everything; your hair, your clothes, and your pride.  I believe the definition of prison is humiliation.  First stop: the barber chair.  One style – bald.  Next stop, get butt-ass naked with about 60 other guys, or however many came in on your bus.  You are then instructed to squat, spread your butt cheeks, and cough.  They do this because guys like to hide stuff in their ass.  I almost said shit, but as you will soon find out, guys are sticking a lot more than shit up there.

After the anal inspection you are told, “Nuts to butts.”  This means you form a line.  …With no gaps.  In prison you are in a line to do anything.  Go eat chow, you’re in a line.  Go to the recreation yard, you’re in a line.  Go to take a shower or even a shit and – yes, you guessed it – you’re in a damn line.

So after you’re shaved and stripped, you head to the scales.  They take your weight and then you shower.  After your shower you are fitted for your clothes, or blues as we call them.  The whole intake thing takes a full day.  From intake you are placed in general population.  This is where you basically walk the plank, the cat-walk – you’ve probably seen this part in movies.  You’re scared shitless and huge dudes line each side of the walk.  You have a 400 lb. ‘Bubba’ telling you that your ass looks nice.  This walk seems to take forever, and it’s one you will never forget.

You are walked to your living quarters.  Everyone stops what they are doing to take a look at the new guy, basically to size you up.  What’s your weakness, are you gay, do you have money, can you hold your own… these are the looks you get.  Then you meet your ‘bunkie,’ or the guy you will sleep next to every night.  There are rules to this process.  You are the new kid on the block.  You don’t just walk in like you own the place.  First you introduce yourself.  You keep your chin up, make eye-contact, and speak to be heard.  Over time this whole process becomes easier.  I’ve been doing this thing for a hot minute and have my own way of doing stuff.  When I walk the cat walk and Bubba tells me I have nice lips, I tell him to go fuck himself.  That way all the other guys who are sizing you up see you have fight in you.  You learn to look at a guy and tell if he’s fresh off the street or if he’s been in for a while.

Hopefully you get a good Bunkie.  This makes all the difference.  You will sleep next to this man until one of you is moved.  You will smell this man’s farts.  You will listen to him snore, and you will wake up and see his morning wood.  It is important the two of you get along.  Basically you are married to this dude for an undisclosed amount of time.  You have to learn to talk out problems, and you will have them.  One day he will clip his toenails and leave them all over the floor at the head of your bed.  Some may even get airborne and land on your pillow.  Big yellow fungus toenails.  You will come home in a bad mood.  An officer just tore you a new asshole and made you stand in the rain.  You will see the toenails and want to crush the life-breath out of the shit-bag who is your Bunkie.  It will take everything you have to control that urge.  That would be a new charge.  More time in this prison – hell no!  Instead you take your toothbrush and cut out all the bristles into little tiny, tiny pieces and sprinkle them on his pillow.  When he lays on them they will poke his neck and feel like fiberglass insulation on his skin.  Like I said, you have to learn to talk things out.  This is important.

After the first week has passed, you will begin to blend.  You won’t stick out so much and it will become a little easier to do your time.  Around this time you will begin to notice things, like the guys nobody wants to shower with.  …Or the couple guys who always shower at the same time.  You might round a corner one day and see two guys kissing.  Perhaps you round a corner one day and see a blow-job or a hand-job, or even anal sex.  The first time, you feel violated.  Maybe you blush – whoops!  Didn’t mean to see that!  Pretty soon it just pisses you off.  Like, I’ve been picking potatoes all day, I’m dirty and I want a shower.  I don’t want to see you fucking, so hurry up! 

Have you ever heard of a drag show?  You know, men who dress up like women, and in some cases want to be women or believe they are women.  Sometimes those men even take estrogen or other hormones to enhance breasts or change their voice.  One small problem – they still have a dick between their legs.  Perhaps you’ve never given it much thought, but where do you think they go when they break the law?  If you have a dick, you go to a men’s prison.  Unless you fall into the small percentage of people who carry both sex organs, Hermaphrodites, in which case they have a special place for you.  For obvious reasons, that might disrupt a men or a women’s prison.  How does that work exactly?  Does that make you gay either way you go? 

