2016

The new year is upon us. What a year it's been for me. For nine months of it of course, I was behind bars. This next year promises to be a challenge, but nowhere near as terrible as 2015. Again I picture myself back in Moose Lake prison a year ago, wondering what next year had in store for me. I knew it was probable that I would be home, but I was still uncertain about actually following through with boot camp.

For me, sometimes making the tougher choice or doing the harder thing has not been easy. I actually thought that I would never be able to run or do the aerobics necessary for entry into CIP. So much so that I thought of withdrawing my application and serving out my time. That may sound crazy, and it is, but it was the easier path in my mind. Just like out here, for the first month or so, I truly believed that going back to prison would be better than dealing with social awkwardness and living with Mom again. But alas, just like nearly everything else I have doubted myself about in my life, I have pressed on and succeeded. Not so much by setting goals or taking certain steps, but by throwing myself into the grind and dealing with everything as it it thrown my way, I have found myself in a good place for being out of prison not even four months.

Starting next week, my last two month phase of ISR begins. I will see my agents less and I will be allotted 16 hours of free time per week which I can split up in four segments if I choose to do so. I know that doesn't seem like much time, but its double what I've had for the last eight weeks. This is my opportunity to ease myself into society a little more, and use my extra time to do things I want to do instead of doing things I need to get done. For example, I can go out after my Wednesday night meeting for fellowship. It's what I consider to be my home group, and I've been looking forward to socializing with my people for a long time now. And that is what I'm looking forward to most about this extra time.

In just two more months, if I've behaved myself, I will be on to phase three. I will no longer have to submit a weekly schedule, and I will be free to do what I please from 6:30am until 10:30pm, as long as what I'm doing doesn't break the law or the general rules of parole. I think I can handle that.

I also plan to continue with my writing even though I doubt myself from time to time about my ability to come up with new material. As you may have read, I can write a whole post on complete nonsense. I'm actually pretty good at coming up with ideas, its the putting it into words in a semi-appropriate manner that proves difficult for me. Posting A video of a man fucking a vaccuum on my last one was a bold step, and I have received no feedback on it, but that means I received no negative feedback as well. Don't be afraid to tell me what you think folks, I can handle it.

I've never made any New Years resolutions and I'm not going to start now because they usually involve doing something I wouldn't want to do, or not doing something I enjoy. All I want to do is have a better year than the last which shouldn't be too difficult. I have a lot to look forward to in 2016 as I eventually will move out on my own again, hopefully for the last time, again.

Ugh. My brain can't think of anything more to write today. With that, I wish you all a happy new year, and please remember to drive responsibly, or you just might get to experience what I've been writing about for so long. Bye bye!

No Loss Of Suction

My mother on occasion eats immitation duck meat out of a can. It's true, I've seen her do it. So why is it such a crazy idea that I try to start a failing immitation cat meat business? Have you ever seen it in your local grocery store? I think not. Imagine all of the benefits of not having to buy real cat meat. The price must be insane because I've never even seen it anywhere, including the black market. I've also never been to a black market, not to say that I don't support African American businesses, I'm just too afraid to go to those parts of town.

I got the idea for this when I was writing a letter to a friend from prison. I was disappointed when he wrote back and there was no mention of the subject. Did he steal my idea? Not a bad move as I sit in Moose Lake and he takes in all of the profits. Or, maybe he just lacked the secret recipe which consists of only pureed squirrel which is not modified in any way, then shoved into a can and labeled simply, "Cat" Meat. I think the quotations make it obvious that we're dealing with faux feline. 

That's just a very brief tour through my brain and the things I come up with. I don't actually intend to start up such a business, but only because I have no start up capital. I'm willing to do the leg work if someone is willing to invest..... Could it be you?

Now, Grandma, if you're reading this, you may want to put your eyemuffs on for this next part.

Along a completely different train of thought, if I have sex with a vaccuum, and I like it, would the next logical step be to buy a Dyson? Or, would that be the end of me as a man because of their proclaimed "No loss of suction?" I can see the little clear dirt compartment filling up with red chunky bits. Ouch! Or is it love? People out there somewhere do fuck vaccuums, I'm not willing to do the research, but I'd bet there's vaccuum porn. I lied. And it didn't take long to find a video. Please don't click on this. You will regret it.

As crazy as I think my thoughts are, somebody, somewhere, at some point in time in this world has absolutely done everything there is to do. See. I'm not entirely certain that it's immitation, but I hope so. 

I promise I won't always write about such strange things, but I will be bringing some different ideas to the table. If you're offended by what I write, than you're really going to hate high school. And I cannot possibly be more offensive than half the shit that's in the news these days. Am I right? Yes. 

17 Days

St. Cloud prison was the worst, most foul place I have ever been in my lifetime. I had the benefit of being a swamper in "B House" for a little over three months of my five month stay. Swamper is the term we used for the job of house cleaning crew. It had a number of benefits, including being out of our cells for over half of the day compared to a few scattered periods of no more than 50 minutes in which 180 guys scrambled to use the showers, phones, microwaves, and play games or use the weight bench. What a mess. There were times when I stood in the shower line for half an hour or more and our flag period was cut short for unknown, never explained reasons, and I would head back to my cage to sit in the 100° humid air that flowed in no direction. That was another benefit of being a swamper, we could shower at our leisure. Alone and for as long as I wanted, I could stand under the rope of water that shot out of the spigot. The temperature varied but it was always warm. It was a small taste of the free world, one I would think of often in boot camp.

For my first 17 days in St. Cloud, it was a whole different story. "E House" is the starting point for every offender in on a new charge. It is where we go through orientation and classification, and are bombarded with useless information. We get to watch the P.R.E.A. video: A 1980's take on prison rape, and how to avoid it by not folding peoples laundry, giving them candy bars, and wearing fabulous mustaches. We are given a brief medical and dental exam and shown the proper way to floss but given no floss to use.

Offenders are not allowed to have TV's or go to the library while in E House. There is a book shelf with worn and tattered half-books, quite literally torn in half. Most were in Spanish, something I didn't find out until I brought my first selection back to my cold steel apartment. I just grabbed one and moved on. For me it was only 17 days of boredom. My first cellie taught me to make dice and dominoes from toilet paper. We would soak it, form it, and then wait a few days for them to dry, and then we would make the dots and they were ready for use. We played games for hours, until out asses were numb from sitting on the small steel chairs. But mostly we would just lay down on our bunks and think. My cellie had been in for over 50 days when he was finally called to move.

It was prison like you see in movies. Stacks of cells with steel bar sliding doors, people yelling back and forth from the galleys, and once in a while an officer would pass by, unable or unwilling to answer questions or be helpful in any way. The toilets were all one piece, stainless steel, loud, and disgusting. Often my cellie would have no choice but to be looking in my direction while shitting, something I never got accustomed to.

It was 17 days I will never forget. There were many periods during my incarceration that were similar in their impact, but that was the first. It was the first place I heard the term, " On my momma, Joe" a phrase that guarantees an honest statement out of black men from Chicago. I once smelled hot dogs wafting over from the kitchen and I stated just that, to which one man said, "on my momma it do." By that reasoning I could deduct that if it wasn't in fact hot dogs for dinner, I could hold his mother accountable for my lie, right? I would hear this phrase over and over everywhere I went during my stay in prisons, and it never got old.

Yep, its just another story of my time in prison. I keep writing about it so I never forget. I do not ever want to go back there. I need to keep doing good things out here, not just while I'm on ISR, but for the rest of my life if I want to stay out here. And that's on my momma, Joe.

The Uni-Bi-Tri Argument

We all know what a unicycle is, right? It's like a bicycle but with one wheel if you weren't sure. And of course a Unicorn is like a Bi-corn with just the one horn. But what is a unisex bathrooom? Now that is a good question. It's a bathroom designated for use by both sexes, and/or possibly hermaphrodites. Or, are hermaphrodites allowed inside of a unisex bathroom because of their gender duality? I can't tell you, the signs on the wall are only so descriptive.

