Stories from Club Fed

My First Day at Club Fed

2014-08-30T10:49:00.000-07:00

For reasons that just make me feel better I must say that this blog is a quasi-semi-fictional account and may or may not contain some elements of truth or fiction regarding experiences from Club Fed at the Montgomery Prison Camp at the Maxwell Air Force Base in Alabama. Prison time is no joke and I have no intention on glorifying my stay at club fed. I write this so that others who are in trouble.....others who are about to go to prison.....others who are dying with anxiety about their current legal situation will have some useful information. Before I went, I looked and looked and looked and found squat. Today, blogs like these are still far and few between, but I hope this one helps you if you're reading this. If you want to read how I ended up here, see becomeafelon.blogspot.com. Here is my story.

So it began.

It was the best of times, it was the best of times? Indeed. After doing a 4 state, 5 facility tour of differing county jails and federal holding facilities on my way to club fed because my judge wouldn't let me self surrender, upon arrival, I must say, it was heaven. Day one was similar to Dante's Paradisio's top level of heaven. Maybe that's going to far, but you get the idea. I could have cried I was so happy to get to prison after what I had been through already.

The silver haired lady was like a grandmother who only lacked the cookies. She hands me some papers and tells me to walk up the compound to the building I would be staying at Montgomery Unit. She turns and walks into another office and I stand there alone. Little did I know that I wouldn't see her again for 34 and half months. Nervously looking around, there are phones and computers and staples and all sorts of things that I had not been allowed to be around for the past 5 months. Suddenly, I'm set free to walk around what amounts to a community college campus. So I wait for another 15 minutes by myself in this receiving area, fresh off the federal transfer bus, unshackled upon arrival, and I wait for instructions because I don't think she meant for me to just leave and walk around, did she? Another lady walks in, an older black lady with the look of wisdom and experience and love, tells me, "Oh honey, you can walk up there by yo-self". Startled, I ask again for directions on where to walk to and she walks outside and points to a building on the other side of the compound. I thank her and she tells me,"Everything's gonna be ok dear. You tell Mr. James up der, Ms Hanny told him to treat you nice". I thank her again and walk up the compound. The sun was out, the weather was great and the grass was green. Really, really green. I mean, this grass was more cared for than the grass I had at my house in Jackson, Mississippi and I paid a lot of money to keep my centipede grass blue-green and weed free and edged and all of those things a rich person does to their grass. Men were standing in line over at one building and were walking to and fro what looked like about 20 different buildings scattered throughout this massive complex of felons and criminals.

Club fed isn't just any minimum security federal prison. It's only 1 of them. This one. Thank God I made it. I was in for a drug crime and would have to do anywhere between 35 and 57 months. Several factors would dictate how much time I ended up doing, but I was a smart guy and could work the system. I would get out at quick as I could.

The clothes a new guy wears in the Fed's at a minimum security prison on day one must be designed so that everyone notices you. Leaving the receiving area, a prisoner wears kacki pants, blue slide on slippers and a white shirt. He never wears kackis or those blue slippers again. He also is carrying a laundry bag full of material over his shoulder. The long walk up the compound gives everyone else a chance to check you out. I wasn't really nervous because leaving Hell and entering Heaving isn't really a nervous experience, but I was eager to get it all figured out and over with.

Montgomery Unit is one of three identical housing buildings with 4 downstairs wings and 4 upstairs wings. Each wing has about 20 bunk beds in an open dorm setting and a central office in the middle on the ground floor and a laundry mat in it's place upstairs.

Mr. James was quite a character. A black man who somewhat reminded me of David Allen Greer the comedian in his mannerisms but not his actions. He was straight forward with me, told me decent advise such as: don't start smoking, don't gamble, keep your bed made up and stay under the radar and you'll be fine. He told me he was going to bunk me with Mark and that he was a good inmate and I shouldn't have any problems bunking with him. Most bunk-bed's are in a cube with two lockers and one desk and one window with one set of blinds and a chair. Of course, I get the top bunk because I'm new and that's fine. I slept on the floor in the Atlanta Holdover Facility for God's sake. Ugh. With rats!! I digress.

Mark was a very dark skinned black man with an extremely thick French-Haitian accent and hard to understand at times. I had taken french for 2 years in college but couldn't really speak it. Hell, to be honest I hardly passed. Mark was a good bunkie I suppose, but he was a strong personality and not being able to understand him most of the time didn't help. He was doing 10 years for a coke charge he went to trial. He's innocent. Me too. He helps me make my bed and explains a few things such as the 45 degree angle rule the warden has just implemented. All beds had to be made so perfectly, and I mean perfectly or you got in trouble. 45 degree angles on the bed corners, like a hospital bed and they had protractors they would measure it with. No shit. Protractors. Ok, I could live with that. Hell, although I never made my bed like that in my life, I was thrilled with that. Slowly, other people in the wing approach me and try to feel me out and see what my story is and the cycle begins. Can I be taken advantage of? Am I trouble? Am I and idiot? Do I smoke? Do I have money? No, no, no, no, none of your business.

A guy walks up to me and hands me a set of ear plugs still in the wrapper. He tells me I'm gonna need them at night. Says the guy on the top bunk next to my cube snores. I thank him and he leaves. People start to call me Tupelo. That's my hometown. Even though I haven't lived there in years and my crime was in that area, some people start calling me Tupelo. That's not a bad name.

At this point on my first day, I'm still soaking it all in and trying to find other people that look like me to befriend. White, younger, with teeth, and educated. Not many of them. As I lay on my bunk, looking at the ceiling, which is about 5 feet about my bunk, the alleged snorer comes into his cube. The guy looked just like a garden gnome. Long red beard, hardly any teeth, long red hair and short. I could tell right away though that me and him would get along just fine. He was cool and I think he was in some motorcycle gang of something. I don't think to say he snored was accurate. I've heard a lot of people snore in my comings and goings through this world and this man did not snore. He did something new. Something akin to snoring but on such a different level that I think the DSM-V should include a new diagnosis for what he did. Snoring spectrum disorder maybe. It was louder than a riding lawn mower and there was no pattern. Completely random incredible decibels. Thanks for the ear plugs Miami.

I was really scared to get in trouble because I was afraid they would send me somewhere else if I did. Some other worse prison where crazy stuff happens. I was walking the straight and narrow and getting out. I wasn't going to lose any of my time for fucking up again. Lights out at 10:00pm. The building is still open though. People can still move freely to the TV rooms in the building and do laundry or play cards. The wings themselves get quiet, but everywhere else in the building, it's kind of a college dorm atmosphere. My wing is on the bottom floor and my wing has window access to one of two atriums in the building. The atriums are enclosed areas in open air with tables and pretty plants that inmates can go and hangout. Or smoke if they're wanting to risk it. It wasn't 5 minutes after lights out and there must have been 25 people out in the atrium area smoking. My window looked straight into it. I was beginning to see how it worked. Day 1 was over and I was thrilled to be where I was. Finally, I've made it to the land of milk and honey of prisons.

Prison Food at Club Fed

2014-08-20T14:48:00.000-07:00

Few citizens know what their taxes go for and that is especially true about the Federal Prison system.