OK, I’m getting off track here –

Dicks.  One of the craziest things I saw when I came to prison was a man with boobs, and I mean big, hairless, lady-like boobs.  It was like a freak show.  …All these horny guys running to the shower to see a show.  I was happy when I transferred away from that situation.

People vary on how they look at this, some see it as not black and white, but rather a fuzzy line that separates.  I’m thinking if you take a dick in your ass and you’re a man, then you’re a gay man.  Bottom line!  There’s no ‘I’m kind of gay.’  Guys try and take short-cuts around the gay issue.  I overheard a guy ask his friend, “If you suck my dick, does that make me gay?”  Uhhh…yes.

Here in prison, gay men are called punks or sissies.  Sissies cut their boxers into thongs, shape their eyebrows, tuck their wiener, and sit down to pee.  You ever heard of pitchers and catchers?  We’re not talking about baseball – well, bats and balls in a way.  Sissies and punks are the catchers.  Some guys feel that if they are with a feminine man, then they aren’t ‘technically’ gay.  Whatever!

At my last camp I lived by two full-blown sissies.  Let me paint you a quick picture.  They bend over in front of you and you see a thong sticking out the top of their pants – oh, hell no!  They refer to their ass-hole as a pussy.  When they address each other, they say, “Hey girl! What’s up!?”  One was called “Peaches” and the other was “Champagne.”  On the street they were both cross-dressers, so they walk like runway models.  Just one problem – they are both black (not the problem), and between the two of them are packing four feet of dick!  Mr. T. used to say ‘I pity the fool.’  Fuckin-a, right?  Can you imagine the poor schmuck who thinks he’s about to get lucky, then finds out the ‘chick’ he’s with is packing 2 feet of radiator hose?  Talk about false advertisement!  That’s gonna cause a damn heart attack!

For the rest of us guys, there’s the back stall, otherwise known as the masturbation station.  When you head back there, everyone knows what time it is.  You’re going to relieve some stress.  On the street that’s really not something you talk about.  Sex, sure, you might tell a friend about an exceptional experience.  I have never called a buddy and said, “Yeah, I just got myself off.”  No, you keep that to yourself.  That’s not how it works here.  It’s more like taking a piss.  Some guys head back there with a sexy picture of their girlfriend.  Others head back there with a picture they wish was their girlfriend.  Transformers was on TV last week and I know Megan Fox got a lot of action back there.

Nude pictures here are called ‘flicks.’  They are illegal to have and are worth a couple dollars apiece.  …Which means they are sold and rented as one of the prison’s biggest hustles.  The same Penthouse you see on the street for six or eight dollars goes for $80-$100 here.  That’s because guys cut each picture out individually and sell them for five or ten dollars each.  There are all kinds of hustles in prison.  Guys will do your laundry, make your bed, shine your boots, anything you can think of.

The shower situation is pretty wild.  We have eight shower-heads side by side.  This is hard to get used to.  Everywhere you look there’s a dick.  Either you don’t shower, or you get over it.  On the street I remember girls always going pee together.  What’s up with that?  You just chat while you piss?  Back then I used to think that was odd.  Guys just don’t do that!  Well, they do in prison.  I see it all the time.  …Rollin eight deep in the shower, dicks swinging, and we’re talking about football.  Fuckin’ crazy!

Then the toilets – same deal.  Eight stools in a row.  One dude’s sitting there having morning coffee, next to him a guy is smoking and reading the paper, and in the next toilet a dude is jerking off.  …Just another day on the chain-gang.

This is just a little look into my everyday life.  As time allows, I will write more.  There is always something new and interesting going on.  I want to hear your feedback.  What are your thoughts?  Maybe you have a question.  Feel free to ask, and I will answer.  …Just be prepared to get a very straight-forward, honest answer. 

I am able to get questions, even if it takes a little time.  What do they say – ‘patience is a virtue?’  Well I hate patience, fuck patience.  Personally I hate to wait.  I try to call and have someone look up your comments and questions so I can get them sooner.  At times I will give a quick reply over the phone, and sometimes your question sparks a whole story, like the tattoo story.  That was an answer to my friend Cari, who asked how we get ink in here.

