# 10

Say what you want about Peoria, I always do. 

Every morning I exit the County Jail I am accosted by a new and equally offensive odor wafting about. It’s as if I’m located in the middle of an ever evolving (devolving?) trade wind of putrification.

That’s variety.

Yes, I asked to do my sentence here but there's a logic in it that works for me. Peoria's the kind of town you where you don't mind locking yourself up in an institution every night.

My mugshot is now taped to my locker,  at least I’m not just a number here. I'm staring myself down every time I walk in Dorm A. My locker is the only one that faces the door so, technically (and I'm probably over-thinking here) I'm staring down everyone that walks into Dorm A. 

Shaved head, cold stare. 

It's probably the pixel-compression or something. 

I don't even look like that anymore. An alter-ego.

My locker was 'tossed' which, I've found, literally means that they toss your stuff around. 

There apparently is an accreditation inspection forthwith and the officers (some) seem to be on edge and each day I come back there are maximum cleaning attempts being made by my fellow inmates who, it seems, have not been instructed as to best-methods -  e.g., Gooby is cleaning the toilet bowl with a floor mop.

“Gooby” is almost too dumb to write/make fun of.

Like the afflicted children of Agee’s Greensboro, there could be sensed a ting of exploitation as often the case when any demonstrably extreme case of poverty (food/shelter/wits/whathaveyounots) suffers the unflinching eye of literary examination or the nit-picking toils of a part-time felon.

 But yesterday was his last day so, you know…

Gooby has quick tiny steps. The term, ‘scurry’, fails here in light of his height that  I’d guess is top-side of 6ft but not altogether wrong.

This is not at all an unfair depiction of Gooby. In fact a caricature artist would undoubtedly defer to the likeness,

The other night I walk over to the ’dining’ room to check the local paper to see if anyone I know has died or been arrested or if anything of any interest accidently occurred or was on its way to Pergotoria.

     Gooby is seated at the television. He’s holding the remote dearly as if it’s his binky. 

I turn with paper under arm and Gooby twists around and says, “ The Victoria’s Secret show is coming on.” 

I say I’m going to pass and continue out of the room. I can’t imagine sitting down to watch the Victoria’s Secret Soft-core with Gooby or at all. 

          Like, I can’t imagine I’d ever be wanting to stop and watch it anywhere at any time with or without anyone. The models of VS are as alive and stimulating to me as plastic blow up dolls, which I have been (a blow-up doll) on at least two occasions (I thought it was a great idea at the time but later I had a lot of questions for myself). 

Asshole alert; I consider pornography to be the crutch of the unimaginative or the (sadly) unfuckable (my brother was a porn-mag addict who didn’t get laid until he was 22 and in that one time he impregnated the girl and they never had sex again – crushing. He seems to be a good 'dad', though.) and it’s not really ever been a part of my life. 

Unless you count all the hours I watched Fox News Channel.

Maybe I was missing an opportunity. I mean, just imagine the conversation I could’ve had with Gooby sitting there, closely, watching the sexual-equivalent of a billion dollars (see that’s what I mean – pornography [to me] is kind of like sex I can never ‘spend’ and therefore, worthless) seductively parading across the screen. It’s like setting a high –def TV to the Food Channel in front of a starving child. Entirely unsatisfying (granted, masturbation , while never equal to …yeah, I don’t want to write this either). … but think of this poor starving kid, he can’t finger fuck his taste buds into some level of nutritious supplementation.

I am  starving.

Anyway, this conversation; I could have led him down so many paths and recorded it all but then that wouldn’t have been right. 

Just because you can, doesn’t mean you should and really, I’d rather just imagine it.

“Pizzas here! Hey, guys, pizza…Hey, Lipski did you order pizza?” 

I shake my head. I’m disgusted. The whole thing is just... He could at least be like, “Hey, your fuckin’ pizzas here , whoever ordered this shit has got two seconds before it goes back!”

How can I write about the trials and tribulations of work release when the corrections officer is playing middle-man to the pizza delivery boy.

“Hey, hey guys…yoo hoo…”

What can I say?

"I’m in ‘pizza-solitary’ thanks to this fucking ulcer or whatever" ?

Some other idiot is playing “Deer Hunter” (not the fun suicide version with a bullet & a gun) Slingblade is explaining the ins and outs of the 9-11 conspiracy to some ragged convict I’ve not seen before.

