Sitting in a small room on a cold steel bunk. I'm once again left to my thoughts. For every move we make in life there is some reaction. Everyone has those days where your going a little too fast and before long the blue lights are chasing you. As you pull over you sit there smacking your steering wheel and come up with a dozen things you could have done differently. Once again I find myself in confinement.
The officer who walked me to confinement had a heart-to-heart with me. He told me I only have one year left, its time I quit thinking like an inmate. He's right. I'm a calculated risk taker. That's been my life for 9 years now. Know the rules in and out, then decide if the punishment is worth the risk.
I'm sitting here now with my fate in someone else's hands and I don't like that. It is indeed time to quit being an inmate and change back to a civilian. This problem I'm faced with now, has the potential to change my release date.
I just told my mom the other day how much I will need to pay attention once I'm home. If I jump into someone else's car and head to the store---get pulled over and there's a gun or dope, I'm headed back to prison. If I'm in a car that's pulled over and records are checked, I'm the one they draw their guns on because I have a record with law enforcement. I've stopped to consider all those things about out there....and just placed myself in a similar predicament in here.
Now I'm waiting for the officer to come and tell me the damage. Please hold while I bang on the steering-wheel.
Saturday, November 11, 2017
Be Somebody
When I first fell, or was booked to do time, I had just snorted two oxys prior to court. Then, when I felt the courtroom about to unravel I reached into my pocket and ate the other two that were waiting for me. That's 4 eighty milligram tabs and its only 10 AM.
That's how my days began. Needless to say those first days in prison were detoxing. The cold sweats, diarrhea, vomiting. The mood swings, depressed, alone, sobbing. Like uncontrollable sobs that shake you to the core and finally have you in dry heaves.
And I did it on my own. In a prison cell. Looking at walls that could tell a thousand stories like mine.
That was a long time ago. Yet I find I reflect on that. Just so I don't forget. I can't forget the beast that lives in addiction. And as I've said before....drugs are readily available here so staying clean is a choice. It is MY choice.
Finally I'm here at the end. My one year countdown. The journey is over; just the final few steps to take.
Like a soldier training for duty I have worked myself with training this entire time. Now, at the last year I have went full throttle. I have worked out my entire stint. When I began to notice a talent to draw I began to put a lot of time into it. I saw how much the tattoo man makes here in prison and I thought...I can do that. And I decided where better to learn than where you have endless clients non-stop?!
So my art career began. Art became how I did my time.
Go to the rec in the morning and in the afternoon put on some music and jam while doing art. I have put myself through art school while here. Some men come here and lay back and allow their people to take care of them. For me, I changed trades.
That was a major step for me in another direction. I've done construction work my entire adult life. And I don't like it but it paid the bills. That has changed.
I'm eager to devour any insight or knowledge I can find about this trade. Through books, magazines and word of mouth---I have so much to learn.
Anyways...I got this man.
Work and how to make money isn't something I worry about now. I think about the things that have pulled me down in the past. My very first use of drugs was to numb the pain of giving my daughter away.
After years of abuse I had taught my body the release of self-medicating. Whatever the problem, I could adjust it with drugs.
Prison enabled me to step far enough outside that hold, (that addiction) to actually see my life. I was then able to go back and find the root.
Rehab needs you to do that to be successful at recovery. Fix the root problem. Counseling, whatever, and work past that.
I found the root. I went back to a fine white line scraped on the top of a CD case. And I see now that I made a wrong turn.
That thing that nearly broke me made me who I am today. That little girl calls me Dad. I don't need to self medicate. While I was here I handled my business. Not only did I pay back this time, but I worked on myself as well. And I sit here a changed man. Still with lessons to learn....but nonetheless changed.
Plenty of times I lay back and think about a ride on my Harley. The freedom. But I also let myself go back to the places I used to live. And I see how far I've come.
I know my grandpa would be proud of the changes. If I died tomorrow I would go in peace. But that's not my story. I get to come home. I accept my second chance at life. My life becomes something.
That's how my days began. Needless to say those first days in prison were detoxing. The cold sweats, diarrhea, vomiting. The mood swings, depressed, alone, sobbing. Like uncontrollable sobs that shake you to the core and finally have you in dry heaves.