All of the staff bathrooms at CIP were signed in in that manner and it always bugged me. Of course I couldn't say anything about it to staff there because they didn't have a sense of humor collectively. I wanted to make an argument using a  Triceratops and a Unicorn as examples, but that's as far as I could get the argument going in my head. You see, I often think a lot, but a lot of what I think makes no sense if I try to get it out. Like I can picture a Triceratops in a leotard (unitard) walking into that building and looking inquisitively at the sign and sort of cocking its head at the sign much like my dog does when I ask him a complicated question. But how can I translate my crazy thoughts into a rational argument for a theory that doesn't even matter? I don't know.

I think sometimes that I might be a crazy person. The scenarios that play out in my head, while hilarious to me, would seriously trouble the majority of society, I'm sure. Just the other day in a meeting, I almost had to leave because I couldn't control my laughter as a cross-dresser was sharing and I was picturing sh-im doing a little dance like the looney-tunes frog with a top hat and cane and all. Do normal people think like that? I very much doubt it.

I've wanted to take this blog down a very different road for a while now but my fear is that I will offend people and I will have nobody left to read about my life. I think it's amazing that I have readers at all given what a boring life I lead. I'm running out of the stories that make up my life as it is, but I don't want to stop writing. So what shall I do now?

Well there are a few options. I can elaborate on some old posts. I've never much written on the subject of Dr. Wonderful or the fact that I actually have a brother. Those are definitely worthy of blogging about. So you may find that I jump in and out of my mind as I have the trail through this next phase of my life. I must warn you that you may find what I wrote obscene and offensive, but it will always be real and entertaining. I don't want to hold back the things that I think are holding me back from progressing inside and out. I need to let some things go, and I choose this blog as my platform to do just that.

So, as always, I welcome your thoughts and feedback. I have now made it possible to comment without having to figure out how to follow me.  I hope you continue on with me and my adventures in life and my observations on life. And if anybody has any insight on unisex bathrooms please let me know.

And To All, A Good Night.

A year ago today I was sitting on the top bunk in my room in Moose Lake prison hoping that next year (this year if my math adds up) would be brighter and more fulfilling. How couldn't it be? I mean, I had just endured two hours of a Christmas program that I dubbed, "A Very Cho Christmas." It was essentially a group of long-term child molesters and rapists with very limited musical skills singing songs about a little boy. Even creepier now that I look back on it. Do not touch the little drummer boy!!

Today I used up some of my free time to go to my aunt Connie's house to do some work on my new car in her heated garage. It didn't go to well. I stripped the drain plug for the oil so I couldn't change it. But I did clean it up and put rain-x on all of the windows, one of my little obsessions in life. I love me some rain-x. Anyhow, I got a little surprise visit from my uncle Bill who is in town from California for the holidays. I was going to see hm tomorrow, but it was really nice to see him today. I hadn't seen him in roughly a decade and honestly I was a little nervous about seeing him. He's not really the type that understands my addictions, or so I've been told. But it went really well because we are family. He still has the sarcastic sense of humor I remember, and nothing felt in the least bit awkward. I can't wait for tomorrow.

When I first got out, all I wanted was to meet a girl and start working on a family of my own. But now I know that there's plenty of time for that. I need to re-establish my familial bonds that I wrecked through my absence, and I think I'm doing pretty well so far. I don't know why I was so afraid of my own family. They love me unconditionally and I know that now. These are the people that will always be there for me if I need help which I'm sure will happen eventually.

As far as friends, well, I don't have too many. My closest friends live two hours away which is still out of the picture for a while. They have come to visit me a few times which has been great. It shows me that they too still care for me and think of me even after leaving them for meth. Seth sent me a lovely/terrifying ugly sweater for Chanukah. It really is awful, and I love it. I'll be wearing it tomorrow.

I meet people in AA meetings, and I've reconnected with some childhood friends there that are now sober, but that's where it ends. I leave the meeting and I don't see these people until the next one. This will change in two weeks when my free time doubles from eight to 16 hours per week. I'll be able to go out for fellowship afterwards where I can have some fun. Trending is Cards Against Humanity and Bingo at Green Mill. I can't wait. 

This Christmas will no doubt be better than last. I will be surrounded by family, my dog, and happiness. And although I do sometimes feel lonely and sad, I have the option to reach out to so many people whether by phone or by Facebook. I really can't complain about anything in my life that I have control over. I'm doing well and I am excited for each new day.

To all of you reading this whether you're a follower or a first time reader, take a look at your life and notice how much you have to be grateful for. I don't have much, but I have everything that I need. The things/people that I want will come with great change and effort. Something I have been tirelessly working at for 19 months now. Am I rambling on? I think so. Happy non-denominational holidays to you all. And to all, a good night.

One, Two, Three, Floor.

I don't remember the dream, in fact, I may not have been out long enough to start R.E.M. sleep. I do remember somebody shouting at me to get up. Possibly giving me a nudge or, in this case, a kick. How rude. I know I didn't feel good and I just wanted to sleep a little longer. But it was no use, the bartender wanted me off of the bathroom floor and probably out of the bar altogether. It was early afternoon and I had blacked out and apparently decided to take a nap directly underneath a urinal at my favorite bar The Parkway Pub in Lanesboro.

In my heavy drinking days, it was more common than not that you could find me in a drunken stupor at any time, regardless of having an upcoming shift at work or not. I was a day drinker. I liked getting hammered before brushing my teeth. My personal favorite thing to was start up at 8am or whenever I woke up, pass out or black out, then do it again before the day was done. I lived in filth, and I didn't care. Every penny I made went to drinking, paying drinking debts, or gambling while drinking. I didn't need the bar to get drunk, but I didn't like getting drunk alone, and there were always people there. Or, in many cases, it was just me alone at the bar. It normally opened at 10am, and I would be half in the bag when I arrived.

This is for those people who ask me time and time again if I'll go back to drinking when I'm off parole. No. I can't because it will be the cause of my early death. When I was doing meth, every now and then people would ask me if I wanted to smoke some crack. My answer was always the same, "Do you want to keep your TV?" I know when I can't do something. It's different than when I shouldn't do something. I'm not implying that I will ever go back to using anything, but if I do, and its alcohol: game over.

Same bar, different day: I stumbled through the back alley behind the bar, trying to make sense of direction. I came out of the alleyway on to the road where I suddenly realized I was making concentric circles, and I eventually hit the ground. I don't know how much time passed, but I awoke to an officer holding a flashlight on me asking things in jibberish. Well, okay, it was English, but I didn't get it. I remember very few of the details of this incident, but I know I blew a .36 and was allowed to be walked home by the bar owner who had to sign for me. I also remember walking up the front steps to my apartment, down the hallway, and out the back door to go to the other main bar in town to tell people my hilarious story. That day was a payday. When I woke up the next morning every cent I had was gone. I probably gambled it all away, but I will never know.

My name is Vince, and I'm an alcoholic. I can't ever forget that. To think that I could ever just have one is absurd. Give me one, and I need the rest at any cost. Never doubt these words.

Wheels

I'm officially the owner of a vehicle again for the first time in years. And for the first time in many more years, its fully legal. I haven't paid for insurance in a very long time, but now I do.

It's not a new car. It's slightly used. Well, very used. Okay it's 14 years old. But its mine. And, to be quite honest, its not very pretty. It looks like it was hit by a deer because that's exactly what happened to it. So there's some work to be done on it, but that's fine with me, I've got the time. It will be my little project. I need to repair a fender, a headlight assembly, and a few other minor damaged areas. It is drivable as is, but I'd rather it looked a little nicer. I only paid $300 for it so if I mess anything up I won't be too worried. I will be completely broke for a little while because of all the expenses that come with buying a car, but I'm fortunate enough to have that problem.