Perhaps it’s better if you ask questions; otherwise I’ll give you shit like what you just read.  Ha ha!  How do you like me now!?     

Q & A: "How Do You Get Tattoos in Prison?"

I received a very good question out of Orlando, Florida the other day.  Cari asked, “How do you get tattoos in prison?”

Well, first things first.  At the time you are sentenced to prison, you are given a number.  That number becomes your new identity.  From that point forward you become the property of the Department of Corrections.  At this point in my life, I am the property of the state.  Chapter 53 of the inmate handbook states that tattoos are prohibited.  Getting a tattoo is a direct violation, and is punishable by loss of gain-time, and / or time in confinement.  The hole, the box – solitary – in other words, sucky, sucky!  As you can see, I am in direct violation of chapter 53 and have been many times.  This makes a good story.  …For you, not necessarily for me.

I hope you have enjoyed looking at my art.  Before I came to prison, I had no idea I was capable of drawing pictures that were actually nice to look at.  The more I draw, the better I get.  At one point a guy asks me if I can tattoo like I can draw.  Well, I don’t know, I’ve never tried.  He rolls up his sleeve and says, “Let’s find out.”  Yes, I agree – we have way too much time, and people are far too trusting.  Of course, I agree to try – sounds like fun.

Jumping ahead, let me explain the tattoo machine for you.  Since they are prohibited, the machines are custom-made.  You know, if guys used their heads on the street like they do in here, none of us would be in prison.

Who knew you could make a tattoo gun out of a hand-held razor, a toothbrush handle, an ink pen, and a lighter spring?  Some dudes sat around with too much free time and came up with this thing.  The motor, when taken out of the razor, powers the machine.  The ink pen becomes the barrel and houses the needle made from stretching out a lighter spring.  The toothbrush handle connects the motor and the barrel.  This is kind of like digging a hole with a spoon.  There’s a better tool called a shovel, but if you don’t have a shovel....

(Photo borrowed from Dennis G.'s "How to Make a Prison Gun")  

I get this contraption in my hands and take off.  If you’ve seen my art then you know I am capable of some weird shit to say the least.  I found out I can tattoo as well, perhaps better than I can draw.  Soon I was giving tattoos every day.  It’s a great hustle here.  …One of the best hustles in prison if you don’t get caught.

Let’s look at some statistics here: If you break the law occasionally, chances are you won’t get caught.  Break the law every day and the odds are against you.

I know what you’re thinking, ‘Aren’t you supposed to be correcting your bad behavior?’  ‘Didn’t you end up there for breaking the law?’  ‘When will you ever learn?’

Give me a break, please – it’s just a little old tattoo – fuckin A!  (Plus, my mom already tore me a new one, thank you…).

Periodically we have shake-downs.  This is when the police come in and go through all our shit, looking for shit we’re not supposed to have.  Stuff like drugs, cell-phones, knives, alcohol, and yes, tattoo guns.  I had a good run of it.  For nearly 10 months I gave tattoos every day.  That’s where the whole statistics thing comes in. 

We have a surprise shake-down.  The officer that is assigned to search my stuff comes up to me.  He’s not just an officer, but a sergeant.

“Mr. Smith, do you have anything illegal that I should know about?  (No sir).

He begins to go through my things and sees my artwork. 

“Mr. Smith, you wouldn’t be giving tattoos would you?”  (No sir.)

He continues searching, looking even harder now.

“Mr. Smith, where is your tattoo machine?”

My what?

“I know you’re tattooing – where’s the stuff?”

My mind starts working.  I’m thinking,

charge #1: Tattoo paraphernalia

#2: lying to staff,

Charges 3 and 4 they’ll just make up since I lied to them.  Oh, fuck me running.

...No need to say anything.  He finds it, sewed into my mattress.  Wow, that dude was pissed.  I remember as a kid I would push my dad’s buttons once in a while.  I’m familiar with that look, like hot lava blowing out that little hole at the top of a volcano.  This isn’t looking so good.  Maybe tattooing wasn’t such a great idea.  Those were my thoughts right then.