And I did it on my own. In a prison cell. Looking at walls that could tell a thousand stories like mine.
That was a long time ago. Yet I find I reflect on that. Just so I don't forget. I can't forget the beast that lives in addiction. And as I've said before....drugs are readily available here so staying clean is a choice. It is MY choice.
Finally I'm here at the end. My one year countdown. The journey is over; just the final few steps to take.
Like a soldier training for duty I have worked myself with training this entire time. Now, at the last year I have went full throttle. I have worked out my entire stint. When I began to notice a talent to draw I began to put a lot of time into it. I saw how much the tattoo man makes here in prison and I thought...I can do that. And I decided where better to learn than where you have endless clients non-stop?!
So my art career began. Art became how I did my time.
Go to the rec in the morning and in the afternoon put on some music and jam while doing art. I have put myself through art school while here. Some men come here and lay back and allow their people to take care of them. For me, I changed trades.
That was a major step for me in another direction. I've done construction work my entire adult life. And I don't like it but it paid the bills. That has changed.
I'm eager to devour any insight or knowledge I can find about this trade. Through books, magazines and word of mouth---I have so much to learn.
Anyways...I got this man.
Work and how to make money isn't something I worry about now. I think about the things that have pulled me down in the past. My very first use of drugs was to numb the pain of giving my daughter away.
After years of abuse I had taught my body the release of self-medicating. Whatever the problem, I could adjust it with drugs.
Prison enabled me to step far enough outside that hold, (that addiction) to actually see my life. I was then able to go back and find the root.
Rehab needs you to do that to be successful at recovery. Fix the root problem. Counseling, whatever, and work past that.
I found the root. I went back to a fine white line scraped on the top of a CD case. And I see now that I made a wrong turn.
That thing that nearly broke me made me who I am today. That little girl calls me Dad. I don't need to self medicate. While I was here I handled my business. Not only did I pay back this time, but I worked on myself as well. And I sit here a changed man. Still with lessons to learn....but nonetheless changed.
Plenty of times I lay back and think about a ride on my Harley. The freedom. But I also let myself go back to the places I used to live. And I see how far I've come.
I know my grandpa would be proud of the changes. If I died tomorrow I would go in peace. But that's not my story. I get to come home. I accept my second chance at life. My life becomes something.
Monday, October 23, 2017
GIVEN TO FLY
"I got two turn tables and a microphone"..a line made famous by music group Beck.
I have a bike in Mom's shed, one cool daughter who loves me and freedom just around the bend. Forget the partridge in a pear tree...I don't need one. I'm putting a tattoo machine in the saddle bags on my bike and beginning the "endless-summer-tour" once I'm free. Coming to a location near you. And yes, as much footage of all this as possible will be posted to Jailbird for everyone to see.
For many years the blog has been about my incarcerated life in print form. I'm excited to, after release, change that factor and bring more photos and video. Starting the day I'm released. I intend to bring as much of my story to you from out there as I have from in here.
A family member told my daughter to be careful. I may get back out there and forget about being her dad. She knew better and let them know her Dad has a plan. After it pissed me off for a second, it motivated me. Thank you. All the haters in the crowd. I get far more energy to perform from the haters than from the fans. A standing ovation makes you smile and reassures you that you just owned that. But it's the people who talk shit and voice their disapproval that cause you to put in late hours at the workshop. Even if what you're building is a bomb for the. HA! I kid...
The ride is nearly over for me. I did the time the judge gave me. I fixed as much as I could from here. I took advantage of the time. I'll come home and tattoo. Don't need to sell drugs anymore. I'm still batshit crazy but I'm sober. And I like it this way. It's a shoe that fits nicely.
Speaking of, I just bought my daughter her first pair of Harley boots. She told me she loves them. She hasn't been on the Harley yet, but that comes soon. That should give the family something to whine about.
Keep watching me though! The fun truly begins once I'm home. 10 years in a cage--this dude is ready to fly!
Thursday, October 12, 2017
FLASHBACKS
My parents bought me a guitar for my 16th birthday. It was really special. And I sold it for $75.00 a year later. And then about 5 years later I bought it back from the same guy. And pawned it a few months later to buy drugs.