In case you're not aware, Christmas is coming. Now, I don't care at all about religious holidays, but I am looking forward to seeing my whole family together for the first time in ten years or so. I say that knowing that I was the only missing piece to that puzzle for most of that time. I'm a little nervous, but not worried. I have seen everybody so far except for one uncle and one cousin, and they are flying in from CA to join us on Friday. And so far, nobody has made me feel like a piece of shit for the things I have done while I was away, or for simply being away. They still love me.

I'm only two weeks away from the next phase of ISR. The only differences will be seeing my agents less, and my free time per week will double to 16 hours. And now that I have a car I have a whole new world of opportunities. I can't wait to get a gym membership, go see a movie, just aimlessly drive, and my favorite....... Not have to walk half a mile, take a bus, a train, then walk another half mile to get to work every morning. And again on the way home. It eats up a lot of time where I'm not at home which is okay, but I really hate it. So, things are moving forward, looking brighter, and aren't so overwhelming anymore. Yay!

I haven't been writing too much new material lately. I've been thinking about turning it into something completely different, but too many people I know read this and would be deeply disturbed by the things that can come out of my mind. I also kind of thought this blog would be an outlet for me to bitch and complain about the people in my life, but they all read this, too. Ugh. Thank god for my journal. Goodnight!

The First Mile

This is another post from Breaking Free. It appears to be my scattered thoughts over a period of a few days shortly after my arrival into general population in Moose Lake. I remember how stupid I thought the place was so shortly after my arrival, employees and residents alike.

I saw the doctor today. They told me they have to switch my medication because insurance won’t cover it. I’ll be going on something called Cinnamon, or Sinamet, or some such shit. I was really happy with my Mirapex: no side effects and it did the job. But it would appear as if it is not my choice.

Orientation was boring, but not as boring as sitting in my cell doing nothing. We got to watch the PREA (Prison Rape Elimination Act) video again, which I still find hilarious. I’m sure if ever there was one thing that would completely eliminate prison rape, it would be a half hour video tape from the late 80s, in which men with mustaches talk about blowing their cellies for candy bars. Have some dignity, guys. Hold out for a bag of coffee or something.

In the 10 days that I’ve been in general population, I have learned everything that they spoke on in the orientation. And anything that wasn’t covered could be found in the handbook we received the night before. So for nine days, we had questions that needed answers. We found answers, in one way or another, to questions that all could have been avoided by giving us the God-damned…. Sorry, mounting frustrations.

It would appear that this prison, like St. Cloud, is run by 200 people in 300 different departments. And none of them seem to want to deal with prisoners.

Today I found out I got the one open industry job in the garments factory. Or, garments building, I don’t know. I’ll be making the clothing for inmates in all Minnesota prisons. I’m excited not only because I got the best and highest-paying job out there, but because I will no longer be on room restriction as of Monday. Until now, I’ve been stuck in my room after noon every day. I couldn’t go to the gym except for on weekends. Now I can really begin my training.

I haven’t been able to get on the treadmill since Sunday. So I’m sure when I get back on it Saturday it’ll be just like the first time.

—

Am I just lazy? Mybae. Smotemies I relay dn’t want to erxecise. I have gnoe to the gym ticwe in the past two dyas, walkeld one mlie, then lfet. I couldn’t even stay for an hour. Ugh.

—

Today, I said I would do it.

Today, I said I would not give up.

Today, I succeeded.

I ran a whole mile. In 10 min, 36 secs. Not bad.

I still remember the feeling of complete exhaustion mixed with pride after running that mile. I told a bunch of people in prison but nobody really seemed to care. I called a few folks on the outside and they made me feel better. My test out mile at CIP I ran in 6m45s, and right now I'd be shocked if I could do under 10. I need to get into a gym.

Flashback

I thought i would share a couple old posts from the prison days. Enjoy...

Day 1. Nearly 13 days after my pronounced sentence of 50 months is handed down to me, I am finally chained up, put into an Olmsted County Sherriff’s van, and driven through Shakopee to St. Cloud.  About a 4-hour trip (stopped to drop of female prisoners at Shakopee Correctional Facility).

I’ll skip the intake procedure.  But it is nowhere near as invasive as I thought it would be.

An hour after my arrival I’m in my new home.  A 6×10 foot combo of cold steel and concrete.  I unpack my pillow case which holds everything I need to survive, kind of.

3 pair state-issued stretch pants that resemble blue jeans

6 pair tighty whities

6 pair socks

5 white Ts

3 blue button-up long-sleeve shirts

3 white towels

1 wash cloth

Sheet and blanket

And the following Bob Barker products:

Maximum Security Brand 3-in-1 shampoo, shave, and body wash

My advice: don’t use it for anything I just mentioned.  I can’t believe it doesn’t say, “Made with real pine!”

Deodorant, a size so small I’ve never even seen in it a Dollar Store.  No scent.

A 4.4 ounce tube of something labled Mint Paste.  I’ll assume it’s for teeth because it’s next to the Safety Brush, which is 4 inches long and flexible so you can’t sharpen it and stab somebody, or brush your teeth.  A 3 inch flexible pen.  Take your standard Bic pen.  Throw away everything except the very middle, then cut that in half.  Here we pick paint off the walls and wrap it around that until it becomes useful for writing.

All set up now.  My first move, grab the 3-in-1 and a razor (forgot that) and go to town on my month-old beard.

Half an hour later, my wash cloth is covered in blood and hair.  And I’m not done.  I’ve left a patch of hair on my chin because that’s what all the kids are doing these days.  That’s when it hits me.  I look in the safety mirror and for the first time in my life, I see age.  And I realize how much time I’ve wasted.  I’m not a kid anymore.  I’m a beat up, 35-year-old con, washed up unsuccessful drug dealer and addict.  And I cry.  Fuck my life.

The last time I cried was about 7 months ago.  It happened about a week and a half after I was arrested.  I had slept off the drugs, something struck me funny and I laughed out loud.  And I wondered if I could remember the last time I had done that.  Then everything came flooding out.

September 29, 2014Leave a reply

A different post from a different time here. This is from the beginning of my stay in Moose Lake.

Back to the future.  OK.  So since I was about 16 years old, I have been keeping track of how many miles I have run total.  Over the last two days, I have run a total of 3/4 mile, bringing my total over the last 20 years to 3/4 of a mile. Ahhh. I’m funny.

Today, I did about eight minutes of the Reebok Step program.  I just did the footwork, sort of trying to get the timing down.  It’s tougher than it looks.  I went two total miles on the treadmill, alternating between walking and running.  I was able to run 1/4 mile at a time.  But my muscles just aren’t used to that much activity.  Even outside of the drug-dealing, at my real jobs, all I really did was stand in one spot for 8-12 hours per day.

A little farther every day.  Without trying to overdo it, I think I’ll be good to go by the time I go.  I need to stretch first, too.  If I am injured while at Boot Camp, that is considered a program failure.  And I would have to sit the remainder of my time in prison.  Just over two more years.  I can’t fail.  Rather, I do not want to fail. 

I hope you enjoyed reading them. Feel free to comment if you can figure out how to!

Home Run

I was reading some old posts from Breaking Free and i found this gem. If you dont know much about my actual stay in prison, this says a lot. The guards were very petty. In this case they took a radio my neighbor had given to me because i had no source of entertainment, or any way to drown out the noise. This story is about that one day i had a radio, and then they took it away. Here goes:



I got my last letter to Katie back in the mail today which means she is finally out of that horrible jail. I should find out soon if she’s free or back in prison somewhere else to finish out her term on her last charges.

I’m excited for her. She’s had a tough life. Yah, yah, yah, she’s made some bad choices. They didn’t affect you so keep it to yourself. She’s a good girl. And I truly hope she’s making good choices if she is out there. I love you, baby.