Every Wednesday across the United States in every Federal prison in the United States, hamburgers and french fries are served. I bet even the uni-bomber gets hamburgers and fries at the Super-Max Facility in Colorado.
Every Thursday across the United States in every Federal prison, chicken leg quarters are served along with nothing else special.
One piece of fruit is served at every breakfast and lunch. Cake is served at every meal. Where I was at, rice and beans were served at every lunch and dinner. They were usually black beans. I mean those are at least good for you. Club fed goes a little heavy on the butter and oil in the food so if I had to guess, they probably offer an inmate 4000 calories a day at least.

But the holidays...Oh the holidays...Tax dollars hard at work...

Think Federal Holidays in particular.

On January 1 they served us rib eye steak, baked potato, sauteed veggies and of course rice and beans. I happened to have been a tutor of the head inmate chef, who held all the power back there, and is the only one who hands out the meat. For 1000 men who come through this line every day for years, this one man, this so called meat man(no one called him that though) held the meat power in his hand. You either got the white boy piece of chicken....or the black boy piece of chicken. He says,"Hey Teach!", and puts 3 ribeye steaks on my tray and covers two of them with salad that he just takes from somebody next to me. What the fuck is the salad guy gonna say. By keeping his mouth shut he'll at least get a black boy serving. . Somehow I knew all the important people for such an unimportant person as myself.

Martin Luther King day. It's a Federal holiday. Just take a guess what they served. Guess.

Fried chicken, watermelon, and bean pie. I shit you not. I ate the hell out of it too. Bean pie isn't bad. The honorably Lewis Farrakhan(sic) would love to know I like bean pie. The Muslim cooks made it.

Memorial day we had hamburgers AND hot-dogs. Not just one or the other, along with fries and maybe some extra fixins, but it wasn't that great. I think one year we had BBQ chicken too but we already got all that stuff so whatever.

The fourth of July we always got ribs and baked beans and potato salad. They were good ribs too. Those prison Muslims were always sneaking off with some too. It was funny.

Labor day was a special occasion meal but nothing memorable.

Thanksgiving was the best meal of the year. Every inmate gets a whole Cornish hen, ham, stuffing, mash potatoes, giblet gravy, greens, beans, corn bread, red velvet cake, pecan pie, other dessert items. Cranberry sauce of course, and anything else you can think of we had. It was just as good as my mom's homecooking and she's a damn good Mississippi cook so I hope she never finds out I said that.

Christmas was the second best. It was just like Thanksgiving, just a tiny bit not as good.

Every quarter we had ice cream socials. Yes. Ice cream socials.

Imagine. They shut the entire compound down. They line up all the inmates and march us in the cafeteria where we must show our ID to get in where we are checked off, we go through the assembly line of ice cream love, and then are told to get the hell out.

"You're a criminal, a felon, a prisoner, now go eat your fucking ice cream"

I mean, I would never complain. Why would I?

Overall, Club Fed, food was a solid B.

A+ at times and F at others.

The worst was chicken-ala-king. The inmates who deboned the chicken quarters...didn't do a good job. So think bones. Lots of bones. I became acutely aware of a certain bone found in a leg quarter that looks a lot like a tooth pick. I saw a lot of those.

Like I said though. Overall. B.

For prison recipes see http://clubfedprison.blogspot.com/2012/09/more-about-food-at-club-fed-and.html

Will My Marriage Survive Prison and Who is Jody?

2014-08-19T09:54:00.000-07:00

No. Your marriage will probably not survive club fed or any prison for that matter. I saw man after man, felon after felon, convict after convict lose their wife to Jody. Jody is the hypothetical destroyer of fidelity. He seeks out inmates wives and conquer them one by one. If there was ever a time when you called your wife from prison and she didn't answer.....well, Jody's got your girl. If you visit ever got cancelled at the last minute because she couldn't make it....well Jody's got your girl. In fact, any fight or anything with the smallest fraction of negativity relating to your relationship...Jody is definitely having sex with you wife. In fact, one of the music groups I was in (see http://clubfedprison.blogspot.com/2012/08/the-wardens-guitar.html and http://clubfedprison.blogspot.com/2012/09/live-concerts-at-club-fed-maxwell.html ) this illiterate old school black dude who played the drums had a great song he wrote and sang. He sang it for two hours every Wednesday during his band slot in the music room and I would usually sit in with him on guitar. He simply called me "Youngsta". The name of the song he sang..."Jody's got yo girl". It went like this:

Jody's got you girl
Sugar shack
Cadillac
Jody's got your girl

repeat 1000 times.

James was his name. Side note about James. He was released mistakenly two months early and the story goes he was driving around in a Benz(no idea how this big illiterate fool had a Benz in two weeks from release after being away for 15 years) and gets a call from the Marshals. Oops. Sorry, Report to the closest sheriffs department immediately.

Back to Jody.

At this point I could make up some fictional story about a real guy named Jody and inflate some horror story I've heard but I won't. I have no idea where the name Jody came from, but it is ubiquitous in all prisons and county jails. I remember asking, who is Jody....they all started laughing.

Hispanics call him Sanchez. I always thought that was funny.

From what I saw with my own eyes, I would estimate that roughly 75% of marriages fail within the first 18 months of incarceration. These are just some off the top of my head stats, but I think that's about right. My wife screwed around when I was in prison although my marriage survived for another two years after I got out. I tried and tried but her innocence was lost long before I ever left and it was meant to fail. I have no regrets because I have a wonderful son who is my world and joy. Now she is a inflated version of her former self hooked on 4 different types of narcotics but is somewhat socially functional. I digress.

When a man is locked away from society, he will almost always desperately hold on to whatever he has left, whether it is a shitty situation or ideal. Occasionally a man will recognize his loss on day one, but that's the exception to the rule. If you're going to jail, and you're not a millionaire with a prenuptial, then you're probably gonna lose your wife. If you don't, then the damage needed to sustain it will most certainly destroy it when you get out. I don't mean to write this in a way that sounds like I'm jaded about my own marriage. I fell out of love a long time ago. I state those facts based on personal observation from club fed and the knowledge that Jody did bang my girl. That's ok. She was never that good in bed anyway. That's probably why he left her too.

Prison Currency = Mackerel

2014-08-18T07:07:00.000-07:00

Having money in prison is against the rules. Even 1 penny can get you thrown out of club fed into a worse place. In fact, not only can a prisoner not have cash, but they're not even supposed to transfer anything of value to another inmate. .......yea right, like that's gonna happen. So how does an inmate transact? I'll break it down like this.

There is a store we could all shop at called the commissary. It's called canteen at some places. Usually we just called it the store. Inmates can only shop certain times. Long lines and high prices, but legal if you're lucky enough to have outside friends and family put "money on your books" through mail or western union.

Back to currency.

1 can of mackerel = $1.20 to buy from the store
1 case = $28.80 (no discount for buying in bulk)

It comes in a metal can with a pull top lid wrapped in red paper. You wouldn't see this at higher security institutions. Only here, pretty much.

So that is the store price for mackerel. It's interesting to watch currency markets in action though. Lets say for example that Jose has a laundry service. He charges 3 "mack" to do your laundry. You don't have to pay somebody to do your laundry but if you can, then why not. So Jose acquires a shitload of mackerel cans. Well, he can eat them or he can trade them for other services or items. But no one has any incentive to do that unless he offers them at a discount.