My Grandpa bought us all a gun when we reached hunting age. A rite of passage. I misplaced that gun somewhere in my travels. Since Grandpa is dead now, I really wish I had that gun.
I teased a girl named Margarette when I was in elementary school. Glue on her chair, tacks on her chair and of course about her name. Margarette? For real?
I found out in high-school that she took her own life. Margarette was a foster child. Passed from house to house and somewhere in the mix of all that I was teasing her. I can't help but feel I contributed to her discomfort in life. That weighs heavily on my mind.
And then the way I did my daughter's mother. We were kids. Not quite 18 and about to have a baby. To this day I don't know why, but I cheated on her while she was pregnant with our baby. It makes me ashamed of myself on the highest level that I would do her like that.
And now I look at my daughter that is like some high bred version of the two of us and I see her mom at 18 again and it makes me see myself at 18 and sometimes I get lost. There was so much good in me at 18, yet how could I do something so stupid? And I pray no boy ever breaks my girl like I did so long ago.
As I lay in bed at night, as I have done for so many years, those are the things that reach me, those are the voices that speak to me. Margarette.
We've all made mistakes. Do we own them? I believe I am. And for this next year, (my last year) I will continue to soul-search. Prison took me out of life at 28. Everything hit pause.
But it didn't out there. And the fact is, I'll be a 40 year old man. That's going to be hard to pull off. You can ask my daughter, sometimes she's more mature than I am.
I don't tease anyone anymore. I won't cheat on a woman either. I keep things that people give me. I have all my letters and cards from over the years, and I keep my clothes on in public.
My epic fails have been my best lessons. It just hurts, you know.....
the falling down!
My Grandpa bought us all a gun when we reached hunting age. A rite of passage. I misplaced that gun somewhere in my travels. Since Grandpa is dead now, I really wish I had that gun.
I teased a girl named Margarette when I was in elementary school. Glue on her chair, tacks on her chair and of course about her name. Margarette? For real?
I found out in high-school that she took her own life. Margarette was a foster child. Passed from house to house and somewhere in the mix of all that I was teasing her. I can't help but feel I contributed to her discomfort in life. That weighs heavily on my mind.
And then the way I did my daughter's mother. We were kids. Not quite 18 and about to have a baby. To this day I don't know why, but I cheated on her while she was pregnant with our baby. It makes me ashamed of myself on the highest level that I would do her like that.
And now I look at my daughter that is like some high bred version of the two of us and I see her mom at 18 again and it makes me see myself at 18 and sometimes I get lost. There was so much good in me at 18, yet how could I do something so stupid? And I pray no boy ever breaks my girl like I did so long ago.
As I lay in bed at night, as I have done for so many years, those are the things that reach me, those are the voices that speak to me. Margarette.
We've all made mistakes. Do we own them? I believe I am. And for this next year, (my last year) I will continue to soul-search. Prison took me out of life at 28. Everything hit pause.
But it didn't out there. And the fact is, I'll be a 40 year old man. That's going to be hard to pull off. You can ask my daughter, sometimes she's more mature than I am.
I don't tease anyone anymore. I won't cheat on a woman either. I keep things that people give me. I have all my letters and cards from over the years, and I keep my clothes on in public.
My epic fails have been my best lessons. It just hurts, you know.....
the falling down!
Monday, October 2, 2017
FALLING DOWN
Today is Tuesday, sheet day. Everyone strips down their bunk and sends their bedding in to be washed. As they return from laundry I hear the hustlers speech begin..."I make beds for a soup. I'll fluff your mattress for a dollar!!"
I sit here and look around me, I feel myself disconnect from the world I have known for 9 years. The dinner meal is called and we make the walk to the chow hall. There is no chicken-on-the-bone anymore. Now there's chicken nuggets that are 90% breading.
As I wait in line to eat I watch 50 people cut the line and pass by me. It makes me angry. I look at the back of the mans head who just cut me in line. I think about whether a bat would connect better than a golf-club. Perhaps a 9 iron would drive the point home.
I recognize the rage. In my head I address it, then slowly walk it back from the edge. Once under control I slowly let out the breath I realize I was holding. I remind myself I'll go home soon. It's time to let it go. This life, it's rules, the anger, the disrespect.