I learned a lot in one hour on the radio. Tomorrow’s forecast. Sale of the Century at every car dealership. Every day. My all-time favorite band is Pink Floyd. They haven’t put out an album since the 1900s. I believe they are all in their 70s. And they have decided to put out a new album. I mean…that’s pretty bold. If there’s even one song about world hunger, poverty, or something in the world being broken, let’s all get together and fix that, I’m gonna shit.

—

I have to complain about one thing. Although it is truly amazing to be able to drown out the sound of people yelling back and forth with music on my radio, the commercials are almost as bad. Carrier Air Conditioning uses professional baseball players, naturally from the MN Twins, to advertise for them. Comparing everything about Carrier to the sport. The service is a “home run,” and they’re going to “strike out” the old prices, and come meet the “rookie of the year” on the sales team! Get it? Do you get it? A home run is good. So the service must be good. But in all reality, and in comparison to it, a home run is actually very rare. A good season will yield 30, out of 600 at-bats. So what he’s saying is, five percent of the times you buy air conditioners in your life, you’ll get good service. Maybe that’s just how I see it. But I only looked at the facts. Fact is, I’m in prison. I shouldn’t complain, but I just did.

What I could say, and I will, is that the food here is a home run!

—

Fuck my life. I should have mentioned that it is against company policy to have a radio in your room if you didn’t purchase one from the canteen, which I did not. When electronics arrive they are engraved with the OID number and the offender’s last name. So my guess is my neighbor and I will be getting Loss of Privileges. I will find out soon. I went out only for five minutes to get my pill and I came back and it was gone. $17 that wasn’t even mine. These guards are assholes. I know I’m supposed to follow the rules. But I think it’s a little ridiculous. My neighbor has plenty of money. Wasn’t using his radio. And I have none, and he went out of his way to help out a fellow inmate. Well I suppose the right thing to do is take all of the LOP if they let me. He shouldn’t be punished for being kind.

End


We did end up getting six days of LOP each. That means for six days we could only leave our cells to shower and eat. So I just sat. For six days. It was kind of like being in the hole except it was really loud.

That Moment

There's a time every once in a while in the life of a criminal when you know you're fucked. Either you're caught, getting robbed, swindled, and/or cheated. For this story, I want to share with you a little more about what happened in the hotel room the night I was arrested. For me, this time, it wasn't a sudden moment. It was a series of events and bad decisions that lead up to the eventual moment of the of the cold steel bracelets being slapped on.

My future co-defendant was about to leave the room for the night. She got a call from her ride saying they were almost there. She said goodbye and she left. One minute later she came back pounding on the door. She said her ride was surrounded by cops, not very good news for them. This would be a good time to say that she was an active DOC fugitive, and she had just recently cut her ankle bracelet off. We sat on the bed and pondered what to do. I decided to turn on my police scanner app and as I was doing that, her phone rang. It was her ride. He was with the cops, and he had given them her name.

On the police scanner there was nothing other than chatter about the Super 8 motel that I was currently in, and her name being thrown around. Now, her ride and the cops didn't know what room she was in, so that could buy her a little time to plan an escape. But we just sat there. It didn't get real until she got up to look through the peephole and saw the hotel manager walk by and point at our door. FUCK!

At this point I started to realize the potential. I needed to hide everything quick. I had two ounces of meth, a plethora of meth-smoking paraphernalia, and a tiny bit of weed. I don't know why I didn't just flush the dope. I only owed $1,800 for it, and my boss would have understood. But I didn't, I hid it in the place everybody  looks first: the light fixture. Just as I hid the last of everything and laid down on the bed, there was a booming knock on the door. Ever the comedian, I said, "I wonder who it is?" No response. They were there for her and I told her she had to go. She knew I was right. We said goodbye.

The door shut and for a calm, quiet two minutes, I sat there contemplating how much worse it could have gone. Then, another knock. I went to answer the door, and they asked me to step out. I didn't know that I didn't have to, so I did. They said management complained that there was a lot of traffic in and out of the room and did I have any explanation for that? Just then, my co-defendant who was in cuffs but still right outside the door asked if she could go get her purse. An officer said OK, and the manager let them back into the room. Uh-oh. It took that officer ten seconds to spot the tiny bag if weed I had carelessly tossed on the floor at the last minute. Probable cause for a search warrant achieved. They asked if they could search the room at that point, and I just said, "Fuck it. Go for it." I didn't care anymore.

You see, I was so sick of the lifestyle, and so disgusted with myself as a person, that I knew right then that getting arrested was the only way out. I knew I couldn't do it on my own, because I had dug myself in so deeply. I knew I would eventually go to prison for the shit, and I was ready for it right then.

The cops found everything and we were both charged with first-degree sales of meth. It was my first drug charge and I eventually bailed out and went right back to it for six months. She stayed in jail for eight months. I eventually testified that all of the drugs were mine and she was released after pleading to a fifth-degree possession charge and given time served.

I'm grateful every day that I've been through what I have in life. I wouldn't be me if I hadn't. But in that moment, things can be scary. And that's one of the many reasons I choose to stay clean. I know where I'll go, and what I'll do if I ever go back out into that world, and none of it will be good.

No Move Is A Good Move?

If only for a few days, the thought of moving out of my mom's house for maybe the sixth time in my life was constantly on my mind. But, alas, the whole idea has been scrapped. I was looking forward to making the next step but it sounded more like the same step to me. More like a sober house than a rental house, the landlord is constantly at the residence, "checking things out". At first he made it sound good, then I heard from one of the guys that actually lives there that somebody that had been using drugs was allowed to stay as long as they paid another deposit. I don't want to be anywhere peoplepeople who are actively using drugs.

So, for now, I'm staying put. Next idea: buy a car. This just sort of developed over the past few days but I found a car through a friend on FB that she hit a deer with and wants to sell cheap. It has body damage but it runs well. I don't care how it looks on the outside because I plan on sitting mostly on the inside. It's cheap, $300. It's a step in the right direction, and it will make getting out of the house easier. It opens up a whole new world. I can get a gym membership, whick I could have already done but I only get an hour pass for exercise and to try to take a bus ..... No. It will help me utilize my precious little time out of the house more effectively, and I'm looking forward to that.

Today I went to Mickey's Diner for the first time ever. What a fun experience! The cook was amazing, not wasting any moves, conversing with customers, and making jokes at all the right times. We got to see a black man walk out all upset because his steak wasn't on the grill yet. The place was packed, but he claimed the staff was showing favoritism. Hahaha! Just like any restaurant, the cook goes in order. And when you're dealing with less than eight square feet of cooking surface, sometimes things can take a little time.

Now I'm in Woodbury. Willie is off to my side chewing on the rawhide I bought for him. I have a fire going in the kitchen, and I'm laying back on the couch, happy, content, full. My aunt went to Target to grab a few things and I'm going to show her how to make BBQ bacon, one of my specialties. I've spent the past few Saturdays with her and I have really enjoyed my time here with her and my cousins and of course, my dog.

One of this things I have hoped for for so long is a companion. Somebody to cuddle with, laugh with, and love. My dog would be a great way to fill that void in my life, but I can't have him at home. So I sit inside my head and hurt instead of going out to play with my best friend of years. He filled an emptiness for so long. And while I'm here, the emptiness is filled. Someday I will find her.

Ok now that depressing shit is out of the way!!.... Uh. I got nothin'. I'm running out of ideas for writing. Sitting at home a lot I suppose will do that. Have I written my whole life story already? I suppose when you leave out all the periods of black-out, and the things only I will ever know about, it must come to an end, right?

Funny

I dated a girl with fake tits once. You know how I could tell? Well, I could see her dick.

That's been my favorite joke for a very long time. I was thinking about what to write while I was on the bus ride home tonight and I realized that I haven't really had much humor in my posts since I left prison. I consider myself to be hilarious although some friends and family may disagree. I have a quick wit so its not often easy for me to think of funny things that wouldn't shock or disgust people. Here's a story that I find amusing that happened recently. I'm going to tell it like it happened, so it may not be as amusing as I thought it was but I'll try to keep it interesting.