He sells his cases for between $20 and $24.

Compound price ~$22
Store price = $28.80

If you want to go ahead and get ready for your new diet, try some of these products below. If not, continue reading.

Not everyone has access to compound prices. You kind of have to know somebody and be on good terms with the traders to get it that cheap.

Quite honestly they were pretty good to eat in my opinion. Who were the traders?

bookies
gamblers
barbers
Hispanics

So that's how the money works. That'll be two mack.

Orange is the New Black was Club Fed at first, then....

2014-06-07T14:21:00.000-07:00

The first season of Orange is the New Black was more accurate with regard to violence and the way the BOP actually works (the say the DOC in the series). The uniforms are exact, the prison ID's are exact, and many other instances are. The color orange though...never. Never it that color used except maybe in certain county jail pass through points maybe but never at an actual BOP facility. I get it though, it's kinda the title.

The second season was much more violent and the BOP pretty much has a zero tolerance policy at minimums regarding violence. If there is any, well, everyone suspected gets shipped. They never come back. Two people who got in a fight and if the guards knew about it, then that would be it for both of them. They would NEVER be at the institution again at the same time together. Ever.

Season two begins to take more liberties with regard to the violence. There are several moments in both seasons where I call Bullshit. The first season not as much though.

Overall however, the show is fairly accurate about the day to day life in prison. Friendships, jealousies, pettiness, and all those things do lead to confrontations and sometimes lead to violence. No more than in the real world though. At least that's the way it was at my club fed.

RDAP in Prison

2014-05-31T21:46:00.000-07:00

The Residential Drug and Alcohol Program in federal prison....is....the newest....latest.....brainwashing program on the market. It's based on CBT (cognitive behavioral therapy). It does work. In really, really works when the goal of completion coincides with getting released.

The hardest inmates crumble before the infamous RDAP program.

Oh, you want time off of your sentence? Ok. Bow before authority and you shall be released.

Is Maxwell Airforce Base Federal Prison Camp Really the Best Club Fed

2014-05-20T17:37:00.000-07:00

Yes. Maxwell FPC is the best one left. All "minimum" security prisons are not alike but the good ones are all slowly going the way of the dinosaur. The good news is that as long as politicians want to keep a military base with prison help in their state the few left will remain. I say good news because it is. The people who go to these prisons are not bad people. Not child molesters, no rapist, not violent in any way type of way...they can't be. They only accept non violent offenders with less than 10 years.

Pensacola is/was a nice prison. Not sure if it's closed yet. I heard it was. It was nice (as prisons go). It was on an air force base like Maxwell.

Besides that...well, the rest aren't as good.

Do I really have to strip?

2014-04-08T18:05:00.000-07:00

There are two ways to arrive at club fed. Self surrender (preferred) or through "transit". Self surrender is simply when you are dropped off at prison to start your sentence. Transit is when you are taken into custody at some point after you've pleaded guilty and before you've been sentenced. Transit sucks. Transit involves going through one or more county jails (think Mad Max Beyond Thunder-dome shit...two man enter, one man leave) and then after the county jails, going through a series of Federal Prison transit facilities. Same thunder-dome...just better accommodations.

By all means self surrender if you can. I could not. My case was so huge and massive (sarcasm intended), i couldn't. I was so dangerous and all with my fake prescriptions. Whatever.

So i went through a series of county jails after I pled guilty on my birthday in 2007. For months. and months. It sucked big monkey balls. I can say that now thanking God almighty that no monkey balls were actually sucked! Lol. I digress and pour my drink on the floor for all the homies who weren't as lucky as me.

County jail, or at least the counties I went thru, Madison and Grenada county Mississippi counties, were by far the worst experiences of subjugation my pride has ever received. Stripping. Showing my balls. Lifting them. Bending over and spreading your ass. That type shit. Quite a humbling experience to put it politely.

Eventually, i became numb. I've recently realized, 4 years after being released...I'm still a little numb i guess. I'm definitely reformed in the sense that I will never go back to prison. Never. A night or two in jail though, nobody is going to fuck with me.

I did get a dui (reformed my ass), in year two of my release and had to be put in general population with about 30 black dudes. In hindsight, I walked in like the fucking gladiator a had to be. Some dude jumps right in my face when i walk in probing about my financial connections, I cuss him out of my face and he backs down quick. Another dude is "debo'ing" the phone. I force him off so I can make my call. Then....i fall asleep on the only place left in a room full of men. The floor under the bench...waiting on the bail-bondsman

All in all-county sucks. Avoid at all costs. Yes, that is a "duh" statement.

Billionaire Bunkies

2014-02-26T14:12:00.000-08:00

So at club fed there is an abundance of two types of felons. Rich, or formerly rich, white collar criminals....or first time non violent drug offenders. That pretty much sums it up....oh and I guess a third type too...minorities.

I went through several bunkies but none as rich and powerful as...lets just call him the Enron CFO. He didn't work for Enron, but his conviction was right around then and for the same thing and just as big. He was big time.

All this being said, he was extremely down to Earth, a great guy, and a good Christian. I would do anything for the guy, including not mention who he was, because he'd kill me!! That was a joke government censors.

There were and still are as of this writing several millionaires who chose to do a few years in order to keep their fortunes intact. I knew most of them, either because I just gravitate towards those people, or them me, or both. Maybe educated people flock together in prison or maybe I just wanted to hedge my bets for the future.

I mean when else would a guy like me be able to make such great connections. That being said, any effort on my part wasn't needed because most were good guys. A few were dick heads and so I wouldn't ever lift a finger for those assholes, but others...I'd do anything for em'.

Waxing Poet about Club Fed

2014-02-11T17:49:00.000-08:00

Of course I journaled all through prison and I wrote songs and poems and quite honestly, it was one of my finest moments in this life so far. Club fed (specifically Maxwell), was pretty much the Harvard of prisons in the United States. Ironically, I taught math. (see http://clubfedprison.blogspot.com/2012/08/working-at-club-fed-on-green-mile.html)

I shined brighter than most others at this Harvard on the Alabama River. After reading through a few of my past journals entries I found this short, brief...let's just call it a poem even though it's more of just a quote.

......

Restless time eats away my waxing soul
and the dullness of this monotony grows.
Time infernal molds this destiny of Hers
and the constant ticking shows.

.......

The Head Chef Controls the Prison et al Teach

2014-01-31T19:10:00.002-08:00

His name was Shaq. No, not the basketball player albeit just as powerful in this scenario. Shaq was the head club fed cook...or chef....or whatever that position is called in prison. He handed out the meat. He handed out the chicken leg quarters on Thursdays. Shaq handed out the hamburgers for lunch on Wednesdays. He handed out the boiled or scrambled eggs on Saturday brunch. (yes we had brunch in prison...very cosmopolitan) and basically had total say on who got what in the chow line.

Shaq was a black guy who didn't even eat meat. He was the most ripped guy on the entire compound too. His abs probably tore his shirt they were so pronounced. He was a very, very powerful guy as far as club fed goes. He controlled what you ate. If he liked you....you got the black boy serving. If he didn't...you got the white boy serving. That's what it was really called.