I get inside and take my tray as it slid out the flap. Then I look at the next table to see who is sitting there. Is that the prick that just cut me off? Yeah, it is, and another dude who grinds me. So I walk by the water cooler to get my drink and fumble around just long enough for that 4-seated table to fill. Then I hustle up to catch the next table.
I keep my head down and eat with a purpose. The quicker I can exit the better. I'm already hot, sweaty and short fused. The air is thick and the officer is telling us to hurry, he needs spaces for more men to eat. I don't taste the food as I rush to eat. I don't need the officer coming over to yell at me, I'm already at the edge.
I finish my tray and enter another line to dump my tray and slide it into the dish window. As I exit the chow hall, I am greeted by a wall of officers. One points at me and tells me- "Against the wall!" I walk to the wall and put my hands against it. He kicks my legs apart and does a full body pat down-search. He's looking to see if I tried to snuggle the chicken nuggets back to sell in my dorm. As men do so they can get a dollar to buy them a cigarette to smoke. Once he's satisfied I don't have the nuggets he tells me to kick rocks.
I walk back toward my dorm. On that walk I pass the Lake this institution is named after. I see a ripple in the water and a turtle pokes his head up and looks at me. I'm envious of his protective shell. I watch him watching me for a minute. It's a simple thing but it brings my focus back. I'm full and the day is over. My bed is made and it has clean sheets. I have made my bed and I must lie in it.
I sit here and look around me, I feel myself disconnect from the world I have known for 9 years. The dinner meal is called and we make the walk to the chow hall. There is no chicken-on-the-bone anymore. Now there's chicken nuggets that are 90% breading.
As I wait in line to eat I watch 50 people cut the line and pass by me. It makes me angry. I look at the back of the mans head who just cut me in line. I think about whether a bat would connect better than a golf-club. Perhaps a 9 iron would drive the point home.
I recognize the rage. In my head I address it, then slowly walk it back from the edge. Once under control I slowly let out the breath I realize I was holding. I remind myself I'll go home soon. It's time to let it go. This life, it's rules, the anger, the disrespect.
I get inside and take my tray as it slid out the flap. Then I look at the next table to see who is sitting there. Is that the prick that just cut me off? Yeah, it is, and another dude who grinds me. So I walk by the water cooler to get my drink and fumble around just long enough for that 4-seated table to fill. Then I hustle up to catch the next table.
I keep my head down and eat with a purpose. The quicker I can exit the better. I'm already hot, sweaty and short fused. The air is thick and the officer is telling us to hurry, he needs spaces for more men to eat. I don't taste the food as I rush to eat. I don't need the officer coming over to yell at me, I'm already at the edge.
I finish my tray and enter another line to dump my tray and slide it into the dish window. As I exit the chow hall, I am greeted by a wall of officers. One points at me and tells me- "Against the wall!" I walk to the wall and put my hands against it. He kicks my legs apart and does a full body pat down-search. He's looking to see if I tried to snuggle the chicken nuggets back to sell in my dorm. As men do so they can get a dollar to buy them a cigarette to smoke. Once he's satisfied I don't have the nuggets he tells me to kick rocks.
I walk back toward my dorm. On that walk I pass the Lake this institution is named after. I see a ripple in the water and a turtle pokes his head up and looks at me. I'm envious of his protective shell. I watch him watching me for a minute. It's a simple thing but it brings my focus back. I'm full and the day is over. My bed is made and it has clean sheets. I have made my bed and I must lie in it.
Tuesday, September 19, 2017
A Well Rounded Man
Men's Health claims the well-rounded man should own a nice watch, a good pair of dress shoes and at least one good suit.
I thought of this when they came in and told us to prepare to evacuate for the hurricane. "Put personal hygiene items in your pillowcase and leave all the rest behind." They gave us five minutes to pack.
This is my second hurricane evacuation since being in prison. I've been involved in a statewide lock down. I've been in an organized sit-down to protest our food portions and the menu. I've seen stabbings, robberies, beat-downs and assaults.
I don't own a suit, watch or dress shoes. But I have a belt full of notches. A life full of experiences that have created a well-rounded man. I stand tall in my boots.
This entire adventure has been just that. Every experience is another chapter. I did call my mom and tell her my daughter gets my Harley if anything should happen to me. Aside from my daughter, my Harley is the coolest thing that's mine. I would want her to have it.