It’s Saturday, “Pizza night”. It’s a smelly pajama sleep-over party for people who make bad choices.

I fucking give up.

But honestly, with a nights reflection writing now, It doesn't matter if I'm in WR or Prison or in an ICU or if I signed up to be a military hero or stock shelves at Costco - it's all a stupid fucked up comedy.

#9 The Claspocaust

We arrive at the struggling outdoor mall, The Shoppes of Grand Prairie - the pretentiousness in the use of the spelling 'Shoppes' is noted - Our mission (Jr. & myself) is to pick up some barrels, eight to be exact, 2 of which we've been informed are brimming with buttons and it's suggested we transfer a portion of the buttons to some of the empty barrels. These are the basic instructions I receive along with a key to a storage unit located in the small God-frightened-but-football-worshipping community of Washington, IL. And that we are to gain access to the be-buttoned barrels inside the  "Shoppes" by way of loading zone/receiving area 200. It's here, at area 200 where we wait for some unknown person to meet us and 'show us the way'. 
Ten minutes pass (probably 5 or less) when I have the overwhelming desire for Jr. to stop talking to me. I tell him we should split up, canvas the 200 receiving area, there are 3 doors 200 north, 200 south and , for some reason, 200R. I tell Jr. to stay with the truck in case I go in one door and unknown person comes out another, to which Jr. says "Why?" I do not reply.

200 south is a literal dead end minus the sign. At 200R I follow some fairly shabby corridor and arrive at a door marked 'Justice' with an apt door-type peep hole and a buzzer below a placard that reads: Ring buzzer. I do as instructed.
Just as I mumble aloud, "a lot of good that did" a tiny female voice cautiously says from beyond the door of 'Justice', "Who are you?" spoken in a way that inspires me to say very casually, "I'm here to rob you...can you open the door?"  Instead there is total silence but possibly the faint sound of adrenaline popping through the delicate-brained sales associate on the other side .

Then so, I say, "I'm here to pick up some barrels - eight barrels - some are filled with buttons." After a minute the person says, "I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not supposed to open this door for any one." 

"Then why does it have a button and a sign that says ring buzzer? Is it just for fun?"

 No reply, I can sense she feels she's being harassed. I retreat.

Outside in area 200, Jr. is hocking up a loogie with a kind of dumb-boy look on his face that reminds you of stories on mercy-killings and forced sterilization.

I tell Jr. what happened, ask him if he's seen anyone and he says, "Seen who?"

I wonder aloud what kind of shoppe is 'Justice' . Why the paranoia ? A jewelery store? That would make sense. So I take out my phone and look it up and it's just another American-brat accessorizing store. Probably a lot of throw pillows in pink with big juvenile fonts spelling words like "Princess" glitter galore for upper class trash.

And so then, I call.

"Thanks for calling Justice, I'm Tiffany(or some other annoying name could have been "Becca" I don't know) how may I help you today"

Hi, this is Dexter from Bradley and were conducting a snap poll of area merchants selling youth apparel and we were wanting to ask you a few questions

"Okay..."

What's the most expensive item you have in the store?

"Ummm, I don't know. But I can't tell you the price"

You can't tell me the price because you don't know or because "you can't tell me the price"?

"I can't give out our prices"

Is it a secret? Are there tags on the merchandise  or do people just not care and hand you a credit card.

[silence]

Don't you think it's strange? I mean, you can call any store and they'll tell you how much something is. It just sounds really strange. 

"It's company policy"

Do you think it's a good policy? To not even give a ballpark? I bet their website has prices. You don't think it's odd? This is like, the opposite of customer service. I bet you sell plastic princess tiaras in there.

"I just know it's company policy to not give out prices over the phone and I have to get off the phone I'm with a customer."

Are you really with a customer or just saying that to get me off the phone?

"Yes, there is a customer here"

Is there a manager there?

"I'm the manager."

You're the manager?

"yes"

You don't sound managerial.

"what?"

Is there a manager that manages you like a higher-up manager or something?

"No, I'm the only one working right now"

Oh, probably shouldn't have told me that. I bet that's company policy to not divulge that kind of information 

"For your information -"

Look, I gotta go, you got a customer that's not there to help. Have an appropriate corporate authorized  day.