Case in point. Some racist redneck comes through the chow line with his crew being obnoxious and racist. They put their trey out to Shaq to be served like they do every day, three times a day and he would go through the pan full of whatever high value meat product was being served only to find the smallest, wimpiest piece just for those assholes. It was obvious too. Then "the brothas" would come through and not only would they get a huge serving BUT they would then get a second huge serving.

On holidays this was especially important because we would get ribs and steaks and fucking turkey legs and really high value foodstuff.

I was especially fortunate, as is my lot in life. Shaq was in my GED class. To clarify, I taught the class. I taught the advanced math portion of the GED to every inmate that did not already have a high school diploma. These inmates who do not have a diploma are forced to attempt to take the GED by law. Every inmate who does not have a diploma must attend GED class.

Shaq was a very intuitive, heartfelt.....hell, I thought the world of the guy. Shaq fucking loved me too. "Teach", he called me. Whenever he did call me, he would only call me by my last name, which coincidentally sounds like it could be my first name. No shit, he worked his ass off in my class and never gave up and always gave it 100%. He was the fucking role model for the program while he was in my class. Then after class, he worked his ass off in the kitchen. Sometimes he would come to my bunk and get me to help him with his some math problem that he was trying to solve. He'd always bring me something too. I never asked though...never had to i suppose. Like one day he reached into his pants and pulled a handful of fresh avocados out of his pants (yes, we had to hide food in our pants...you would too if you were there, trust me). You can't get avocados in prison. I love them. That was one of the little moments that made it bearable. With regard to teaching the GED, I never minded helping anyone who was really trying. I loved helping inmates learn math. I taught for one hour a day officially, but often times inmates would track me down on the compound outside of class for help. I never minded.

Lets clarify here what the math portion of the GED is. Of course it's the most basic stuff there is.... 2+2=___

Then there were some geometry questions. Perimeter, Area, and Volume.

The advanced portion required a basic understanding of geometry and algebra. There was ALWAYS a Pythagorean theorem question on the GED too. What? You don't know what that is?

a^2 + b^2 = c^2

Ha! I digress. My job was the best on the compound. I worked for 45 minutes a day during the week. That was it. When there were fucking monkeys weed eating 7 hours a day and here I am in the education building, a nice building too, sitting at my big desk, teaching in a nice air conditioned room. Some days we would just sit in there and talk shit and do nothing. There was no supervision. The CO I reported to was no CO. She was a preachers wife and an angel if there ever was one. She loved me. We even prayed together sometimes. I actually called her about a year after I got out to tell her I was doing well and to thank her for being so great.

As far as teaching a bunch of alpha inmates goes...well:

This job required a finesse that is difficult to attain. Dealing with inmates. Well, you can imagine. Not everyone gives a shit about getting their GED and are only in there because they are forced to be. You also only had to work a half day if you worked on "grounds" where you mowed and weed-eated all day. These were the worst. They could pass the damn thing at any time, but failed on purpose so they wouldn't have to work as much.

Federal government at it's finest.

That was fine. I left those guys alone. I was the "cool" GED teacher. I was real. I broke fractions down for them in terms of crack rock and how it's made and what "RATIOS" were used. Some were greatly helped by using this didactic method. Others...well they slept.

Back to Shaq.

Shaq ran the meat. What a hustle to have! He made so much money (see http://clubfedprison.blogspot.com/2012/08/prison-currency-mackeral.html).

One day he walks in class, dressed in his kitchen outfit, with a big cardboard box. He had a distressed look on his face and I could tell he was in the middle of a hustle. He walks in the room, right in the middle of class, and says,"Teach, I need yo locker. QUICK!" So without hesitation, I opened my "teacher use only" locker, which only I had access too, and it was huge and full of books and teaching supplies. Now, however, it was full of fried chicken. He stuffed the box in my locker, closed it, and sat down in the middle of the front row of the class (where he usually sat). Within 20 seconds, 2 CO's barged in my GED classroom,...so me being the smart ass that I am began a verbal assault on the CO's by saying things like, "This is a classroom for learning and when you two BARGE in making false accusations, you do nothing other than hold the men back from their institutional right to an education. I'll be writing a complaint to the Director of the education department about this. This is totally unacceptable...." Now, I knew this wouldn't fly and these two CO's were completely ambivalent to me because I had no power, but it was fun to do and I knew I could get away with it as long as I didn't push it too far. One the of the CO's, Barney, then looked at me and was so furious he was shaking, red-faced mess..i did that to him....he got worked up so quick and he was the fucking Barney Fife of the compound. He then threatened to ship me to the hole if I said one more word and to please, please test him on it. (see http://clubfedprison.blogspot.com/2012/09/club-fed-staff-barney.html). I did not test him on it.

They began to question Shaq in front of the class about what he was just doing and where's the box and they knew he stole that chicken and blah blah blah. They were trying to intimidate the class. Of course none of us were in any way intimidated...at all. Fucking Barney was the biggest joke on the compound. We all just said things that were the typical cop/criminal diatribe.

"where is it"
"where is what"
"YOU KNOW WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT"
"you mean my GED? I don't know, you fucking up my learn time nigga"

After the CO's left, me and the students, sitting all nicely in their nice club fed prison classroom desks all busted out laughing. Even Shaq, who had just dodged a bullet couldn't help but laugh. I double checked that the CO's had left the building, then I closed the blinds and Shaq took the box out of my education locker and handed everybody a piece of fried chicken. This wasn't the chicken that was to be served to inmates either. This was to be served to staff, including the warden and some big wig from DC. Shaq wasn't just a hustler and wasn't just the man in charge of the meat..he was a damn good cook. Don't get me wrong, the staff still got all the fried chicken they wanted, but Shaq had made twice as much. The class ate what he let them eat except for me. Shaq ALWAYS, and I mean ALWAYS, took care of me, "Teach".

Although Shaq and I came from different worlds on the outside, on the inside, we just fucking clicked. We could have been brothers. On just about every subject. In fact, as I write this, I'm gonna try to find where he's at. If he's still in, I'm gonna put $500 on his books. I digress.

When I came through the chow line, Shaq always took care of me. When steak was served, I got two. When ribs were served, I got as much as my plate could hold, meanwhile even the black guy behind me who was Shaq's workout partner didn't get as much.

Shaq was a great guy(at least to me). He had a 17 year sentence for selling crack and he only got 17 because he didn't snitch even though he was just some low level guy that himself got snitched on. Fucking mandatory minimums are fucked up. I'm a anti-tax conservative and Reagan did a lot of good things, but signing into law the draconian sentencing guidelines for illegal drugs and narcotics....not one of them his better ideas.

I won't talk to much more about that subject here but to put in perspective the fact of thankful I am that the mandatory minimum for my charge, "Conspiracy to Distribute Oxycodone" is 1 year. That's right. Even though my sentence was 57 months (practically 5 years), I only did 35 months. Poor Shaq.

Shaq could get anything he wanted on the compound. He could pretty much do whatever he wanted on the compound. Every day he'd walk into class and have something for me. Be it a pork chop, an omelet, a piece of German chocolate cake. I mean, he WAS the food hookup. In prison, food is very important. Much more important to an inmate than to you reading this now. Your entire day revolves around this one central theme. Food.