I'm at 14 months now.
I've had people I love pass on. I've seen my little girl graduate high school and move out. I've watched my family pull together under extreme circumstances and grow as people. I came, I saw...some days I conquered while other days I was beat down. I've loved. I've lost. I've let bad women hang around longer that I should and let good women go sooner than necessary. My decisions have put me up against the wall and at times behind the wall.
You know what? I'm still fucking standing. My life has never been dull or boring.
Well-rounded? Probably.
Survivor? Definitely!
I can buy a watch and nice shoes. Money can't buy the things that make a man a man.
You read about my life behind bars. Soon that will change and you will then follow me as I move through life once again....from out there. I can't wait to live the next chapter of my life.
Friday, August 11, 2017
Thanks.... May I have another?
Doing time feels like rolling around in the dryer on tumble-dry. Just about the time you're in a groove, they change it up.
The Snickers Ice Cream Bar on canteen tastes so good it's only fitting they remove it from the menu. Tuesday dinner of fried chicken was such a smash it's been replaced now with some square patty of unknown identity. Their posted mission statement is, "Care, Custody & Control". The underlying facts are try and fuck us on every corner.
So when they woke me and told me to transfer, I rolled my eyes and figures..."here we go again."
A few months later and here I sit at a psych-camp called Lake C.I. Could be that I'm finally at the end of this, but I'm truly not giving a fuck.
As in, the guards can have this shit, just like the men who stay when I leave can have this shit. It's not my cross to bear anymore.
Knowing how they work, I'm certain it wasn't to better-my-stay when they moved me. I simply met their quota for a bunk change. It's like living in the handicapped-parking-stall...
Everyone who pulls in is an idiot. Luckily, I'm an idiot as well. So I fit right in.
The camp I transferred from has had a large increase in violence. In some cases resulting in deaths. While I'm over here at the lake watching a 6 foot alligator swim the pond us guys named "Wally". Wally spends his days chasing ducks and eating food dudes toss over the fence to him. Wally doesn't give a fuck and neither do I.
For once D.O.C. finally slipped up and handed me a blessing. If I could only get me a Snickers Ice Cream to go with my happy meal.
Because I'm so dang happy over here.
The countdown is at 15 months.
The Snickers Ice Cream Bar on canteen tastes so good it's only fitting they remove it from the menu. Tuesday dinner of fried chicken was such a smash it's been replaced now with some square patty of unknown identity. Their posted mission statement is, "Care, Custody & Control". The underlying facts are try and fuck us on every corner.
So when they woke me and told me to transfer, I rolled my eyes and figures..."here we go again."
A few months later and here I sit at a psych-camp called Lake C.I. Could be that I'm finally at the end of this, but I'm truly not giving a fuck.
As in, the guards can have this shit, just like the men who stay when I leave can have this shit. It's not my cross to bear anymore.
Knowing how they work, I'm certain it wasn't to better-my-stay when they moved me. I simply met their quota for a bunk change. It's like living in the handicapped-parking-stall...
Everyone who pulls in is an idiot. Luckily, I'm an idiot as well. So I fit right in.
The camp I transferred from has had a large increase in violence. In some cases resulting in deaths. While I'm over here at the lake watching a 6 foot alligator swim the pond us guys named "Wally". Wally spends his days chasing ducks and eating food dudes toss over the fence to him. Wally doesn't give a fuck and neither do I.
For once D.O.C. finally slipped up and handed me a blessing. If I could only get me a Snickers Ice Cream to go with my happy meal.
Because I'm so dang happy over here.
The countdown is at 15 months.
Saturday, August 5, 2017
Ain't Life Beautiful!
It should be. If it's not, what are you doing about that?
This prison recently started a music program. Battle of the Bands. There is some serious talent in here. Band's rehearse on the rec-field under the pavilion.
While walking to chow the other day a band kicked into "2 Tickets to Paradise"...Steely Dan.
The day was cloudy and overcast. There was a cool breeze and this mellow aura. When the band hit the notes and began the chorus, nearly every man in the chow line began to sing. For a moment I forgot where I was and I too began to sing.