The unknown person arrives and leads us in through 200north and then to a padlocked door nearly falling out of it's casing. 

"All these barrels go"

The story on the buttons is this: on the other side of the wall in the courtyard between the "shoppes" sits a memorial to 'The Holocaust" there are a dozen or more six-sided glass enclosures filled with buttons.

 Each button represents a Jewish victim of 'The Holocaust' (actually I'm not sure if they're including the non-Jew holocaust victims but seeing as those  non-Jews included Christians and we'd have to assume some non-affiliated altogether -  then being that religions are so prickly about symbols being attached and etc. I'd have to say that the 6 sided cylindrical containers are Jew-only Representative buttons)

The buttons we are in charge of are 'extra' victims/buttons or perhaps simply surplus.

 Or stand-ins, although, I'm not sure of the purpose of, well, do buttons go bad? Given the context and the symbolism of these buttons  - what I mean is here in this cluttered storage area these are just dirty surplus buttons but literally 15ft away 'these' buttons are a solemn sacred you know...- well, imagine their horror if me and Jr (who happens to be of German heritage to boot) were out in the courtyard sucking the buttons/representative symbols of holocaust victims ( I mean you'd think Or I would think that out there I'd feel it necessary to gently lift one button at a time ,carefully cover it with a tiny button blanket,after performing the Taharah.You know, in case anyone was watching.

Jr is manning the shop vac attached barrel with the discharge air blasting his face. He says, after a half hour of button vacuuming, "Man, I got dry throat" I say, "You got Jew throat." and he laughs in a way that made me wish I hadn't said it.

The horror of the button-holocaust-in-reverse continues as we load 'them' on to a truck to transport the buttons to their internment quarters which will be behind an orange roll-up door.

We've also been instructed to remove and "destroy"(actual term used by note writer , Sue, from the Jewish Federation) tens of paint cans and some kind of props to make room for the barrels to be stored.

I can not help myself - 

Jr. willingly poses

Gray Sunday

Adidas catches me at a weak moment. He'd popped his swollen hawk face into the room and said they were cutting us loose, 'right now'. 
A twelve hr furlough just became 12hrs and 45 minutes, something about chronological chaos and the hours trading places - daylight whatevers and in my jubilation I agreed to XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
The questions and commentary are non-stop as they fall out of his constantly gaped mouth. He doesn't actually form words but allows some type of verbal flatulence to escape his pie and junk food hole.
He won't shut up.
He won't shut up.










He won't shut up.

 It's like waking up and soon coming to the ugly hangover that's just about to kick in as the last bit of buzz leaves you naked and shivering. 
This will not be a habit (XXXXXXXXXXX) and I'll express as much to him tonight when he is sure to think that somehow we are peers or comrades or...

He insisted on giving me five bucks if I'd allow him to run in the house and make change, I won't allow it, I just want to get the fuck away from  him XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

He's a big shot, he says him and his brother own a lot of properties, in fact they're now about to 'invest' in a dozen, who knows, maybe more, 'upscale homes' - he's talking 60-70k, estates no less - he says he can get me some work, cash work, he'll square it with the jail staff, he went to school with a bunch of them , he's been here 8-9 times etc vomit. 
He says that his brother knows me and that I have a 'solid reputation'. 
Obviously his brother is lost in ignorance.

He tells me he has 17 guys working for him, he's got this and that and XXXXXXXX because, you know, his mom wasn't coming until 8 o'clock because that's when we we're supposed to get cut.

Get out of my head you pile of urges.

No such luck.
Earlier he was shoveling generic cocoa puffs and 2% with his face 12"s from the screen watching kid-you-fucking-not Soul Train. 
It's on every morning he says.
 I'm not usually up and just hanging out. I (usually)get up 4 minutes before it's time to leave for work but I'm caught up in the vortex of time-change and so I've showered, had a decaf green/white tea and  cherry Poptarts (not my favorite but I've made my bed and now must lie in cherry Poptart crumbs). Steak and eggs is for the elite class. Then it pops in my head for just a minute out of nowhere - Jeff Foxworthy is blue collar? What the fuck does JF know about...never mind.

Anyway, the whole mornings been a whirlwind since I was interrupted in pod 2, busily scribbling what was somehow morphing into pseudo-poetry 
 (what poetry isn't pseudo-something better? poetry is a writers way of saying, "I can't get my shit together, see what you make of this.") 