One time Shaq had a huge cardboard box that he could barely carry full of "real world" snacks. It was full of name-brand Twinkies, ho ho's, snoballs, etc. Those are the types of things that allow a man to "do his time". It's the little things in prison that help a man get by. Even club fed can be a nicer place to do time if there are, dare I say, ho ho's.

Shaq, otherwise known as Michael Shackelford was my friend. He had already done 11 years when got to prison and he never cared one iota about getting his GED up till then even though they forced him to sit in a classroom for 1 hour day to study for the past 11 years! When we met though, we just clicked, and I awoke in him a realization that not only could he get his GED, but he it was easy for him and he realized he wasn't just smart, but very smart, so smart in fact that while he was learning and growing mentally, we were sitting on a gold mine, AND my classroom could be, what would become, the main distribution center for all contraband foodstuffs on the compound.

Shaq would get pinched by the CO's from time to time and get in a little trouble here and there, but they never stripped him of his job as head cook mainly because he cooked for those motherfuckers too. He was in with all the CO's but not too in. If they ever busted him...had to bust him I should say it was only because other inmates were present when a CO accidentally bumped into him while he was carrying an entire filet of beef. The cop kinda had to bust him then....the funny part is that same cop was the one who gave it to him as long as if he made a pumpkin pie for the cop to take home for his family.

Alas, all good things must come to an end though and he did finally get busted big time and they shipped him off to a low security institution. No more minimum security lifestyle. (supermax, max, med, low, min)

Never heard from him again. 2 years of steady friendship and now it's vanished. He could be in Guantanamo as far as I know.

Shaq had control over the Mexicans, Puerto Ricans, Cubans, Whites and of course Blacks. All prisons have this person. Shaq always maintained a business-like demeanor unlike others in his position elsewhere, and always was fair and honest and...did I say he HOOKED ME THE FUCK UP!!!!! I love you Shaq buddy. Take care wherever you are.

Club Fed via Con Air / Fun Jet Vacations

2013-09-22T08:59:00.002-07:00

First, allow me to clarify a few things about Con Air. I had two experiences on Con Air and I must say it was nothing like the movie with Nicholas Cage in any way whatsoever. In the sense that I was on a plane with air marshals and other convicts, yes, but nothing else.

I was bused to Memphis from a county jail in Grenada, MS and then flown to Oklahoma City Federal Transfer Center. Actually, I was bused twice. The first time me and about 7 other inmates, 2 of which were female were all bused for several hours to Memphis only to wait on the tarmac for another couple of hours only to return to the county jail. Apparently the Con Air pilot had a heart attack in South Carolina and couldn't continue. While waiting on the tarmac I was witness to an amazing sight though.

Those of us in the van were not a security risk, but what I was about the witness...well, those guys were.

I saw about 15 swat ready guards with body army and shields doing the damn Hitler duck walk around a plane where about 20 Mexicans got off and onto a bus. Ironically, the side of plane said "FunJet Vacations". No shit. The feds were either leasing or bought out FunJet.

So then we all got onto the plane that the Mexican Killer/Rape/Murderers just got off.

Off we fly. We're shackled the entire time. We are served bag lunches with a bag of water, two pieces of bologna, one piece of cheese and a mustard and mayonnaise package.

I must say, tying to prepare a sandwich, while shackled, in a plane seat...well, it's not easy. I'll just say that.

Don't get me started on "a bag of water". I mean, what the hell is that? You have to pinch a corner off with your teeth and drink the water from the punctured hole you just made.

The flight was fine. There were are as many air marshals as there were inmates. They were all wearing blue polo t-shirts that read "Air Marshall" on them.

Pretty classy team.

My fun jet vacation has just begun.

The Movie Theater

2013-08-15T14:08:00.000-07:00

I spent 34 months without freedom, missed the first 2 years of my sons life, and ultimately lost my wife as well. Nothing makes up for that. Nothing. When people start talking about serving time in prison, I always ask them one simple question and it always puts it in real world terms.

How much money would it take for me to pay you to serve one year in prison?

$100,000 - if I paid you $100,000, would you do a year in prison?

No? What about $500,000?

I used to have a number. I used to.

As bad as it is to be subjugated to the idiocy of government workers when you have no rights, the movie theater sure made things more tolerable.

I mean a theater. Club fed provided the nicest theater of any prison in the United States without a doubt. Massive projection screen the size of any normal movie theater with a HD Blu Ray projector and speakers all over the place. They played moved every night of the year at 5 and 7pm. On the weekends they played new releases and on Wednesday night, they played classics for the old folks.

Vending machines and microwaves. It honestly made you forget you were in prison. I must have seen 500 movies in that place. Nice ceramic tile on the ground and it was just pretty fucking decent.

So if you're reading this and you're about to go to prison and you're digging as much dirt up on where the place to go is and you like the movies, look no further.

Montgomery FPC.

The Warden's Guitar

2013-08-14T12:27:00.000-07:00

Club fed hosts an annual talent show in the auditorium featuring a variety of felonious talent such as singing, comedy, and even poetry recitation.

Sort of like a gong show really. Mob rule.

Three inmate judges on a platform, gonging based on crowd participation. The crowd's are usually about 350- 500 inmates. Even some staff from Maxwell Air Force Base in Montgomery would come to peep their heads in sometimes.

I have a theory that musical ability is genetic and runs down the mothers side of a family. At least it does in mine. I've been a virtuoso guitarist since my early teens. Sex, drugs and rock 'n roll, right?

Well, during sound check for the first talent show I was there for, I was playing the rigged up, shitty, crappy, cheap guitars the prison had at the time. I was playing up on stage; I think I was playing "Little Wing" by Jimi Hendrix. Suddenly, the Warden appears. Must have been 6 foot 5 and a solid 250 pounds. He looked the part for sure. Man of few words, attentive, and a man of action. I notice him during my rehearsal and I'm not doing anything wrong so I just keep at it. I sounded great too. We had the PA set up and I had some nice effects on the sound and...whew...sounded like glass! Yes, club fed provides a pretty nice music room....i guess for a prison.

The warden approached me and asks me to come with him to his office. Suddenly, my stomach knots up. I've never even been in that building before, let alone his office. I wasn't that worried but still, you just never know. We walk in his office, it's a modest office with some family pics, nothing out of the ordinary, except a Fender Stratocaster guitar case. He picks it up and opens and says see what you can do with this. He told me just to hold on to it and bring it back whenever we're done with it.

Now being assigned responsibility for a two thousand dollar guitar by the man who can destroy your life, should he choose, is not my idea of a good thing. I told him I didn't want it, but he insisted. So I went back onstage and blew it away. He smiled at his achievement, whatever that is, and left, and yet there I was with his guitar.

I was nervous about the whole thing but by the end of the talent show, I pulled it off. When it came time for me to perform, there was a problem though. Imagine the crowd of inmates surrounded by guards, who are all cussing, and booing, and laughing, and belching, and eating. Short attention spans multiplied by the mob mentality that exists in that format can be brutal. So I'm introduced, walk out on stage and plug in. The guitar is bad out of tune. A competitor had screwed it up before I got it. Thanks Clyde. While I was on stage, tuning this fine instrument, the crowd is becoming impatient because it takes me almost a full minute. They start booing.

