Oops (The Minor Fail)

These next few posts are going to be quite a treat for you if you’re a long-time reader. Yesterday, I went to visit me mum briefly and she handed me a stack of envelopes and postcards that I had sent out from C.I.P. I had never realized this, but looking back I can see why they were never published. When we were in boot camp, we had to address everybody as Sir, ma’am, Mr. or Ms. So, the first few letters that were sent out from Willow River must have been received as personal letters, and were never posted to the blog, so, as I was reading through them yesterday, I read some stuff I knew I had to publish. I’ve also included a picture of me that was taken during my mom’s first visit. If you recall, she may have poked fun at my sideburns and—although I’m not wearing them—my instant weirdo glasses. Enjoy.

 

Ms. Maertz                                                                                                                                             03/27/2015

It’s been a crazy few days. Three days ago we got our red tags removed (think skin tags but rectangle, red, plastic, and they hang from a metal clip attached to your collar. So, no, don’t think skin tags.).Red tags go on under our prison ID’s and sort of make us stand out as new guys. Having them removed after two weeks was the first big hurdle; we felt pretty good about it.

Well, last night they made us put them back on. Our squad, as a whole, is a mess, even for new guys. Some of us (not me) still can’t figure out left and right. Some of us (me) still can’t make our beds with 45° angles, and no wrinkles. And some of us (I won’t profile) think it’s okay to rap and use the N word and profanity in the barracks.

It is now back to being incredibly stressful, but I think we’re still on some sort of “right path.”

Two days ago while we were on work crew, we went way out into the woods and raked up pine needles for about an hour. Even though we were working, I felt completely at peace. The sun was hitting my face, a cool breeze finding its way through the perforated mesh in my hat, and the birds singing their songs to help us work. But most importantly, I looked around and realized that there were no fences anywhere. No fences, no barbed-wire, and no bars. I think of that moment when I get frustrated and I know that soon enough, I will be able to find peace in everything I do…… Well, shitty. I had this sneaking suspicion that I had read this before so I took a look back, and sure enough, this is not new material. So, I went back and amended a few things, and I’ll stop there. And I really thought I was on a roll.

 

So there goes that project. Well, I guess that means I’ll go back to editing the book for a while. If I had done that already, I wouldn’t have made this mistake, but I’m only human. A really cool human with sideburns:

My muscles are so big I can't even get my arms down all the way.

 

This is my second day off in a row where I have plans to do absolutely nothing and it feels great. I used my gift certificate for Nina's Coffee Café to buy a pound of my favorite coffee for home brewing to avoid spending the $10 that I do every time I walk through the doors. Putting myself on a limited budget should help me through this temporary financial slowdown, and truthfully it will be nice to sit around and just be a homebody for a few weeks. That is all.







Vinnie, Vince, Vincent '98-'15

So much has happened in my life over the past two years. Fortunately for you, I’ve been writing about it and publishing it on the internet for the world to enjoy. Since I will be quite busy cooking for my BBQ tomorrow, I wanted to get this out today. Although I don’t technically have two years sober until tomorrow, I have faith I will make it without a drug or a drink until then.

Two years ago I walked into a courtroom looking exactly like this. In fact, this picture was taken less than 20 minutes after my 50-month sentence was handed down.I had ingested a whole gram of meth just before I walked in to the courthouse, and you can see it in my eyes.

Of course I stole this picture from the world wide web so there are some additions to it but you get the idea, I was a mess.

13 days later I was transported to St Cloud prison where they were able to capture this gem on film, and I was able to track it down for you.

The following pictures are reminders of where my life has been. They are not in any particular order, nor could I possibly remember when or where they are all from. And sadly, these are only about half of the mugshots I have accrued over the past 19 years as a habitual criminal, I'm sure if I spent a little more time I could have tracked them down.  So, here goes...

 This of course is the infamous picture that was all over the news from the meth bust in South Rochester.

 This is a picture of a male model that happens to look like me.

 So, I'm definitely going to grow this hair out and see if maybe I can track this shirt down at a Walgreen's somewhere to recreate this look very soon.

 Uhh. I don't know, man.

 Ditto.

 Fuck me.

 This is my favorite, and was possibly the result of a broken ankle, a fight with a cop, and a little arson charge.