Even here in prison, they have to have a way to punish you for breaking their rules.  Their answer to this problem is called solitary confinement.  We call it the box.  That’s what it is.  Everything is taken away from you.  I mean everything.  This is a 6’ X 6’ room with a steel bunk.  No sunlight, no people, no canteen, nada.  Your food comes through a slot in the door and it comes when they feel like feeding you.  You are stripped, shackled, and escorted 3 times a week for a cold shower.  A nurse comes by once a day and looks through the slot to make sure you’re alive.

The first two days aren’t bad.  Give it a week and the walls start talking to you.  Give it two weeks and the food that usually tastes like shit becomes steak and eggs, even ice cold.

Confinement is meant to break you down, and it works.  I’m a people-person.  I like to be near other people, and the box drove me crazy.  When they finally let me out, I felt like a free man, even though I am still in prison.  I found out there’s a worse spot, even in here.  The sunlight burned my eyes, but felt heavenly.  Birds singing, a fresh breeze – crazy the things we take for granted.

Then I had to deal with Mom.  “What are you, some kind of idiot?”  That hurt the most.  Screw the box – once again I let my mom down.  Mom flew down the next week with my sister.  Mom made me promise that I wouldn’t tattoo until I’m outside.  She said, “Keep your art on paper.”  That’s why you are now seeing my art on paper.  I’m keeping my word Mom!

So that’s my tattoo story.  How we get them, how we give them, and how we pay for them.  I’ll try to answer any questions you may have. 

I have a lot of tattoos.  Some of them are funny, some are very serious.  I have angels and crosses that remind me of my faith.  I have barbed wire to remind me of where I’ve been.  One arm is all memorials.  An eagle and stars and stripes are for my grandfather who passed away two Christmases’ ago.  My K.I.S.S. piece is for all those who have passed away due to addiction.  I have a very special place in my heart for them.  My sisters have drawn me little pieces and I have them on my sides.  My daughter has her spot above my heart.  Every piece of my art has a story.  Today I have lots of stories to tell.

Thanks for the question Cari!  Hope things are going well for you and yours.  Keep it real down there in Orlando.  Holla!

M.S.

A Note from the Blushing Sister

I didn't ask Mike's permission to write my own post, but I assume I have a lot of liberties here since MY NAME is on everything posted here.  It has been a little bit of a struggle some days when I have typed up a piece (like Stripper Diaries) and I write Mike and say, "Uh... I'm not going to post that one quite yet.  We need to ease people into that."  I don't particularly agree with or admire some of the stuff that Mike has to write about from his past.  At first I didn't think I would have an attack of conscience when I went to post something that is all about objectifying women, but really there isn't any way I can separate myself from this project.  It's got my name on it, it's got my brother in it, and I'm not going to pretend like I have nothing to do with it.  I also had to take a long look at myself and realize that if I had the kahunas to write honestly about my past, I wouldn't want my name on that either!

I have kept a blog of my own and am deciding to put that project on hold for now, or forever, so I can focus on this project with Michael.  My own blog has been a semi-narcissistic public journal which isn't without its own purpose, but I am finding this project with my brother is much more meaningful to both of us than mine could ever be.  I love getting to talk to Michael and telling him about the new places we're getting hits from (there's a map at the bottom of the page, in case you haven't checked it out - say hello to yourself!).  He knows where his readers are from and it is really awesome to hear him get excited about the number of views the blog is getting.  In the future, it will mean much more to both of us knowing we did this together than it will matter to me that I continued my own.

There was a time not so long ago when Mike wrote me about 5 letters for every one I wrote him.  It used to be that I'd see an envelope from him in the mailbox and groan, 'Damnit!  I haven't wrote him in forever!'  I'd feel guilty, and half my letter in return would be apologizing for my 6-month hiatus.  Now when I get something from him, I can't wait to open it and see what's inside!  I'm not afraid to write him back and say, "Dude, that was funny but you were pretty skanky!  Eww!"  I now keep a Microsoft "Word" document open on my computer all week long and I give him stats on how many views the blog has, send him pictures of what it looks like, and pass on any questions or comments we get. 