- inspired by the abomination that is infomercials which is really all for the most part everything on the fucking...

 [Except the other night I caught a documentary about banjo, 'Give me the banjo" to be exact. Woody Guthrie is mentioned and happens to be (WG) one of only five biographies I ever read(unless you count a bio on the Marx Bros collective and then which there have been 3 more and I never count the 'other' bros because you know why) by the middle of the Guthrie bio I despised him and by the end I was him.
And I also caught in the WG book the first notion that Dylan was more of an opportunist then people might think (actually this is the second, the first being his crooning for Victoria's Secret several years ago and so the following second was actually the third) the second was from Dylan himself in his auto-bio wherein he also relates that all that cowboy shit he cranked out in the seventies was indeed 'shit I flung against the wall and stuck, then went back scraped the floor and imprinted the really bad watery stuff' (paraphrased, but more than less the exact quote) he didn't want to be apart of a revolution (meet a few 'revolutionaries' and you won't either) he just wanted to make music. The honesty was appreciated and so I kept him]


Jail Update: 
Bleacher is gone, outta here. 
New guy (boring, so you know, not mentioned earlier) got walked (sent over to the main jail. Friday night) for some violation I'm only casually interested in knowing and therefore have no idea.

Three more came in . 
I don't think I have to tell you, this is not pleasing to myself but at least I have somethings more to complain about. 

Cedric The Oxygen Tank Inhaler was walked as well, something about him being a loud mouth. There is sanity amongst the rank and file after all.

One of the new guys asks another if he wants to play pool. Yes, there's a god damn pool table in here.
 I'm trying to take in the history of banjo and the new guys think it's time to start cracking balls.
 In my twisted interpretation they're exactly right. 
Fortunately they have not four quarters between them . Tweedleduh stands gape-mouthed while Tweedledouche is inspired to interrupt me for a quarter.

"Do you have a quarter for two dimes and a nickle?"

I look up and say, what? but like, you are not asking me to help you two retards play cocks and balls are you?
  Game aborted.




oN tHE jOB:
Jeffery-Jeffro-Jimmy-Joe-Jackass-Jr. 
He prefers 'Jr'. This is his truck window.

I mention to Dick(in name and character), one of the sales people, that if I were a person of a certain hue and pulled into the parking lot and looked up to see 'Jr' the new warehouse guy's ford truck with a gunless rack I'd put it in reverse and spend my floor covering money anywhere else that has enough sense not to let a moron employee park his piece of shit rebel-yell next to their carpet store.

Dickard (yet another bastardization of Richard) launches into the weak but well worn ass-vomit about the flag 's 'true history' I say it's entirely bullshit, that I bet all the booze in his cabinet at home (it's all he spends his money on, he drinks like a scary hermit with tell-tale hearts beneath each floorboard) that dumb fuck Jr is not interested or even aware of the 'history' and is wholly unprepared to be engaged in a conversation pertaining to states rights.

 He says it's just a flag, a flag can't be racist. I say a cross is just a cross it can't save the world I don't care what you nail to it and if I set it on fire in my yard I couldn't say well, I like a good vertical  fire in the fall.

 I tell him I can't put a swastika on my hat and walk around claiming that I'm just a big fan of  Greco-Roman antiquity and I can't show up at the Hillel with my 'historical' interest symbol and expect the folks to let me in to measure for new wall to wall.
 I tell him it's okay, it's not a crime to be a racist, then walk off.
The old goat stands up  and hollers, "you don't know the history" and I shout back across the showroom that I do in fact 'know the history' and that you don't need to be as old as dirt to know history and if he hassles me about irrelevant details in my measures for his customers I'm going to bury him in historical detail of the entire place.,


The manager pulls me aside the next day, says we need to go over a few things about my measures and Dickards (feigned) confusion when it comes to certain details, no big deal he says, just so 'we're all on the same page'.

Full detail:

This is the page we are all on now.

# 8 Room & Bored

So toss the dirty diaper out of the car and go in and see your "man" via video visitation and fuck it.