We were laughing and in that moment I took a mental-picture. A memory I will carry with me forever. One day soon I'll find myself in paradise. A cold beer in my hand and that song will begin to play and I will ask a pretty lady to dance.
Or, perhaps I'll just sit there and smile.
Paradise isn't a destination, but a state of mind. Something you can achieve anywhere. Paradise isn't a person. Paradise and that perfect feeling come from inside you. When you leave behind the restraints, daily life and responsibilities create, you, my friend have found your paradise. That could be your tub full of bubbles.
On my walk to chow, nine years into a ten-year sentence, I was in paradise.
One day soon I'll be sitting under a tiki hut looking across the ocean. I'll grab my beer and walk to the juke-box. Slide some quarters in and select the song. Truth is, I find priceless moments in here. I'm bringing that home with me so every day can be special.
My Cosmopolitan Magazine had dating tips. I read them because how better to understand women than from women. It stated women want a confident man who takes control and listens. A man who is comfortable with himself and loves to laugh. How do they feel about tattoos?
This prison recently started a music program. Battle of the Bands. There is some serious talent in here. Band's rehearse on the rec-field under the pavilion.
While walking to chow the other day a band kicked into "2 Tickets to Paradise"...Steely Dan.
The day was cloudy and overcast. There was a cool breeze and this mellow aura. When the band hit the notes and began the chorus, nearly every man in the chow line began to sing. For a moment I forgot where I was and I too began to sing.
We were laughing and in that moment I took a mental-picture. A memory I will carry with me forever. One day soon I'll find myself in paradise. A cold beer in my hand and that song will begin to play and I will ask a pretty lady to dance.
Or, perhaps I'll just sit there and smile.
Paradise isn't a destination, but a state of mind. Something you can achieve anywhere. Paradise isn't a person. Paradise and that perfect feeling come from inside you. When you leave behind the restraints, daily life and responsibilities create, you, my friend have found your paradise. That could be your tub full of bubbles.
On my walk to chow, nine years into a ten-year sentence, I was in paradise.
One day soon I'll be sitting under a tiki hut looking across the ocean. I'll grab my beer and walk to the juke-box. Slide some quarters in and select the song. Truth is, I find priceless moments in here. I'm bringing that home with me so every day can be special.
My Cosmopolitan Magazine had dating tips. I read them because how better to understand women than from women. It stated women want a confident man who takes control and listens. A man who is comfortable with himself and loves to laugh. How do they feel about tattoos?
Friday, July 21, 2017
(KING OF THE TRAILER PARK)
I sit here and consider the future. Growing up in a large family was a struggle. We had plenty of love but fell short on the extras. Since prison broke me down, I had to rebuild this thing. I've taken the time while here to really think out my future plans.
There were kids I grew up with that were born into money. They had all the cool-shit. I went to their house to ride on their 4-wheelers, drive their snowmobiles and ski behind their boat at the lake. I've seen these people never appreciate what they had. It might have been the same for me, who knows. What I do know is I'm coming home at 40 to get mine.
I will continue to write for this blog once I'm home. Even when I'm the owner of a multi million dollar business. I'll do it to prove a point. The same point I'm coming home to prove to my daughter.
I'll show you along with my family what I can do. I'm going to own the boat my daughter takes her friends on to ski. I'm going to own the cabin up north we vacation to in the summer. Every member of my family has children and struggle to get by. They sacrifice and go without.
I used to sled down the hill during winters. Mom made us cocoa when we got in. Mom drove us to the park on the lake and we swam together. We pulled each other in the red wagon. We caught lightening bugs in jars and we played in the sandbox.
And here we are now.
Big brother has been in prison for the last 10 years and everyone else made babies and struggles. We are stretched all across the states. It's hard to get everyone together because there's so many different schedules. Not to mention it's difficult to take a week off from work when you know the bills will be there waiting when you get home. And when you all do get together nobody pulls in with a trailer full of fun toys to ride on. When you head to the lake everyone is still swimming to the buoys because nobody has an extra 20 grand to buy a boat.
Your back aches after camping because you have a tent. Nobody can budget in a 30 thousand dollar motor home so the adults can use a real bathroom and sleep on a real bed. What if Grandma and Grandpa want to come?