It looks like I was pretty cracked out here, but this is what I looked like in my early teens. 

Then there's this one. It's my other favorite. It was taken on September 6th, 2015 two days before my release from prison. I hope it is the last picture ever taken of me in captivity. There's so much I've been doing and so much I can continue to do to make sure this is where the mugshots stop. 

Tomorrow will mark my two year sobriety anniversary. Some might say that I had an unfair advantage being locked up for the first 15 months, but I don't agree. There were plenty of chances to use or abuse inside, but I chose the road less traveled. I participated in A.A. meetings whenever I could, and I refrained from joining in with the pill-popper trade that goes on inside the walls. I put everything into the six month cognitive behavioral treatment I went through at C.I.P. because I knew that I needed to face this thing head on (Head on, apply directly to the forehead...) if I had any chance of surviving on the outs. 

And here I am.

Fat to Fit?

I can’t say that I’ve been incredibly busy, but I’ve had more going on that usual which has left less time for writing. I will try to find more time to do that, I promise. My readership stats have plummeted which has prompted me to write something before work on this fine Wednesday morning.

I’ve had some troubles staying focused on exercise since my release from boot camp where P.T. was mandated. It’s easy to get up at 5:20am and run when a prison guard says that if you don’t, you can’t go home. Now that I’m home, it’s nice to sleep until 7:00 and spend my morning drinking coffee and hanging out with Willie. Well, that has all changed.

At least for now, it has. I finally purchased a gym membership at La Fitness. It sat me back a bit but I think that may have been the motivation I needed to get going on a workout plan. As I sit here this morning with my coffee and computer on my lap, I can hardly bend my arms. The first couple times I’ve maybe overdone it.

I don’t know how some people can never run and then just get up and go five miles. I think even after four months of running at boot camp I went seven laps one time. That would have been the one and only time I went that distance. I’ve been happy with a couple miles to start out on the treadmill. I was thrilled that I found my breath right away, but was unhappy with how much I was sweating. I hate sweating. I would prefer to run in a freezer, or in winter, or never, but I must keep it up if I want to lose some weight which is the goal of all of this.

After running I’ve been going down to the weight training area and doing some light lifting. I don’t like free-weights mostly because I don’t know anybody there and I’m such an introvert I wouldn’t dare strike up a conversation with a stranger because surely I would look like an idiot. Also the free-weight room is filled with guys that could probably lift my car whereas I would be happy lifting the bar. Anyway, I do burnout sets which is where you start on let’s say 100 pounds and do 10 reps’. You go down ten pounds and immediately do ten more, and so on. By the time you get down to 10 pounds your muscles are on fire and it feels like you’re trying to lift the whole stack. It feels great, but I’m paying for it now.

In other news, there sure is a lot going on with this 6-month sentence for a rapist. I’ve posted a few times my opinions on light sentences for sexual assaults. You know, the idea behind such harsh prison terms for first time drug offenders is that they get the message. Well, I got it. So, why can’t the same theory be applied to rapists? I just don’t get it, and apparently judges don’t either. But before you write your rant on what should happen to this college swim/rapist—and there are a lot of them all over Facebook—maybe take a little time to write (or copy and paste as has become the median these days) something to the survivor. Or, all survivors. It would appear that she has been lost in all of this. As far as the case is concerned, what’s done is done, the sentence will not be overturned. I like that society has banded together to make sure his name is being dragged through the mud, but don’t forget who’s already been hurt. She has years to go, and seeing his face all over social media will assuredly make it worse. She knows he’s a rapist, and she knows she’s been raped. Now work with that. Post something inspirational, something she, and all survivors, can relate to. Read her victim impact letter first, it’s one of the most powerful tools a victim has, and unfortunately in this case it was overlooked. It’s powerful. If you haven’t read it yet, you may want to sit down in a quiet place to do it, and bring a box of Kleenex. I’ll leave you with that.