The other day at work, a pump went out on a machine. I went and told the boss and he went and grabbed a new one, handed it to me, and told me to go replace it. My knowledge of things that have moving parts is limited at best, and actually doesn't exist. But, I wanted to be the man so I took it and got a hammer and some screws and got to work. His only instructions were that I should check for suction before I get it all torn apart. I nodded my head.

Here's how I checked for suction: I took it all apart. I learned what a crescent wrench is, and I used a screwdriver all by myself. When the boss came by he asked if there was suction and I said yes. He then asked why I took it apart and I just stared at him then slowly shook my head no. He became agitated. I smiled and showed him the tools I used. I thought he would say that I had done well, but we were just getting started.

He told me that to check for suction I had to put my finger in a hole and turn the pump on. "That's what she said!" I exclaimed. Nothing. He left. I put my finger in the hole and turned on the pump. At that point I realized that nothing functions properly when there are no hoses or wires running to and fro. Frustrated, I picked up the pump and that's when all of the liquid UV coating came running out and down my arms. Fuck.

Flash forward just a bit. I hooked up the right stuff, checked for suction, which there was, and determined that there was probably an obstruction in the line, which there was. In the end, I saved the day and nobody was hurt. A week later the new pump is still sitting next to the machine because I think I will probably have to replace it after I put it back together, but so far, so good.

I work in a laminating factory. Not much exciting or funny happens. But I keep myself amused. I plan on wrapping myself in plastic one of these days and I will surely record it for your enjoyment. Nowhere on the machine does it say that it is not safe to do so.

Stay tuned.

Three Months

I've thoughtt of prison for 90 days. It's been a bit rough in a few ways, and there were times when I actually thought that going back in would be better than trying and failing out here. But one thing about me is that I do not give up easily. I'm persistent possibly to the point of being overbearing. I think that's why I have my job. I wouldn't give up until he said no. I called, stopped in, and emailed him until he caved in. Well, actually somebody quit, but I was the first one on his mind for a replacement. But I digress.

Where I am now and where I thought I would be now when thinking about the future while I was in prison are very different places. In prison we tend to fantasize about unrealistic goals, mainly objects and women. I assumed I would be an accomplished writer and driving around in a new car when I got out. Well I definitely have written a lot, and I do take the bus. I thought for sure I would have a girlfriend by now and we would be falling in love and talking about the future. Well it turns out being in a relationship (I only call it that because I can't think of a term for what I had going on) takes a lot of patience and being so restricted isn't fair for the other person. Why didn't I think of that inside? Because I wouldn't have looked forward to disappointment. What's the hurry anyhow?

I thought I would have much closer relationships with my family. For the most part, my relationship with my mother has been OK, but its often fraught with tension. I may be moving out soon, and its sad to say that might be what saves it. I have been spending time with my aunt. We are getting along really well, and its so cool that she's taking care of Willie, my dog, until ii get a place where I can have him. I've seen my grandma like three times, my cousins only a handful. I shouldn't expect them to come see me after I left them all for meth and other drugs and alcohol for so long, but I can't just leave and go see them. In three more months, all will be different. I can go where I want for 16 hours a day.

I thought I would have a tougher time with cravings and not using. But rarely have them. On occasion, an old meth friend will try to friend me on Facebook. I simply click deny. I have no desire to go back to the lifestyle that took it all away. Once in a great while I have the urge to have a good beer. Well, fortunately my will is strong, AA works even when you're not in a meeting, and I know what happens when I have one beer: I have the rest of them.

I did get a checking account with Wells Fargo. That was something I thought I would have more trouble with. I got gifts for my mother for Chanukah, which I can afford to do. I pay for my own food, rent, bus fare, clothing, and anything else I need. And I even have a little put away in savings. In three months I have only gained five pounds, pretty good since I gave up on running and aerobics. I do community service nearly every Sunday at the Goodwill outlet. I pass all of my UA's and abide by all of the rules of ISR. I'm doing well.

I may not always feel like things are going well, in fact, they often aren't. I am sad and alone sometimes. People tell me I look great, but I don't feel great. There's still a lot missing in my life but if I continue to move forward, NOT GIVE UP, and remain as positive as I possibly can, I will find the things I want in life. I'm getting old, 37, but that's not too late for a lot of things that make a life complete.

So here I go. The first three months of this six month journey is complete. I just did the math, three to go. So many great things have already happened, so many more await.

Day Care Molester Spared Prison Sentence

Did that get your attention? It got mine. Of course it wasn't on the front page of the Pioneer Press, but in back with the other court reports. I think the words, "Day Care Child Molester" might scare people when Christmas Shopping is so important.

I do harbor some resentments toward our criminal justice system for just that. Thousands of first time drug offenders are currently locked up in Minnesota prisons. I was one of them. I was guilty, there was no question about that. I plead guilty and as one of the terms I agreed to allocute to my crime. I spelled it all out for the prosecutor and the judge, and I added that I should be held accountable for my actions. For that, I was sentenced to 50 months. Now, I only served 15 of those in prison, the last six of which I was in boot camp. But now I'm on house arrest out here. ISR (Intense Supervised Release) is reserved for graduates of boot camp, and repeat sex offenders. I don't like being grouped in with them in ANY way. But here I am.


Here are some recent examples of how lenient judges  are on sex-offenders:

Matthew John Rich, of Ramsey County touched a seven year old girl inappropriately on two occasions in 2007. He was living at his mothers house where she ran a daycare. Fortunately for the girl, the statute of limitations had not run out when she worked up the courage to speak about the incidents. He was sentenced to 21 months in prison, but the sentence was stayed and he was put on probation for 25 years. A long time, yes, but he has the chance to repeat his actions.

Thomas Lawrence Monson, a building caretaker in Mounds View, put a camera in a female Tennant's bathroom. He was charged with interfering with privacy, given one year of probation, and if he successfully completed that, the charge will be removed from his record. Good for him. I'm sure he only put the camera up for her safety.

And finally, Peter Matthew Ripka was charged with four felony counts of electronic solicitation of a child. He's 30, and engaged in sexual conversations with four girls ages 13 to 15. He asked sexually explicit questions and persuaded one of them to send him a naked picture. For all of that, he was sentenced to 90 days in jail. Fortunately for him, Judge Judith Tilsen was feeling kind and decided to let him serve that on electronic home monitoring. Don't worry though, he needs permission to use the internet, and he will be on probation for three years.

Why do sex offenders get such leniency? They may not take lives, but don't they take away dignity, pride, and a sense of safety in the world? When a rapist is convicted, does the victim go back to normal life? I think not. There is fear around every corner. Hesitation with any potential partner. And years of recovery in therapy. In a way, that is taking a life. Certainly it is taking away happiness from a life.

I've learned a lot over the last 18 months. My incarceration will have an ever lasting effect on me in every decision I make. So why not send sex offenders to prison more often? Maybe, just maybe, it might break them like it broke me. And only from there could I build myself back up.

A Busy Boy

This has been the busiest, most physically demanding, tiring weeks since my release. The week flew by, but I'm exhausted. I like my job. I especially like that it keeps me busy and I don't just sit all day. I rarely sit even when I have the chance, unless I'm on break. So, that's why I haven't written a post for a few days. Even this very minute, I'm not even sure what I'm going to write next, but it will come to me.

Ahhhh, yes. Here we go...

When you wake up from a meth bender, or as I called it, life, there is often confusion: where am I? Where's my meth? What day/time/month is it? What did they steal while I was sleeping? Or, why am I driving backwards?

I didn't have time to think that. I just knew something was wrong, and I was fucked. I was leaving Rochester and headed for Chatfield where I was going to sleep. Unfortunately, I couldn't wait. I remember swerving a couple times, then all of a sudden I woke up to a sickening spinning sensation. I had fallen asleep just before a big corner and it was icy out. When I understood what was going on I was going backwards toward the ditch at about 60 mph. It had been snowing for a while and when I started going over the edge, an explosion of white enveloped the car and I couldn't see in any direction. It was dark out and the headlights made the eruption quite blinding. There was no time to think or be scared. The noise was deafening as I passed over ice and snow and grass and debris. I knew it was coming: impact.