Every family should have a rich uncle who pulls in with all the cool-shit nobody else has. And you should drive it like you stole it. It's no fun when you're told to be extra careful, we don't want to break anything. Don't tell me that.
I've sat behind these walls and considered the quality of life I seek. It will bring me joy to tow my boat to the lake so all these sad all little nieces and nephews of mine can get a bit further than the buoys. I want all these little boys to ride a dirt bike. My daughter hasn't rode a dirt bike. How will she ever ride a Harley next to me unless she learns on a small bike first?
If you're blessed and can play hard, hell-yeah!! Maybe you struggle to save for that special yearly trip. That's special. But if you can't find the up from the down check me out. That's exactly why I'm coming home to do what I'm going to do. To show that anyone can change their future.
My daughter told me her Aunt was telling her how many prisoners reoffend. They get home and forget the loved ones who stuck beside them while they were in. They go back to the old life of crime. I have a few things to show that Aunt. Especially since my daughter told her--"not my Dad, he has a plan- he'll do fine".
I really can't wait to show you. And I will. Right here on Jail Bird. Except I won't be the jail bird anymore.
There were kids I grew up with that were born into money. They had all the cool-shit. I went to their house to ride on their 4-wheelers, drive their snowmobiles and ski behind their boat at the lake. I've seen these people never appreciate what they had. It might have been the same for me, who knows. What I do know is I'm coming home at 40 to get mine.
I will continue to write for this blog once I'm home. Even when I'm the owner of a multi million dollar business. I'll do it to prove a point. The same point I'm coming home to prove to my daughter.
I'll show you along with my family what I can do. I'm going to own the boat my daughter takes her friends on to ski. I'm going to own the cabin up north we vacation to in the summer. Every member of my family has children and struggle to get by. They sacrifice and go without.
I used to sled down the hill during winters. Mom made us cocoa when we got in. Mom drove us to the park on the lake and we swam together. We pulled each other in the red wagon. We caught lightening bugs in jars and we played in the sandbox.
And here we are now.
Big brother has been in prison for the last 10 years and everyone else made babies and struggles. We are stretched all across the states. It's hard to get everyone together because there's so many different schedules. Not to mention it's difficult to take a week off from work when you know the bills will be there waiting when you get home. And when you all do get together nobody pulls in with a trailer full of fun toys to ride on. When you head to the lake everyone is still swimming to the buoys because nobody has an extra 20 grand to buy a boat.
Your back aches after camping because you have a tent. Nobody can budget in a 30 thousand dollar motor home so the adults can use a real bathroom and sleep on a real bed. What if Grandma and Grandpa want to come?
Every family should have a rich uncle who pulls in with all the cool-shit nobody else has. And you should drive it like you stole it. It's no fun when you're told to be extra careful, we don't want to break anything. Don't tell me that.
I've sat behind these walls and considered the quality of life I seek. It will bring me joy to tow my boat to the lake so all these sad all little nieces and nephews of mine can get a bit further than the buoys. I want all these little boys to ride a dirt bike. My daughter hasn't rode a dirt bike. How will she ever ride a Harley next to me unless she learns on a small bike first?
If you're blessed and can play hard, hell-yeah!! Maybe you struggle to save for that special yearly trip. That's special. But if you can't find the up from the down check me out. That's exactly why I'm coming home to do what I'm going to do. To show that anyone can change their future.
My daughter told me her Aunt was telling her how many prisoners reoffend. They get home and forget the loved ones who stuck beside them while they were in. They go back to the old life of crime. I have a few things to show that Aunt. Especially since my daughter told her--"not my Dad, he has a plan- he'll do fine".
I really can't wait to show you. And I will. Right here on Jail Bird. Except I won't be the jail bird anymore.
Saturday, July 1, 2017
"ESTABLISHED 2010"
Some dudes learn to tattoo so they can support their habit. They make you pay ahead of time. By the time they get around to your art, they have already used your money on smoking, drugs or gambling. When they finally begin your art their heart isn't in it. They just slap some shit on you to cover the money you paid. An artist who takes pride in their work and attempts a masterpiece every time is rare in prison. I am that dude.
The tattoo man makes money in prison. It's one of the best hustles going in the chain-gang. If you sell dope the cops run down on you all the time. Not to mention the inmates who try to rob you. But they usually let the tattoo guy slide. At least they aren't out to get you. If they walk up on you, it could go either way. The inmates want your services and most guards see it as an honest hustle.