Before "Tapping" gained a notorious sexual definition, it was a famous guitar technique. Tapping on a guitar is a technique made famous by Eddie Van Halen. It's really awesome to watch somebody who knows how to do it. Just go to youtube if you want to see what it is. That's how I started my act. Loud and fast soloing by tapping that made so many heads turn so fast, three people claimed whiplash at sick call the next day.

I went into a montage of Hendrix, Zeppelin, and Clapton playing the best parts of my favorite songs and sewing them together flawlessly. When it came time for the Hendrix song "Hey Joe", I played the solo with my teeth. On the warden's guitar. Like Hendrix said, if I'm not playing last, I'm gonna pull out all the stops.

When I finished, I got a standing ovation.

Being able to win a prison gong show, two actually because I won the next year too, definitely made me a known face around the compound. I already had respect, but now I had even more.

People were coming up to me for days telling me how awesome it was. I don't know if the warden even found out I played his guitar with my teeth, but if he did, he never let on. I don't think he cared. He didn't even play. He only had it in his office that day because his superior from Washington was in that day and his superior did play the guitar. Prison office politics are the same bullshit politics that everybody else had to deal with.

The warden couldn't play a lick. That's probably why he didn't care that I played his guitar behind my head and with my teeth. He let me use it a couple of other times too. Him and I never spoke about anything, mainly because I never needed anything, besides freedom, and a warden has an extreme amount of power in a federal prison, but they can't let people go free. Anything else but not that. Thanks Warden.

Tiramisu in Club Fed

2013-07-04T07:28:00.000-07:00

So a good friend of mine in club fed worked in the kitchen. In fact, he owned several Italian restaurants on the outside when he was free...before his 10 year methamphetamine stint in club fed. Needless to say, he was a great cook and his prison job was obviously in the kitchen. His hustle was mainly smuggling fresh vegetables out of the kitchen for sale. Bell peppers, onions, apples, bananas...stuff like that.

BUT...occasionally he would make homemade tiramisu and it was on par with any fancy restaurant I've ever eaten it at. It came seran wrapped on a small paper plate (smuggled out, no doubt in his pants :( )but that was just the price you had to pay for being in prison. That and 3 mack. (see http://clubfedprison.blogspot.com/2012/08/prison-currency-mackeral.html )

So for all those about to do a few years in club fed don't be disgusted by pant smuggled dessert, and no that is most definitaly NOT a pun, but realize that when a man is kept from the luxuries of life, it's the little things that keep him going during his time away. Things like tiramisu and banana pudding (http://clubfedprison.blogspot.com/2013/01/big-puddin-and-importance-of-clean-hands.html ).

Various Contraband Prices

2013-06-22T16:44:00.001-07:00

Everything is priced in Mack (see http://clubfedprison.blogspot.com/2012/08/prison-currency-mackeral.html)

Haircut - 2
3 boiled eggs - 2
Steak (around New Years) - 5
Ribs (around the 4th) -5
1 Cigarette - 1
3 Cigarette's - 2
1 Pack of Cigarette's - 12
---all cigarettes are the lowest quality GPC's but not "rolled" as found in higher security institutions
Smokeless Tobacco (can) - 8-10
Hooch - 7
Laundry - 3
Shoe Shine - 2
Liquor (pint) - market price (20-40)
Marijuana (joint) - market price (10-20)
Gabapentin 4000mg - 5
Chicken Leg Quarters (3) - 2
Bell Pepper - 1
2 Bananas - 1
3 Oranges - 1

Of course there are all kinds of other items that become available from time to time and there are too many to list but I think this list serves as a good starting point on price points for contraband items at Club Fed.

Being Released from Prison--Kinda.

2013-04-24T16:51:00.000-07:00

I'll never forget the glorious spring day that was my release. It was a bright, green spring day in March. Not only had I served my time, but managed not to get sexually assaulted, not get kicked out of the RDAP program, and leave with my dignity. That day, long in the making, and anti-climactic in it's arrival will never be forgotten.

The same gray haired lady (see http://clubfedprison.blogspot.com/2012/08/my-first-day-at-club-fed.html) that welcomed me, now sent me on my way, on the greyhound bus to the halfway house...but I digress.

I had managed to navigate my way through the tricky RDAP program without losing any of my time and actually getting a little something out of it. I had managed to not get caught selling raw eggs and giving guitar lessons AND managed to maintain some level of prison respect. It's not an easy task, trust me.

So the day arrived. I was manic by this point. I couldn't sleep, couldn't sit still, couldn't quit thinking that every person I dealt with was a fucking idiot dumb-ass I had such high hopes for my new life. High hopes for my marriage (see http://clubfedprison.blogspot.com/2012/09/will-my-marriage-survive-prison-and-who.html) and high hopes for all of God's creation.

All in all, I must admit....club fed was good for me. Club fed taught me to be a shrewd judge of character, as if I wasn't already, and gave me a lot of time for self-reflection. I gained experiences in life that no other person on Earth could ever understand. Made life long friends and probably added years to my life. Club fed cost me a lot too and I don't mean money. I missed the birth of my son and the emotional toll involved in begging and pleading to keep a marriage together that I really wasn't sure if I even believed in anymore. My hair turned white.

Finally, I heard my name called to receiving and discharge. I nearly sprinted there while waiving goodbye to all my friends. I walked in and was driven to the greyhound bus station and giving $175. I had my bag full of my journals and the things I was unable to live without for the past 3 years that were immediately discarded upon freedom. I climbed aboard the bus, all by myself, in my blue windbreaker jumpsuit provided by the BOP and just sat...and waited. It was over. Finally. It was over.

If it's one thing I can say about being released from prison is this: Whatever your expectations, they are wrong. Whatever your plans, they will not come to fruition. Whatever you think, you're wrong.

BUT, if you have sincerely gained an appreciation for right and wrong, not an understanding, but an appreciation...and if you learned to respect the rules (the really important ones that is), then you will do fine upon release. You'll never go back. If you just skated by and couldn't wait to get out so you could go back to whatever illegal activity you were doing before except this time without getting caught. You'll be back.

Thank you God for not killing me and giving me another chance.

Commissary at Club Fed and Money on Your Books

2013-02-10T10:48:00.001-08:00

The commissary at Montgomery Prison Camp, henceforth know as "the store" was not that bad. The types of things they sold varied and were somewhat seasonable and made life much more enjoyable while doing time.

At the time I was doing my "tour of duty" the most an inmate could spend per month on commissary items was $240.00. The list can be found at http://www.bop.gov/locations/institutions/mon/MON_CommList.pdf.

Mackerel is probably the most purchased item on the compound simply because it was the currency.

It's the little things in prison that make a huge difference. Things like hazelnut coffee creamer or earl grey tea. My standard purchases were things like brown rice, mackerel, solid white tuna, figs, dates, ramen noodles, oatmeal, peanut butter, powdered milk, and granola. These things might sound mundane and pathetic but trust me when I write how much of a difference in the quality of life they make. I ate so much mackerel during my time away that when I came home I searched high and low for an identical product. It wasn't until just recently that I finally found a mackerel duplicate at Dollar General. I've been buying it from there ever since I finally found it.

I smuggled a can out to the halfway house when I was finally freed.