Inside it smells like a tanker of semen overturned in the dorms. Must be a new Maxim issue being passed around.
 "The Bleacher" is absent I notice because I haven't heard any ranting about the smell.
Maybe he's protesting.
The "Bleacher" is a fairly restrained moniker for this particular convict.
The bathroom, the odor in particular, is his focus of rage more oft than not.
The last time he had at it with bleach, my eyes burned for three hours.
 He's a maniac.
In the mornings he strolls through with a bottle of Gold Bond medicated powder and locks himself in the stall. I really don't want to think about it, the issue, the GB ritual. It's everyday. Chaffing, no, forget it...

He's bent at the waist 90 degrees when he brushes his teeth. He seems to force his teeth against the brush back and forth instead of using the sane, rational approach most people employ.

He's also a habitual/borderline-obsessive snorter and hocker  upper of  loogies.

If a cup of bleach will do, he's fine with a half gallon.
I think he's working with a 1:1 ratio.

 Rule of thumb is a 1/4 cup to a gallon but you know, not for bad asses who pierce their nasal septum and put a shiny horseshoe shaped whatever fucking thing through it. Like a bull nose-ring but on a really skinny anorexic 5' 7" 'bull'.

"I know it smells strong but it needed it."

Of course. 
You've done all the appropriate clinical/safety trials.
It's a clean that leaves your membranes bleeding, really thorough.
He even wears gloves.

He's also, as it only recently occurred to me, right now, been trying to manipulate the guards into getting rid of the fan. Here's how -

Not too long ago I come in from work and he's hanging around the guard's pod and saying that the fat man and the Mexican (his terms)are fighting over the direction and/or placement of the fan that sits on the floor(I enjoy it for the steady humming noise of the blades) he says he can't take it, doesn't know what he's gonna do, it's driving him crazy.

The guards are amused.
Next day, Adidas says to me, "Hey Lipski, you know what happened to the fan?"

"No, what happened?"

"It's broke"

"Huh."

The plug had been sabotaged by breaking off one of the prongs. This was no accident, I looked at it, it wasn't a wear and tear thing. It didn't occur to me earlier because why should it - usually distracted with anything else.
I'm fairly sure there never was an argument between the fat man and the Mexican over the fan. I think the Bleacher doesn't like the fan because he gets hit with it after it sheers over Adidas and the fan is pulling from the bathroom that Bleacher has been chemically trying to take down since I got here.
So he figures if he breaks it, that's it. There's no budget for new fans, the tiles falling off the walls.

Fat man was persistent and maintenance replaced the plug. 
Fat man 2 - Bleacher 0

There's more but you know...

Also, Bleacher is deeply suspicious of my writing. I'd say he's paranoid that I'm writing about him.

"So, what are you - writing about all the happenings in Peoria County Jail."
 I give him a dismissive laugh and say, "It's not that interesting."

And it's not, (interesting I mean) my whole life is a not very interesting story (heroic struggles? Everest? World Record? TV credit?) but I've always been compelled to narrate or document or compile or whatever-extrapolate meaning from the damn thing.

Call it free-lance. (Those who can, do. Those who can't, teach. Those who have 'issues' do neither and call it free-lance.)

I've found that certain behaviors in here can be curtailed simply by picking up a pen and notepad and writing with, what I assume, is a very stern expression on my face (or very amused depending on certain behavior observed).

The pen is sometimes mightier than the bored.

# 7

Sling Blade checked in Friday with a one-off impression of the character that made BBT famous. This one's sporting a mohawk that's mostly grown out. Mid 50's? fuck I don't know, could be a severely weathered 40's.

I'm on my bunk finishing up last weeks NYT
 Sling Blade lurches over and asks me , "Cans you have plastic hangers, here?"
 I tilt the paper forward-down and look up at him "I don't know."
He retreats but is still looking for answers(it's all in the handbook).

 This guy was not going to stop at one question. I'm not much for questions.

SB is already complaining - "...in a place like this you'd expect them guards to wake you up for work, mm hmm."

"You gotta pay to do the laundries?"

"How much?"

The voice in your head that's talking like Sling Blade is pretty much dead on. He doesn't do the "mm hmm" but I added it for our enjoyment.
I've got SB for 120 days -

Also last night Adidas , who is a nosy walrus, is scarfing food and says to me , "Lipski, did you have any of this?"

"No"

"What did you eat today?"

"Do you seriously want a list of what I had to eat today?"

"You never eat"


"The question is, why do you eat this shit? You're out for twelve hours a day and then you come in here and shovel this shit down your throat."