When you're good, you're haters will be the other artists. They don't want to be in the same dorm as you because you get all the business. I've been the best on every pound I've been on since shortly after I began to tattoo over 7 years ago.
The name Hooligan is known throughout the prison system. I don't attempt to compete with other artists. I really don't see them like that. I compete with the last piece I did. How far have I come since my art a year ago. The haters fuel me. If you don't have opposition your clearly not doing anything.
I don't tattoo because I have to. I do it because I love it. It's the only time I feel 100% removed from my life here. I'm an able bodied man with a gift. Why take advantage of my loved ones? This also ensures I'll come home a seasoned veteran of body art. Once free, my customers will reap the benefits of all the years I spent tattooing in here.
I've paid my dues. Every time I sit down to work I know it could land me in solitary confinement. It's a risk I take to be able to come home with a talent that will make me a small fortune.
I have a look out man I pay to watch for me. He yells something like: HOT WATER or MAIL CALL , when the police come to do security checks. Hopefully I have time to stash things away before they're up on me. We sit on the floor between bunks. Sometimes dudes sit nearby playing cards to block for us. It's a team effort. Being a tattoo man in prison is dangerous. The police don't come for the man getting the ink, they want the artist. I'm the one going to jail.
I've tattooed men's thighs, crotches, butt-cheeks, groins, faces, ears and heads. In seven years I've been to confinement 3 times for my art.
I can't wait to come home and not stress about the police. The shout that signals the cops are coming. Your heart beats faster, your stress-level spikes and your concentration is lost. It's a real pain in the ass. I still love what I do. I know all about my clients. How long before they go home, why they're in prison, how old their kids are. It's a personal experience. I will enjoy putting my art on women one day. So far it's been a one-sided-affair. Most of all I'm blessed to know I can be happy to head to work. Long hours won't be a problem. It will never compare to sitting in a square box watching rats run across the floor........
The tattoo man makes money in prison. It's one of the best hustles going in the chain-gang. If you sell dope the cops run down on you all the time. Not to mention the inmates who try to rob you. But they usually let the tattoo guy slide. At least they aren't out to get you. If they walk up on you, it could go either way. The inmates want your services and most guards see it as an honest hustle.
When you're good, you're haters will be the other artists. They don't want to be in the same dorm as you because you get all the business. I've been the best on every pound I've been on since shortly after I began to tattoo over 7 years ago.
The name Hooligan is known throughout the prison system. I don't attempt to compete with other artists. I really don't see them like that. I compete with the last piece I did. How far have I come since my art a year ago. The haters fuel me. If you don't have opposition your clearly not doing anything.
I don't tattoo because I have to. I do it because I love it. It's the only time I feel 100% removed from my life here. I'm an able bodied man with a gift. Why take advantage of my loved ones? This also ensures I'll come home a seasoned veteran of body art. Once free, my customers will reap the benefits of all the years I spent tattooing in here.
I've paid my dues. Every time I sit down to work I know it could land me in solitary confinement. It's a risk I take to be able to come home with a talent that will make me a small fortune.
I have a look out man I pay to watch for me. He yells something like: HOT WATER or MAIL CALL , when the police come to do security checks. Hopefully I have time to stash things away before they're up on me. We sit on the floor between bunks. Sometimes dudes sit nearby playing cards to block for us. It's a team effort. Being a tattoo man in prison is dangerous. The police don't come for the man getting the ink, they want the artist. I'm the one going to jail.
I've tattooed men's thighs, crotches, butt-cheeks, groins, faces, ears and heads. In seven years I've been to confinement 3 times for my art.
I can't wait to come home and not stress about the police. The shout that signals the cops are coming. Your heart beats faster, your stress-level spikes and your concentration is lost. It's a real pain in the ass. I still love what I do. I know all about my clients. How long before they go home, why they're in prison, how old their kids are. It's a personal experience. I will enjoy putting my art on women one day. So far it's been a one-sided-affair. Most of all I'm blessed to know I can be happy to head to work. Long hours won't be a problem. It will never compare to sitting in a square box watching rats run across the floor........
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