Fire

I thought I'd share this post from the old  because I'm being lazy. That's it. I wrote it in treatment and it describes my worst 24 hours. In fact, there were probably worse but this is the experience I chose to write about. So, enjoy 

I’ve been free for a week now, and I have written very little. I decided to take a look in my treatment folder for some inspiration, and I found it right in front. This was written by me early on in treatment nearly six months ago. It’s a story from a long time ago, when I lived in Richfield. It is true to the best of my knowledge. My memories aren’t always clear, and the incident occurred while I was very near a blackout. I’m not proud of this particular incident, but I wrote about it because it had a substantial impact on my life, and the treatment assignments required an honest look back on the terrible times I put myself through. I will type it as it is. Here goes….
The worst 24 hours of my life occurred all the way back in the year 2000. 15 years ago I was in the worst alcoholic stage of my life. Drinking all day every day when I wasn’t working. My habit was supported by my girlfriend who worked as the manager at a liquor store and could steal anything I needed, which was a lot.
Cupboards well stocked that same girlfriend of two years left me because, well, I was a horrible drunk piece of shit boyfriend. She packed up while I was in jail for a D.U.I. warrant, fortunately for me, she left all of the alcohol. It took me three minutes to assess the situation and then I began drinking. Oh, I was also in the process of being evicted from our apartment. Based on those two things, I went into destruction mode. Something I am well known for is doing really dumb stuff when drunk….
I started by going into the laundry/storage room, looking for something I could use to make a mess of things. I saw some ceiling paint and the ideas started forming. I saw a few things I wanted to bring back across the hallway into my apartment for decoration. A huge drill, a fire extinguisher (I’ve never seen one work), and the paint. Before I left that room, however, I decided to fuck up the washing machines and dryers. I put a gallon of paint, equally into the two dryers and started them on high heat. I decided not to waste any more paint so the washing machines were spared. I know I can’t remember everything from that long ago, but I think I left the room at that point.
Back in the apartment I fixed myself a classy drink. What that means is I didn’t use a glass or a mixer. Straight vodka. I had finished half of a 1.75 litre bottle. I found out what fire extinguishers do. They make a lot of noise and fill the room with a cloud of powder. I opened up a window, then realized people driving by might mistake the escaping cloud for a fire. I closed the window.
I assume this is where most writers would transition. Not me. I got the idea to start a little fire of my own so I went into the stairwell and lit the cord for the sliding drapes that must have been 15 feet tall. It really didn’t do too much but after some waiting, the individual sections of the plastic curtain began falling down. Cool! The fire never got big or at all out of hand, but the falling curtains did make a lot of noise and there was some smoke and a tenant came out into the hallway to check it out. Mind you this was pretty early A.M. She saw me and I mumbled something and ran back to my apartment. In less than five minutes I started hearing the sirens. Shit, two fire trucks and an ambulance and of course, a police car.
I knew I was fucked so I really started hitting the bottle. I’m talkin bout hammered drunk. Things are starting to get blurry, both back then, and now as I try to look back.
After who knows how long, there was a knock at the door. I opened the door for the officer and gestured for him to come in. He knew that I knew why he was there. We sat in the living room where I had not yet done any damage. I don’t remember how the conversation went and I got up maybe five or six times to have another swig while he was asking questions and I think at some point I said I lit the fire.
In my mind I formulated a plan of escape. On my next trip to the freezer for a drink, I zigged instead of zagged and left through the front door and up a short flight of stairs to the rear entrance to the building. With no shoes or socks on I ran like hell. For about ten feet. On my third or fourth step, I shattered my left ankle and immediately went down. I crawled around to the side of the garage and around the back and hid under a car to wait out the cop. I never know if he actually looked for me, or just left
After a bit I started walking down to a gas station through the back side of houses and apartment complexes. The plan was to call for a ride. Somewhere along the way I met a nice man that gave me a pair of boots. I must have looked like a lunatic. I got to the station and used the phone then went into the public restroom to wait.
After 15 minutes I decided to bring the bathroom key back inside. Coming back to the side of the building, I heard tires screech. The cop pulled right up to me and got out. I tried to run but couldn’t. I made it two steps when I was tackled to the ground by the huge police officer. He punched me in the ribs and yelled, “Nobody runs from me!” And that is when somebody pissed in my pants. And off to jail I went.
In the end I was charged and convicted of 3rd degree arson. Sentenced to five years’ probation, and sat in the lockup for 60 days. I was never charged or even asked about the destruction in the apartment other than the fire. It was a horrible day in my life. I’ve had many bad days, but that was my worst.