I imagine if you know Michael and if you've ever received a letter from him, you might also have times when you feel guilty seeing one of those envelopes in the mailbox.  You don't have to!  If you want to leave a comment and let him know you stopped by, I mail out a letter every week and I make sure all comments are included.  He appreciates every one!

This project came about through encouragement from his friends as well as our need to 'bond' as siblings and as friends.  I might not agree with everything Michael says, but I love the hell out of him and I am proud to have my name with his on this project.  No matter what our friends might think, no matter what my in-laws might think (yikes! I hope they haven't checked this out!  haha!), this is the truth of the matter: My brother is in prison for a while, and there is nothing I can do about that.  He's always going to be my brother, and this is part of our family and part of our relationship and part of the story of our lives.  I am blessed to be working together. 

We both would love for you to ask any questions you would like to, leave comments even if they're not sweet, and let us know what you'd like to see more of or hear more about. 

Thank you for reading.

God Bless!

-Ester Jean

(Brothers & Sisters, Michigan, late-'80s.)

The Stripper Diaries

"There are a select few women that don’t give a fuck and are as cold as I used to be.  Women that tell you what you want to hear.  Women that suck you in, then spit you out.  Women that you fall for, then they put a six-inch stiletto through your heart.  These women are called strippers.

My first time in a strip-club was with a woman who to this day probably wishes she had never took me there.  That trip changed my life.  Where else can you find naked women swinging from poles at 11 a.m.? 

From the moment a woman starts stripping, she begins to master the skill of ‘hustling a sucker.’  Working a man for his last penny, then sending him to the ATM conveniently located right there in the club.  You can tell a ‘sucker’ when you see the guy who uses that machine.  He’s being worked over by a top-notch hustler.  His heart is in her hands, he’s in love.  I shake my head.  I was there once or twice.

Then I began to date strippers.  I studied them, screwed them, and learned how to hustle them.  Rule number one: Never fall in love.

You can take the stripper out of the club, but you cannot take the club out of the stripper.  They run the same lines… I have a boyfriend and I’m doing this to put myself through college.  Yeah, right!  You do this because you have three kids, a drug problem, and you live in a trailer with your sister and her five kids.  But that’s OK.  On that stage, you are a star!

-Enter the stripper diaries –

At first I sat by the stage in awe, tossing my money at the feet of some woman who goes by Portia, Jasmine, or Angel.  A friend of mine named Dave said, “Slow down boy, you’ll hurt yourself!”  Thanks Dave!  When I quit giving them attention, they flock around.  Reverse psychology?  I don’t know.  But this fucks strippers up.  They are attention junkies.  When they don’t get it, they do weird shit.  Like take you home and fuck your brains out.

I still remember the first one.  Cute girl.  Bounces up to me in the club and said she has a gift for me.  I take her number and call her the next day.  She has a nice condo, no kids, and is really going to college – amazing!  She drew a portrait of me.  This girl could draw.  She had some sort of an art scholarship, and she was good.  She had drawn a huge picture of me, and I paid her back with some sex, never called her back again.  Oh, and I kept the picture too.

I bring her up because that was the first stripper I took home.  There’s a better story in about the third one, or maybe it was the fourth?  Hmm.

Strip clubs are dark places.  They leave the lights down low for a reason.  Some of the women there are rough.  We say ‘Butterface’ like the body is smoking hot, but her face is… tired.

Meet Natalie.  Natalie was a bitch.  She didn’t like me.  Every time I was at the club she tried her best to cock-block me.  This pissed me off.  She was not hot, she was homely.  Like some chick from “Little House on the Prairie.”  I had no interest in her whatsoever.  The more she pissed me off I realized, ‘What better victory than to get her to fuck?’  So I start working on her.  The bitch breaks.  She comes home with me.

At this time I am living with a buddy of mine, renting a room.  He enjoys the stripper traffic, so my rent is basically nothing.  So I bring Natalie home.  The next morning I wake up, see her next to me and feel sick.  So I leave.  A couple hours later my cell phone rings.  It’s my buddy.