This is what it looked like. Once you removed the paper, it was a just a metal can with a pull tab to open.

Upon arrival to club fed there are several one time purchases to be made. Things like a radio, sweat pants and sweat shirts, shorts, batteries, tupperware, a watch, and stuff like that.

So how do you "shop"? Well, everyone can only shop once a week. You are assigned a day based on your inmate ID number. You fill out your list and go wait in line. About every 30 minutes, an inmate will walk outside the commissary door and take up lists. Then inmate workers inside the commissary, along with BOP staff who actually ring up the orders, fill the orders and then your name is called on a speaker. You walk in a tiny box of a room with a tiny window where the BOP staff rings up your order and deducts the total price from you inmate account.

People from the outside world can give you money through western union thereby putting money on "your books". I hear they now sell MP3 players and you can download songs from an iTunes like service offered by the prison.

Anyway, that's how the "store" works.

Oh, they sell ice cream too. And if you haven't read any of my other posts and you're going to be going to prison at Maxwell....you're not going to find a better ice cream than Moo-Linuem Crunch.

Imminently Release-able Club Fed Intellectual

2013-01-19T14:55:00.001-08:00

This was written at my request by a close friend who is still locked up at club fed. He's still in as of today and gets out in April 2013.

January 17, 2013

The psychology of incarceration offers an entire sub-specialty for those in the field. Judging from the U.S. trends in prison growth and incarceration, doctoral students will have enough experimental material for decades to come. If things keep going this way, the U.S. will be that Asian corporacratic tyranny in Cloud Atlas instead of Korea. The government will play both roles--criminal and savior--in an endless pantomime, putting on the show of crime and its just deserts so that they control supply of all ideologies. An alternative exists for every human need not met by the mandated consumption, but the choice is an illusion because the leaders of every faction are actually government minions. Whether they know it or not, their fate is sealed. Anyway, I don't intend to bitch about U.S. penitentiarianism here. I'm still a patriot. (And I'm serious, too. How's that for psychology?)

This weird mental syndrome seems to afflict most people as they near their release date. The symptoms of this idiopathic malaise manifest differently people. In the last six months of the sentence, a fellow will began to break character. As I said different folks react differently to the stress of imminent release. Some guys suddenly ramp up their b.s. machismo pride thing: they began to wax sharp with their friends, refusing to back down from stupid claims, turning simple jokes into fighting words, or pulling some other effrontery. Other guys began to tie up in nervous knots. They begin to converse poorly, stuttering at retorts, failing to get jokes, basically turning into a putz. Then there's the silent retreat: the guys who disappear. They were all over the yard before, slowly they stop working out, they stop showing up at their clique's table. Then they're totally gone, holed up at their cell reading pulp novels and picking their nose.

So what about me? I'm only three months out. Is the syndrome wreaking its havoc on my behavior? Hmph. I'm supposed to be able to determine this? You've got a lot of confidence in my perceptive skills. I mean, there's a whole lot of personal bias to overcome in the analysis.

Seriously, I do feel the mounting stress. But I deal with it. I mean, the ordeal I wrote about last week, the issue of loudly impugning the charlatan in front of the entire T.V. room, that was just civil duty. I'm obligated to let those other guys know that he's a moron and a liar, that sending him money to invest or paying him to teach you how to game the market will only result in a few months of lies until he slips off the yard in protective custody--with the money. Civil duty. Really.
It wasn't an inexorable frustration with the lot of these imbeciles that drove me to publically curse him and his lies. I didn't get any satisfaction watching him slink away in shame. Oh, and I still don't get any satisfaction watching him from afar change directions to avoid even passing me. Just civil duty.

Yeah right. Dude. The real manifestation of this exit syndrome in me is the mounting irritation with humans. Jeez. I'm known as a super-nice guy, the guy who'll help you with your GED studies, explain the Pythagorean theorem, help you write a letter to your kids, etc. Actually, I've curtailed my social charity considerably in the last year as I make the final push to get through my correspondence courses but I still make time for some guys. But let me tell you the truth: it's f-ing hard to sit through it these days. Man, I'm so sick of people stopping me, wanting to talk, needing an ear. It's like, if I leave my cube, someone wants to talk. I can't get down to the phone room without having to turn aside five people looking to chat. It's driving me crazy. Sometimes it's me that changes directions--multiple times--just to avoid friendly faces.

Let me rant for a minute. After all, what's the point of a journal if one can't "dice a calzon quitado" (I'll let you translate that little idiom on your own).
You know that I cut out all whiners and legal discussions long ago. Every-damn-body in prison wants to bitch about the tragedy of their life or cry about the injustice of their charges and sentence. Well, YOU AIN'T SPECIAL sweetheart. Prison is always a tragedy. Although I sympathize with new arrivals, I do so only to a point. Then I'm really pointed about getting off the pity-party. And I don't want to hear you're not guilty. Please. Quit fooling yourself. Unless you're the one-in-a-thousand who actually didn't do anything. Ok, Ok, Ok. Maybe there are more than one in a thousand, but the truth is, every gun-toting, wife-beating, two-bit thug in here claims he's innocent--just like every Hugo Boss-wearing, BMW-driving, penthouse-living, king-pin financier in here--so the argument is way hackneyed. If you're innocent, I'm sorry. Or was until I got close to leaving. Now this foul sickness has stricken me low with its mad fever: I don't care about you. Or your damn problems.

The truth is I maintain my smile (for the most part). I greet folks and I help out. I stick to my routine. It's just that the closer I get to leaving, well, the harder it is not to give in to a general disgust for everything. The monotony, the mundane conversation, the quotidian chores, the inescapable sameness of everything: it amounts to some serious frustration.

Playing Golf at Club Fed

2013-01-12T12:21:00.001-08:00

My cube was a wing with vaulted ceilings on the second floor. My window overlooked the 13 hole of the Maxwell Air Force base golf course. I could watch people playing through all day from my window. Truthfully though, there's not a lot of golf being played at Maxwell.

You always hear about club fed and the golf courses. Well. You might mow or weedeat one, but you'll never play on one.

During my brief stint as a master weedeater on the base (sarcasm intended), my "truck" managed several areas around the runways. One of them was a paintball course.

Little known fact about paintballs and weedeaters. If you turn the weedeater so that the string is vertical instead of horizontal and hit a paintball on the ground just right.....it will launch it in the air...or spray it on the person closest to it.

Yea, good times as club fed playing paintball......NOT.

Bottom line...no golf.

Healthcare in Club Fed

2013-01-06T14:12:00.003-08:00

If you've read some of my other blogs about club fed, then you know that club fed isn't that bad a prison to be in. It's a friggin' resort to some starving African. Fo sho! The healthcare system is very bad. See my blog http://clubfedprison.blogspot.com/2012/12/federal-prison-not-for-diabeticseven.html.

In federal prison, they primary use a Physician Assistant model of treatment. This means if you need to see a doctor you first must see a P.A. These P.A.'s, at least at Montgomery, are idiots. Mine had an undergrad in psychology and then did 1.5 years to get his masters degree so he could be a P.A. This is the man giving me my healthcare.