When I hit, it wasn't at all what I expected. In my first meth crash, I went airborne at 70 over two culverts and hit a cement drain pipe. The car was destroyed, and I was lucky to be alive. My impact was slowed greatly by the snow, and the incline at the end of the ditch slowed me even more go the point where the noise was just done. No bang. No explosion. Just no noise.

I slowly got out, looked around for witnesses, ( It wasn't my car. It had no insurance, I had pockets full of drugs and cash, and I just didn't want any attention.) And made a call. Five minutes later I had a safe ride to the flop house. Another close call.

The next day a few of it went back to dig the car out which, in the daylight appeared to be about ten feet in the air from a mile away. I had parked it nicely on a pile of snow. It took us 15 minutes to get it off the hill and determine that it was still drivable.

So, there you have it. I kept it short because I'm tired and I want to go to bed. I hope you enjoyed it and continue to read my blog.

Oh The Possibilities

Once a month out of an estimated prison population in Minnesota of 10,000 (One prisoner for every one of our beautiful lakes), 30 men are given the opportunity to go through the Challenge Incarceration Program in Willow River. Now I have written extensively on my experience before, during, and after, but one thing I never really touched on was how difficult it was to stay eligible for the early release program. There were so many directions I could have gone when I got locked up. But everything I did during my incarceration was very specific to me getting out of those terrible places.


When you think of prison, I would imagine you think of fights. Well, they do happen, but very rarely. I only saw three or four the whole 15 months I was in. Out of the four, three were people beating up child molesters, and one was gang related. They were all broken up quickly, and the participants were taken to segregation, often for less time than I spent there for doing nothing wrong.

Fighting, or breaking any major rule, even just once, would have rendered me ineligible for boot camp. And in a place where people are constantly doing things that make you want to punch them. Right in the tooth.

There are other things, too. I met so many meth users, makers, and dealers in tihere that had plans to come out here and do it all again. In the very beginning, a few ideas sounded pretty good. I've always wanted to make the stuff, and I could have gotten recipes from several people and wasted boot camp to come back on a manufacturing charge: eight years, no doubt. Or the constant offers from the Mexicans, who heard I wouldn't rat-out my co-defendant. Drugs so cheap I would be rich by now. This things wouldn't have kept me from going to CIP, but I have no doubts that I would be on the run by now had I accepted just one of those offers.

And although hard to get, drugs and alcohol made their way through the barbed wire. I don't know how. One time in St. Cloud I walked by a cell and a guy was smoking a Newport. A real cigarette! Not hand rolled in toilet paper and with tobacco from somebody's as hole. How did he get those by the guards that made me spread my cheeks and cough?

Alcohol can be made easily in prison. I heard about a lot of it, but I never saw any, and certainly never partook.

My phone is going crazy. I need a new cord. I can't type anymore so I will continue this babble some other time.

Chili & Willie

I spent the day with my aunt Connie in Woodbury. I used my whole eight hours of weekly free time and it was well spent. Not to take anything away from her, but I spent a good portion of that time lounging on the couch with my dog, Willie. It's the most time I've been able to spend with him since I got out nearly three months ago.

I was telling the story of how he was brought to my apartment in Rochester 13 years ago now. I was sober, single, and living alone, so my friend thought I could use a puppy, and she had found him abandoned in the woods at Quarry Hill, a park on the outskirts of town. I wasn't a dog person but I took him in. He was a cute little fluff ball. He couldn't have been two months old. 

The next year was filled with chewed up remote controls, socks, and shoes. Poop and pee awaited me every day after work, and every time I threw a ball, he would run to it and chew on it. That little fucker challenged my patience, and aggravated me to the point where I just wanted him gone. Then, one day, he just stopped. He started to let me know when he needed to go out, preferred to chew on his toys (and still my socks), and he loved bringing the ball back to me, over, and over, and over, and over... He had grown up. And I loved him from then on.

He has been through some terrible times with me. He has watched me throw my life away, twice. He has seen me get robbed, beaten, and has survived a car accident with me that sent us airborne at 70 mph into a culvert. I got out of the car and as I did he bolted out and across four lanes of rush hour traffic, somehow avoiding certain death. That accident was just one of three I've had as a result of falling asleep at the wheel from sleep deprivation. A direct consequence of meth use.

He has only ever showed me love, affection, and loyalty. Things that don't exist in the meth world. I felt terrible when I was sent away because he was getting old and I thought I'd never see him again. And when I did see him, it was clear he didn't remember me from two years previous. I was heartbroken, but I understood. Today when I cuddled him up on the couch, it was like the good days. I love him like I always have and hopefully some day he can love the new me.

My aunt and I had a fun time as well. We laughed, talked, and reminisced. We ate chili, went to Savers where there was a creepy Santa, and we took the dogs to the dog park. I got see both of her children who are amazing people, and we tried and failed twice to make a real fire, so we settled on the fake fireplace. It was a great day.

1K

I was checking out my statistics for the new blog today and I've now had over 1,000 page views! That's a pretty good start. So, to celebrate, I thought I'd share with you something I wrote while I was in treatment during my incarceration at the CIP.

The assignment was to read the Hazelden pamphlet on pride, and list five ways I can relate it to my life in the past and what to watch out for in the future. Here goes.

1. Pride: A barrier to my recovery. Simply not asking another human being for help, trying to run my own life of sobriety without the use of meetings, a sponsor, or my family was my huge downfall which lead to the inevitable relapse after nearly five years of sobriety. I failed to utilize my support network when I needed them the most. I realize this time around not only do I need them, I need them to know what to look for that would indicate possible lapse or relapse. That way even if I fail to ask for help, my support will be there as a safety net.

2. Sick pride during recovery: Something I do to avoid talking about real issues is talk about trivial matters, joke around, or use sarcasm. I cannot let those be my main forms of communication. If I'm in trouble I need to be able to say it. I believe I've made great progress in this area over the past five months, but I must continue to monitor my thinking patterns when I leave this place. It's a constant battle within me that I vow to keep working on.

3. Personal Inventory: It has been well over ten years now since I have done a written inventory. To do that again, I need to be completely open and honest with myself about all of the people I have hurt, and all of the terrible things I have done. I have been doing this by sharing in group discussions my personal history, and in my weekly treatment assignments. I will continue this work on the outside with a sponsor.

4. Forever an addict: Who wants that brand? Well, I do, and its very important for those around me to know and understand that. People I meet will have to be informed of that fairly quickly or a relationship could take a bad turn. Just like pride, addiction is not something to be cured, but is a work in progress. No matter how many years I may have under my belt, danger is around every corner. So long as I keep going to meetings, being honest, and working with my sponsor, I stand a good chance of survival.

5. Spirituality, the foundation of recovery: How could I possibly get help from somethin I can't even see? I need a God with skin on it, and in the rooms of AA, I can get just that: a God of my understanding. I have occasionally felt God at meetings, usually in bigger crowds or when a newcomer shares their experience. And when we say the Serenity Prayer at the end. I'm saying it too. I'm part of something much greater than myself, if only for a minute or an hour. It has a long-lasting effect and I even get that same feeling here when the company belts out the CIP Philosophy in unison.

To conclude, I need help from everybody I will ever know. Some more, some less, and probably always in different ways. I also need to keep my mind open and know that pride comes before the fall.


Ok that was it. I think it made more sense to me a few months ago when I had the pamphlet in front of me, but I still saw some good points, and see that I still have a lot of work to do. Happy Black Friday!!

18 And Life To Go

18 months ago today I walked into a court room with one black eye, $78, and a substantial meth high. I had known for eight days that I would not be walking out of that room through the same door. The previous appearance I had made a deal to allocute to my crime and take a sentence of 50 months in prison. I was so sick of my life that I actually felt relieved when I was handcuffed and taken through the door that nobody ever wants to go through.