“Hey bro – what’s with the chick?”

“Sorry about that.  She hasn’t left yet?”

“No, but that’s cool – she’s swimming naked in the pool.”  Oh god.

He ends up screwing her too.  What a slut!  Wait, it gets better.  This guy breaks all the rules.  He lets her move in, then asks me to move.  Seems he’s falling in love with a hoe.  Tsk, tsk.  …So much for ‘Bros before Hoes.’ That’s such bullshit too, trust me!  My buddy turns out to be just another sucker.  He’s got two kids with her now.  She comes and goes and continues to fuck everybody but him.  Dumbass!

Meet Rachel.  Rachel was beautiful.  Our paths just seemed to cross at all the wrong times.  We would try to plan something and shit would always come up.  Then one day she doesn’t work the club anymore.  About a year later, a friend of mine calls and asks me to go to a concert with him.  The show is going to be at a club called Headlights.

We meet there and the show is great.  Toward the end of the night, the shooter girl passes by with her tray of shots.  I do a double-take.  It’s Rachel, wearing this little outfit, selling rum shooters.  She comes right up and asks what we’re doing.  The three of us decide to leave.  We just walk right out the front door.  Rachel is carrying this huge tray of shooters.  We jump into my truck and slam all the shooters, then she uses all her tips and rents a hotel for us.  The three of us.  And that was one of the craziest nights ever.  I left at 5 a.m. to go home.  Rachel and my buddy stayed in that hotel for three days smoking crack – wild!     

My parents live in Northern Michigan.  During the winter I try to get home to see them and do some skiing.  One winter I head up North and end up feeling terrible.  I’m hooked on 10 different drugs and run out while visiting my parents.  My brain’s not working properly and I’m making terrible decisions.  Meet Karen.

Karen and I hung out occasionally.  She was on about 8 of the 10 drugs I was on.  So I’m thinking I’ll have Karen fly to my parents’ and join me.  She’ll be my drug mule.  Trouble is I have to sell this to both Karen and my parents.  I call Karen.

“Hey babe, what’s up?”  Mmmhmm…

“Listen, how would you like a snowy getaway from city life?”  Mmmhmm…

“I know it sounds cold, but it will be tons of fun.  Plus, I’m here!  I wouldn’t lie to you…and you can meet my family!”  Great, great!

Get your plane ticket.

(Now the parents.)

This is going to sound really bad, but this was how I operated.

Mom.  Listen.  I have a friend that is going through some difficult times.  We were on the phone this morning.  I was telling her what a nice time I was having with my family.  She said she sure wished she had somewhere to get away, life’s been tough lately.

“Mom, what do you think about her coming up here for a couple days?”

My mom has a huge heart.  I was trying to use this to my advantage.  The only problem is that Mom also knows she has a smooth-operator for a son.  So 99 Questions begins.

Note my smooth-operator skills are beginning to dim because I’m starting to withdraw.

Slowly, Mom begins to crack the case.  I’m getting a No.  Something about, “I’m sure she’s a real nice girl, but we’re not putting your stripper friends up at our house.”

Smooth operator’s mind hard at work.  There’s a *hot stripper with my drugs buying a plane ticket.  What to do??

Thank God for Holiday Inn.

Women have come and gone all my life.  Writing these stories has reminded me of how shallow I used to be.  Perhaps I am still a little shallow – I have laughed many times as I put this together.  I hope you also have had a laugh.  Maybe I’m not the only shallow guy out there.

To all you strippers:

You devote your life to hustling men for their last dollar.  …Men who leave their wives at home and come with high hopes of taking you home, but never will.  …Men who are suckers  for pain and will come back over and over again.  They say a sucker is born every day.  As long as that’s the case, you will always be a star.

Rock on, working girls!"       

Biker Boy

Copyright 2010 M.S.

"As a teenager I had my share of dirt-bikes, four-wheelers, go-carts… nearly any toy you can think of.  At the age of 19 I was introduced to motorcycles.  Not just any motorcycles, but Harley Davidson.