Here's my story about athletes foot. I've never had it in my life and since being released and I finally bought some damn lamasil it hasn't ever returned. I go to get it treated and they tell me at first that it's not athletes foot and that it's just my socks. After ruling out "sock irritation" they then tell me they think it's a rash caused from stress. After ruling that out by prescribing antidepressants to me and after telling them more intensely how it only itches in that one red spot and how it just started the P.A. tells me to just piss on it in the shower. Yes. Seriously. He then goes on the tell me how urine is also good for ear aches and dandruff.

Ok. So now I just piss on my head everyday. Thank you club fed!

And God forbid you ever get a staff infection. They'll call it a spider bite until you are rushed to the hospital about to die. True story. I didn't have the infection but a guy in my wing did. Poor guy. He made it though. I think he's back on crack now though.

Thanks again club fed.

Big Puddin' and the Importance of Clean Hands

2013-01-04T16:21:00.000-08:00

I was new. In fact it was my first week. I still was feeling incredibly relieved to finally have arrived at club fed after my nightmare of diesel therapy to get there. So in my "wing", which is just an open dorm (think grown men farting all night in their sleep(now that's prison)), there was a large, and I mean large black guy named "Big Pudding", or just Puddin' for short. He must have been 400 lbs and about 6 foot 4 inches. His hustle was selling homemade banana pudding. Yes. You read that right. He was a kitchen worker and he sold banana pudding. Fresh banana's, wafers, and homemade whip cream.

I too had my reservations as I'm sure that's what you, the reader, is thinking now too. Eventually, however, curiosity got the better of me and I bought some for three mack. See http://clubfedprison.blogspot.com/2012/08/prison-currency-mackeral.html

I understood why he had that nickname. It was friekin' awesome. He kept it on ice all weekend and the kitchen workers had to undergo food safety classes so...we hoped it was safe. Umm.. Slap yo mamma banana pudding!

Washing your hands after you use the bathroom is important. I start this paragraph with that sentence. However....lots and lots of men don't do it unless they either get shit on their hands by accident or piss all over their hands after using the bathroom. Well....in prison, yes even club fed, it's an absolute requirement. Puddin taught me that.

One day, while I was still new, I took a piss in a urinal, and casually just walked out the door. I didn't get piss on my hands, nothing unusual. Next thing I know I hear Puddin's bombastic voice thrown at me yelling,
"Hey! You need to wash yo hands". I was thinking, what the hell? Who is this guy and why does he care so much about my hands and why is he shaving his big fat chest? But he's really big and black so I think I'm gonna just go wash them.

Over time, I noticed that 99.9% of all inmates wash their hands after the use the bathroom and if they don't, they get harassed by everyone. Signs will be posted over the unit stating the nasty fact. Probably half just run water of their hands or just turn the water on and get a finger wet or something to avoid this retribution. But the routine has stuck with me.

Yes, I'm still running water over my hands. Thanks Puddin'.

The Weight Pile at Club Fed

2012-12-09T12:46:00.000-08:00

Working out in prison is so cliche', I know, but if you've got a few years to kill, then the weight pile at Montgomery FPC is where it's at! It's ironic too because actually weights can no longer be purchased for federal prisons due to some law that got passed years ago, but the funding does extend to repairing what already exists....so, at Maxwell, all the workout machines work and the free weight stuff is pretty much constantly being re-upholstered, repaired, and re-re repaired.

There are about 4 flat benches, 2 inclines, 1 decline, 1 butterfly, 3 squat racks, 1 pull down, 1 ab crunch machine and a couple of ab roller wheels. This is just the free weight stuff. The weight pile, so aptly named, because it is found outside. Under what amounts to a large covered gazebo open to the elements.

I must say, that working out at 5 am on an icy February morning is about the most invigorating thing I've ever done...in prison. It was coooold. But when I left prison, I had an incredible physique. Abs and all.

Now....I still look good but my 8 pack is more like a 4 pack. Now time to drink my 6 pack. I'm gonna pour a little out on the ground for my "homies" still working out right now who are there.

The group of people who you work out with is called "your car". I went through a few different cars but if you're thinking when you get to prison you're just gonna do it all by yourself, let me say, bad idea. Get a car with some guys like yourself who are already doing it and get it all figured out.

Good luck on the weight pile convict.

Knocking on Tables--What's that all about?

2012-12-05T16:22:00.001-08:00

Unfortunately for me, I was not allowed to self surrender to club fed. I had to undergo diesel therapy. Diesel therapy is when they truck you all around the country...sometimes just to fuck with you...sometimes for protocol. I went through two county jails and two federal holdover detention centers before I arrived at club fed...oh that glorious day. (Sarcasm intended?) It was in the Oklahoma Federal Detention Center that I was introduced to knocking on tables.

I arrive to the prison industrial complex. Oklahoma has it's own runway. No shit. It is the central hub of the BOP transfer process. I flew in via CON AIR. It's not like the movies either. I arrive in time for breakfast, get in line, get my ration and go sit down. Within seconds a Mexican come to my table, knocks on it, like a knocking on a door and sits down. He proceeds to tell me that the table I'm sitting at is for Mexicans only and that I can finish my meal but not to sit there again. Needless to say...I didn't sit there again.

Knocking on tables is just what people do when they either sit or get up from a table. Pretty much any table where others are sitting. I asked why and I guess it's so people don't think you're about to jump on them but that never made much sense because you could just knock on the table and then jump on them! Maybe that's just my outlaw mind working. No se pinche buay.

Knocking on tables, ironically, is a very "institutionalizing" act. I still find myself doing it occasionally. Just now, no one really knows why.

Native Americans at Club Fed

2012-12-02T13:42:00.002-08:00

Native Americans, henceforth known as Indians, have a few very unique set of rights in federal prison as they do in the federal government as a whole. For example, they can smoke in prison. I don't mean they just light up cigarettes anywhere they want, but they do have a religious right to ceremonial tobacco smoked out of a big wooden peace pipe. They're not supposed to inhale, at least that's what the ceremony is about, but they all do. In fact, very few are real Indians, if any. Just a bunch of white guys, black guys, and Mexicans that all claim to have some lineage linking them to the womb of Pocahontas.

The sweat lodge is their church and meets once a week. They get off work for the whole day and as they show up real early, they begin to build a big fire. Yes, a BIG fire. And at Maxwell Club Fed, they have some prime outdoor real estate right on the Alabama River. It's incredibly beautiful Year round.

So one guy builds a big fire and they put a bunch of rocks in the the bottom. The rocks are their "grandfathers". Basically, the rocks get hot over a few hours and they have a wooden skeleton of a structure that they completely cover with blankets thus creating a structure by which they bring the hot rocks into the middle of and pour water on top of. Think sauna. Expect occasionally people die around the country from it being too hot. It definitely is a pissing contest among the Indians. There are four rounds, and after each round, they lift up, very slightly, the blankets around the edges of the ground to let him cool air.

I participated several times, mainly to get out of weed-eating all day and it was definitely a very calming experience. The whole experience was very peaceful and serene and I quite enjoyed it. I eventually quit because, like everything, it's somewhat political in nature. The chief was the stubby Cuban who also taught some technical stock class (idiot) and to top it off....it's really fucking hot in there.

But we'd always pass the pipe around and smoke some tobacco and no one could do anything about it. Life was so grand that day. Except for the whole prison thing.