It was over. I had a pretty good idea then that I was done with drugs, and the people that lived their lives around them. It took a few months in prison, after a little time with a clear head, that I actually began the healing process.

I had destroyed so much in that two years. I had become a person that I despised. I traded my friends, family, morals, and life as I knew it, for a world filled with betrayal and illusion. I loved it. Or at least that's what I made it look like on the outside. Inside I had quickly decayed and when I was inevitably arrested in a hotel in Rochester with 52 grams, I hoped that was my chance to turn it all around.

Well I was able to bail myself out after 35 days. It took me less than an hour to get ahold of my drug of choice and I started right back up where I left off. This lasted for six more miserable months before I walked into that court room on June 26, 2014.

I'm going to keep this brief because I have already written a post today, and I have certainly written enough about my prison experience at Breaking Free. I just wanted to remind myself how this whole journey began. 18 months is a great start in recovery. Every day is a blessing even if I'm having a shitty one. It could always be worse.

To Follow

If you would like to receive email alerts when I post new material, you must first be on the web version on the blog post. There's an option for that at the bottom of every page. Once there, you will see an option to enter your email address at the very top of every post. Follow instructions, enjoy.

Thank You

As I stare into the fire that I made this morning as the only source of heat I can control in this house, I rake my brain to come up with things to be thankful for on this snowy Thanksgiving day. It isn't easy because I don't have everything I want, but that's not what I should be thinking about as hard as that might be.

One year ago I was sitting in prison, probably playing games with Mr. Doty and Mr. Hohertz, the two guys that made my stay tolerable. I know I was thinking about how I would be free this year, and that things would be much better. Well even though those are both true, I still feel alone and blue. I'll be cooking for myself, and sitting in the quiet, empty space that I have created with the mistakes from my past, and my decisions from the present.

I was invited to go along to a lunch with some family at a distant relatives but the thought of having to explain my whereabouts to so many Catholics made my brain freeze up. I was hoping that maybe Mollie would come hang out with me for the day but she has long-standing plans with friends she has known for years, and of course you can't fuck with free will, something I can't seem to get a grasp on.

So what am I thankful for? Well, how about a roof over my head, food in the fridge, and people that do care about me. That's a good start. Mom, we don't always see eye to eye, but you're my mom! You were the one on the outside that got me through the toughest, lonliest days in prison. And you supported me and put up with me when I got out. Oh, and you created me, and raised me by yourself. Fuck you, Garry Arthur Clark, wherever you are.

I'm thankful for Mason Doty, even though I may not always show it, or express it the way you want me to, I know you've been there for me since the day we met in that awful place. I don't have an easy time expressing my feelings with anybody, so don't think I'm just not talking to you, its everybody. You've helped me around every turn, and you made my life on the inside so much easier. $100 million, billion, a reference only two others will ever know.

Connie, I wish we could spend more time together. We will this Saturday and I can't wait. You took in my dog who I hadn't seen in years, and who didn't even remember me. You made him more reachable to me even though I haven't seen him since he made the move. You are a survivor of more than just cancer. You have survived a life that has tried to hold you down time and time again, you shine! You were such a huge part of my life growing up, and I want that again. We have many memories to make.

All of the Maertz clan and Nina. I don't know how you still love me after what I've done over and over in my life. I've drifted in and out for so many years and you show me that you care whenever I return. Bill, Maggie, Hannah, Tom, Akiko, I will do everything in my power to not let you down again. I can't predict the future, but I can shape it through action and inaction. I choose action. I look forward to reuniting as a whole on Christmas. I'm nervous, but happily excited. I love you all.

Mollie. Mollie, Mollie, Mollie. You are possibly the hardest working person I know. Not just at work, but at life. You know what you want, and you are going to succeed. You already know. I am thankful that you continue to find time to talk to me and even hang out. I don't know how you do what you do with only 24 hours in a day, but you manage and still have some semblance of a life that includes everybody you care about. Everything you have worked so hard for will come to fruition even if it takes a little longer than you want it to. You are an amazing person, and I am lucky to have you in my life.

And to my friends down in Fillmore county who still come to see me, call me when I need a call, and show me that they still care even though I traded them for meth, I miss every moment we ever had. You're a huge part of who I am and I will always have a desire to live down there again. Thank you for not giving up on me.

There is so much good in my life. Sometimes my head gets stuck on the bad because it was my life for so long. I may feel sad and alone today, but I have everything that I need, and a little of what I want. And if I'm not thankful for that, then I will never know happiness.

A final thank you to all those who take the time to read my blog. As you finish reading this, consider what you have in your life. Don't just say what you're thankful for, tell somebody why you are thankful for them. And may they do the same.

Happy Thanksgiving to all of my friends and family! I love you.

Now That Was A Trip

The best way to do it is lie down on the couch, turn off all forms of light, and then cover yourself with a blanket. Kind of like a sensory deprivation chamber, homemade. Of course first you have to snort the stuff, and let me tell you than nothing I have ever come across has been anything nearly as painful. Nothing is as pathetic as watching yourself in the mirror after snorting just .1 grams of dried Ketamine, an animal tranquilizer.

The burn starts immediately and you want to pull it all back out but it's too late. You paw frantically at your face but you can't reach the place behind your eyes. And most importantly, you have to get to the chamber before the drug kicks in or you're unable to get the full effect, and you literally can't move.

The visuals were intense my first time. I laid back, closed my eyes, and suddenly everything was green, just like in the dreams I would have 20 years later in jail when detoxing from meth. I began to spin, but not like a dizzy drunken mess, but a slow spiral into the couch that suddenly opened up into a whole new world.

What felt like hands easing me downward started to actually appear and gently twirl me around. Everything was brilliantly green now, like night vision, and that's when the teddy bears welcomed me to their den. They were so happy and cheerful. They didn't say a word, they just floated around me while the hands began to take me on a flight. I knew it was an illusion but I didn't want to try to control it because sometimes that messes up the visuals, and once they're gone, its not the same. Unknown structures passed me by and the bears left for home. Green turned into darkness as my guiding hands began to lift me up.

I knew I was on the couch, but I knew that I wasn't quite there yet. Not until the sun poked its head through the blanket and a voice called to me, "Are you alright?" And just like that, it was over. My friend had come to check up on me, Ketamine can be quite dangerous. In a period of less than 20 minutes I had been tranquilized and come back to reality. It took only another 20 minutes to recover completely. That was the only time I experienced that level of trip on any drug, and I will remember it forever. I tried many times after that but was too drunk to stay unfocused.

I don't ever want to romanticize my drug use. The end result is what counts, but I did have some fun along the way. I have to throw in a little good with all the bad although to most of you that probably didn't sound like a good time.

I wish all of my readers a Happy Thanksgiving. This year will be a little more solemn for me than even last year in Moose Lake prison but at least I can go outside if I want to, and I can cook for myself which is the plan. Goodnight.

The Bike Job

We started walking at about 2am. It was a quiet fall night, a light breeze making the dry autumn leaves dance around and scratch the ground in a beautiful symphony.

We were wearing work gloves because the task at hand could be quite dangerous. We were carrying hammers as was the plan. The streets of St. Paul were quiet and empty, just the way we needed them to be. It was time to put in work.

We reached our destination without a worry and did a quick look down Snelling Avenue for traffic. It was empty. We gave eachother a simple nod and drew back our hammers and at the same time we struck the huge plate-glass window which erupted into a deafening downward flow of shattered glass. That's the moment where you're either in, or you're out. We were in.

We walked through the opening and I thought I hit my head on something but there was no pain so I kept going. Our goal was simple: steal two Cannondale mountain bikes worth $2,500 each (back in the late '90s) and get the hell to the safe house as fast as possible. We were inside less than a minute when we had what we came for and made our exit. As we came out, a car slammed on its brakes and a guy yelled out, "Are you OK!?" We ignored him and started pedaling.