I was doing construction work and my car broke down.  The woman I was dating had a Harley and I used it to get to work.  I was hooked.  The freedom I experienced while riding blew my mind.

Shortly after, I bought my first bike.  A Harley Davidson Road King.  Those were the days.  I had the time of my life on that bike.

Prior to coming to prison, I purchased a street bike.  One of those bikes that goes real fast and Harley people hate!  My Harley friends called me a traitor. 

I got hooked on the speed.  My GSXR street bike would go 168 mph.  Maybe faster, but that’s as fast as I went.  When I came to prison, I had a fast bike, a fast chick, and an even faster life.  Right now all three of them are gone.  My life will never be that fast again.  My next bike will be a Harley and my next girl will be ok with going a little slower.  I have plenty of memories of all three.

My fast life ended the day I was sentenced.  My fast chick hauled ass about four months after I left.  That damn motorcycle hung out the longest.  I don’t recall who was the better ride, the girl or the bike.  The bike was definitely less of a headache.

One of my favorite rides was from O-Town to the beach.  The highway that took me there was 528.  My bike picture is in memory of my many rides.  The checkered flag is for the finish line I will reach.  Until then I have my memories of the sunsets at the beach and perfect sunny days.  The skull is significant of a death of the old me.  The man who was addicted to drugs, the man who couldn’t feel.  The tear is for this time I have lost, the tubes feed me the memories that give me life.  Yeah my shit’s weird and I’m 100% sober – crazy huh?

I hope you enjoy the art.  To all my biker friends: I will ride again!  I will redeem myself by riding Harley Davidson!

Live free my brothers and sisters.

Ride On."   

(And check out the description Mike sent for Trippin!)

"Growing" Up

"Growing up in a conservative, Christian home was difficult.  Bringing home a girl and trying to have sex was even more difficult.  Thank goodness for cars.  If my parents would have considered the options, they may have let up on me a little.  …Then again, probably not.  Consequently, their car became dubbed “the love shack.”

I grew up the oldest of six kids.  Three boys and yep, you guessed it, three girls.  My sisters were great.  They really were.  At times a little nosey, but hey - that’s kids.  Problem was, even back then I was always doing shit I wasn’t supposed to.  …Like converting my closet into a grow room.  At the time I’m not sure what I was thinking.  If you’ve ever grown pot, you know it doesn’t take long before it begins to stink.  Mind you, both my parents had been hippies and yes, they know what “that” smell is.

Truth is it never made it that far.  You see, I wasn’t smart enough to know my room was being “tossed” periodically.  Here in prison we call them shake-downs.  Yeah, fuckin’ parents—always crimpin’ my style.  I’ll give them one thing: They were thorough.  I’ve seen trained officers here come up with far less than my parents found in my 8 X 10 cubicle.

 I come in the front door to be greeted by a kitchen table full of “contraband” (that’s the prison term) - basically the typical teen-ager bullshit.  A pack of cigarettes, a couple “PentHouse” magazines, a tin of Skoal, my girlfriend’s thong panties, a switchblade knife, some road cones, a stop sign, blinking construction-zone road barriers, half-empty liquor bottles and plastic trays of small, growing pot plants. 

My Dad, at last had found out where his high-powered mechanic lights had gone.  They were attached to the ceiling of my closet, keeping my batch of pot growing.  I think he basically overlooked all the other stuff, but he was really pissed about his lights.  I mean, really pissed.

Mom made a big demonstration of, one at a time, pulling the little pot plants out of the soil and dropping them into the toilet.  This took a while.  I had about 80 plants.  My motto was “Do it Big” even back then.  I’m sure I was stoned while I stood and watched her “weed” my “garden.”  Or “garden” my weed?  Pull my weed?  It’s really quite funny now, but not at the time.  I mean the whole flush-the-pot-plants demonstration was a little over the top. 

Back then, I didn’t know the history of the woman flushing my pot.  I refuse to bring my sweet mother (who I love dearly) into my creative stories.  However!  …Just picture Cheech and Chong flushing their kids’ pot and telling them “Drugs are bad!”

Silly me….  I thought after the plants I was off the hook.  Not a chance!  Seems they had somehow prioritized their findings.  The weed plants were number one.  Next on their list was the porn.  The interrogation begins, “Where did you get the magazines?”  Back then my levels of crime were small compared to say, my adult life.  But even then I knew to plead the fifth.  It’s is different when you’re dealing with your parents though.  For instance, if I would have said, “I plead the fifth,” my Dad would have knocked my smart ass off that stool and across the room.  I had to be smart and tactful.  

“What porn?” 

God forbid parents are actually reading this shit, but if they are, here’s some free advice: When a question is answered with a question, somebody’s stalling for time.  This is an automatic red flag.  No, I’m not trying to give anyone up.  I’m actually helping you here.  To be a more believable liar, you have to be sincere.  Don’t answer the question with a question.  You have to train your automatic response.  …A simple “it wasn’t me,” it’s not mine, I didn’t do it… that baby don’t look like me! 

OK, get the point?  So where were we?  “What porn?  That’s not mine!  I’ve never seen it before.  Somebody set me up!”  Much better!  Now we’re getting somewhere.  There was just one minor problem; seems my parents were detectives on top of being interrogators and the K-9 unit.

Another tip:  When you lie to people and they know it, they keep digging for the truth.  Yeah, it just goes down like that. Son of a bitch.  Give them a good story that’s half-way believable and sometimes you’re off the hook.  It’s a 50/50.  Boy, if I had known then what I know now….  I was far from off the hook.

People, “Do it Big” is not a good motto.  Unless we’re talking boobs.  About this time, one of my buddies went through the same ordeal.  He wasn’t quite the hardened “porn” criminal I was and his parents were able to break him.  Thanks Justin!  Sure, go ahead and tell your parents your porn stash came from me.  Folks, I could write the book on “dumb crook news.”  Don’t involve others in your crime.  Don’t tell them, don’t take them along, and don’t have them hold stolen shit for you.  Having someone find out you lied to them is bad.  …Have your parents find out and you’re screwed!  This kid didn’t just say where he got it.  He told them where I got it.  Was the interrogation that serious?  …You being water-boarded over there? 

Well anyway, of course I was stealing them from the local party store.  That was my first experience with going in and telling a store owner I stole merchandise from them.  Yes, my parents insisted I do this.  How embarrassing. 

“Ummm, Sir?” 

Yes. 

“I came here today to tell you over the past few months I have been coming into your store.  Not only have I been buying candy, but I have also been stealing the newest issue of “Penthouse” magazine as soon as it hits the shelf.”

As I write this I laugh.  I also realize that the store owner was probably laughing also.  However, that was no comfort at the time.  I was 15 years old and terrified. 

I wish the story ended here, but no such luck.  There was then the issue of the road cones, barriers, and stop sign.  Did I mention the barriers were the barrels with the blinking lights on them?  At night my room would come to life with solar-powered road flashers the size of dinner plates.  …Looked like giant lightning bugs on steroids had taken over my living space.  This turned out to be too much for my parents to handle, so they called in the professionals.  At this time I should mention I was on probation for robbing the local Radio Shack.  Well, they call my probation officer, who calls the cops.  I guess stealing construction zone warning devices is major.  The cop sat me down and told me all this shit about how it’s a safety thing; someone could die because the stop sign is gone, or miss the corner because the barrels aren’t there.

I wish I could say I learned some big lesson from all that.  Not really, but it makes a funny story.  Looking back, I got away with a lot of shit.  My parents weren’t in tune to all the warning signs.  That changed over time.  I tried them in every way possible.  By the time my younger siblings were trying shit Mom and Dad knew exactly what time it was.  I did a pretty thorough job of educating them on all the tricks kids play."

You don't have to admit anything you don't want to, of course, but if you did have run-ins with the law, did your parents bail you out?  ...Haul you into court and tell the judge to throw the book at you? If you are a parent, what are your privacy policies at your house?  ...Shake 'em down or let them be?  (Don't worry!  We won't tell a soul!)