In my periphery I kept seeing something on my left side but every time I looked back it was gone. We went as fast as we could through the side streets, price tags spinning around from the handle bars. And fifteen minutes from the time we started walking we were safe. But it wasn't over yet.

As we went inside the house our friend that lived there looked at me and gasped. "What the fuck happened to you?" he said. I'm sure I looked puzzled.

I looked down and saw myself covered in blood. I had scraped a chunk of flesh off of my head and it was bleeding profusely. What I had been seeing out of the corner of my eye was my blood shooting out and turning into a mist. My hair was caked, my shirt ruined. Fortunately once the adrenaline rush was over, the bleeding stopped. When we called the buyer for the bikes I informed him of the incident and he said his girlfriend would take care of it, which she did. Tweezers and iodine worked, but left me with a noticeable scar on my left temple.

That was the first of many large thefts that I was a part of when I was a teen. I did not learn any lesson, and even though I got away with several bikes over the years, it was what my first felony arrest was for. If only I could talk to me back then.

I wrote this story before but I think I did a much better job this time. You should feel like you're there with me. Please share this if you like it.

It's Back

For anybody that read my previous blog, you may know that I have RLS. Restless Legs Syndrome can be pretty tricky to describe, but at some point in this post I'll do my best to do just that.

I ran out of my prescription for Artane about two weeks ago. For the last couple nights, the symptoms have begun creeping back. For me its not a slow irritating sensation in my legs that makes it hard to get to sleep. It's a terrifying jolt of nerve pain that courses through the back of my knees at the exact moment that my brain enters REM sleep. My legs kick out and it scares the shit out of me, getting my adrenaline pumping, and making it tough to get back to sleep. Repeat until morning. It also effects my elbows once in a while. I can tell in advance if it's going to be a particularly bad night because when I get tired there will be an unexplainable tense feeling in all four of my limbs. I'm feeling it right now. It's going to be a bad night.

Sometimes I would kick the steel bed posts or shelving and wake up my cellie and injure myself. I would often wake to the sound of things crashing to the floor, my foot in a sharp pain, and myself swearing. I was lucky to have understanding cellies.

When I was in prison I would pace back and forth all night in my cell. No amount of cramping, exercise, or sleep deprivation made it go away. I could sometimes nap during the day, but that's when the C.O.'s were being loud over the P.A. system and steel doors were slamming, people yelling, people pooping next to your head...... Anyhow, I eventually saw a Doctor and I got pills and I slept.

So, what do I do out here? I filled out the paperwork for health coverage while I was at CIP. I never heard a thing about it. I tried to track down the MNSure building, but it doesn't appear to exist. My aunt gave me a number to call but I don't know what to say. My mom sent me a link for open enrollment but I've already enrolled. So, how do you go get pills? I've never seen a Doctor for anything other than Salmonella but that was an emergency. What is a Doctors phone number? Can I just call a number and its a Doctor? How much is a Doctor? I just don't think I want to go to one. They will want to know all sorts of other stuff too I bet. Finger in my butt? Hand on my balls? No thanks, sir!

I think I'm going to try to live with the symptoms rather than try to figure out how to use a Dr. I went for 35 years without using any kind of pill. Granted the last ten years I could have slept through anything. Maybe it will go away.

Six Days in the Hole

It was a year ago today (or maybe tomorrow) that I packed my simple belongings in one red transport bin and was moved from St. Cloud Men's Reformatorium to Moose Lake State Prison. I was so excited to make the trip for it was the beginning of my journey to boot camp and my early release. My hopes were high that I would be able to start my training right away. I had done roughly twenty push-ups total in the previous five months of Incarceration, and hadn't run except for a few times around the bases in softball. I knew I had to be in pretty good shape to pass the fitness test to even be able to go. Or so I thought anyhow.

Anyhow, after being shackled by my ankles and wrists, and had another chain that went around my waist and then connected everything, they loaded us on a small, very secure, bus and drove the two hours to Moose Lake.

Upon arrival I had to smile. I could see offenders walking around freely, with no supervision! Of course there were barbed wire fences around everything, and cameras everywhere, but still, I had come from a place where all movement was controlled: guards up and down the hallways, hall passes just like in school, and of course we were locked in our cages for about 23 hours per day. And the noise was insane. Never a moment of quiet. Well, as it turned out, I would get my quiet.

Anytime you arrive at, or leave from any institution, in my experience, there's always two hours of sitting in a rotting kennel before the guards actually do anything. This was no different. But as I said, I was happy just to have made the move. They finally called us out individually and when it came to my turn, all they asked was if I would fit in a large. A large what? All prisoners wear the same shit. They then threw a bag at me and said to change out, I was going to be temporarily housed in segregation until there was room in general population. What the fuck!? Why would they bring me here if there wasn't any room? If you ever go to prison, don't ever ask any employee anything. They don't know. Period.

They walked me down the sterile endless white hallway of the former insane asylum to health services where they asked if anybody had raped me since I left St. Cloud. I replied with a joke which gets a blank stare. Different guard, same stare. There must be a class. I hadn't been raped and I didn't have any  other medical issues so off I went to the hole.

Segregation is used for people that get in to fights, break major rules, and for people who have followed all of the rules like me. I thought maybe it would be just overnight but it lasted for six miserable days.

I was given five pieces of writing paper, two envelopes, a two inch long toothbrush so I couldn't sharpen it and kill myself or brush my teeth, a cup, used underwear, and a liquid toothpaste. And a few changes of clothing and bedding. Oh, let's not forget the pillow. Imagine a prison pillow and then don't change anything. It's not soft, not hard, offers no support, and is possibly filled with unused Bob Barker liquid hygiene products. Who knows.

The first thing I did was used up all five pieces of paper to write to a couple people and write about my move for the blog. That was day one. Day two I sat, stood, napped, paced, and sat. Day three, about half way through, the book cart came through. Yay! The gentleman pushing it around appeared to be a product of incest at best and didn't understand what I was asking him. I simply inquired of a couple different authors and he looked as though I had done just that. So, I pointed to a book and said the color red, he responded to that and set a book outside my door. Four hours later, while serving dinner, a guard threw it through the hole that they pass trays through. I can't remember the title but it was the most boring piece of shit book I have ever read. Why couldn't I have said a different color?

I had no concept of time other than day and night. One day a guard walked by and asked if I wanted exercise. I said yes, he told me to stand by. I said I'd stick around, he stared. An hour later I heard my door click open. I shyly stepped out and immediately an angry voice yelled, "Close your doors!" over the intercom. I did. I had brought out my mail, my shower stuff, and some kites I had written about the status of my stay in the hole. Up and down the hallway I looked for signs of life. Nothing. Just a steel table and chairs. I sat. Nobody ever came by. And after what I assume was an hour, the angry voice told me to go stand by my door and I eventually went back in. And I sat. And I stood, and I tried to read. And I thought about what had gotten me into this awful mess in the first place. I'll give it that: that time in seg. made me never want to touch drugs again, and it stuck with me.

Six days without a shower, without a conversation, without laughter, acknowledgement, or even a simple reasonable explanation. I felt so alone. I did make one phone call to my mom which was great, the highlight of my stay. But that was short too.

I decided to write about it again because, in a way, its the same way I'm feeling now. I'm alone. I'm sad. And I hate it. But I can deal with it out here. I'm putting this down so I know this is better than isolation. I'm typing this on my phone right now which I can use to call people. Nobody ever calls me, but that's on them. I have the power to reach out. I can eat when I want, what I want, and I can take another shower if I want to. I can even take a shit now without people looking at me!

ISR really sucks. But its only three more months and then my freedom opens up. 16 hours a day from 6:30am until 10:30pm I can do what I please. Six months of that, and I'm on regular parole and I can do what I want within the confines of the law. I have to look forward, if I keep doing that, I won't go back.