"It's free food"


"It's shit. I don't eat shit."

"You better get used to it."

(this makes no sense I don't have to get used to it I'm in work-release)

"Why would I have to get used to it?"

Now he's out of things to say.

 He also takes interest in my writing at least enough to ask me the same questions - "So, Lipski, what are you writing like a book or a journal or something? Have you ever written a script? Me and my brother have always wanted to write a script but neither one of us can write for shit or you know, have any ideas."

Then why in the fuck would you 'always' feel compelled to write a script? And I don't think there's any question as to what type of script he'd want to write the only question is if Stallone  is up for another Rambo (probably).
He and his assumed moronic brother probably always wanted to got to Mars after watching Total Recall  or wanted to fly jets after watching ....

This I promise:
 The next time I am asked about 'my writin', I will say, "I write about people who bother the shit out of me and I post it on the internet and a few people read about you."



Young guy wants to know what I'm drawing. I say I'm sketching out a plan for a small trailer I'm converting into a camper, he says, "Oh, so your drawing something real, then?"

Yes, it's really real, really, like you, terribly real.

Cedric The Oxygen Tank Inhaler pulls out a chair right behind me with the box of dominoes in his other hand. He's entirely too loud and also supplementary-annoying for a guy that needs oxygen assistance.

This, however, can not stand. Not right fucking behind me.

"You're not going to sit behind me, right? You're fucking kidding me."

"What habee tah fooh payta (? - also really hard to understand despite volume/forced oxygen [which, I should mention is used 'as needed', not like it's a permanent appliance, yet])

"You're loud"

"Wha?"

"YOU'RE TOO FUCKING LOUD I CAN'T STAND YOU WHEN YOU'RE IN THE OTHER ROOM YOU CAN NOT POSSIBLY BE CONSIDERING SITTING RIGHT BEHIND ME."


(What? He's hard of hearing)

Anyway, he sits at the far side of the table behind me and I think, I just think, he tried to work on his inside voice.
Then he offered me a Jolly Rancher. I passed.

# 12

                                                      18:00hrs

Reporting home. The usual frisk/pat down. A good one lets me know they miss me.
Then, Officer ________ says, "Hey, Lipski, did aah, you go to medical to get your DNA redone? [Oh fuck, what string of unsolved crimes is the only question now]"
No. Redone?
"Did aah, yeah. Did anbody aah -"
No.
"Okay, when aah you aah get back aah, we gotta get you back to medical. Seattle wants another DNA swab with their own kit or aah, I don't know, aah, whatever."
Oh. (Oh, holy fuck. This is how it all starts, 'Just need another sample, very routine...")
I'll spare you the full page of caffeine induced paranoia. I'm the only one who would slam coffee before reporting to jail. Everyone else here is in a Tylenol PM coma.

18:45hrs

Officer Cheney (no relation) escorts me to medical for my DNA redo, I try to remain calm. 
The air is thick with internal fidgeting and bleach.Nurse comes in, jaunty full size girl. Classic sassy plus-size with a pretty smile and seemingly implausable good spirit.
"Where do I know you from?"
I don't -
"Comedy club! You were down there talkin' about, what the fuck was it? I don't know, it was fuckin' funny."
Oh, yeah.
 "Walmart or somethin', shit."
Cheney is unmoved. Solid ice. I try to crack it.
Did you get a lot of Cheney jokes?
(a full 3-5seconds pass - )
"No."
(another 3-5) 
(Really)
"Most of it was just, 'any relation?'."
lack of eye contact/barely a pulse/jaw tension
My unspoken follow up question "are you?" (Related to D Cheney/D Vader)

Turns out he's an okay guy, has a sense of humor, just not good with people. I get that.

# 1

Names and identifying characteristics/particulars have been changed/omitted for obvious reasons

Slightly expanded notes & conclusions N&C -a are included at the bottom of the page.

22-June-2011

The booking process is mostly uneventful and only a little awkward when the high school tour group comes through - with just me, your captive reporter, sitting in the booking room facing the glass that separates the bookers from the bookees (the booking process could be volatile in certain situations - you can imagine).

The god damn piece of shit $2,500.00 finger print scanner wasn't fuckin' workin' - as the lady put it - so we had to "do it old school" (again 'lady').

There is an enormous amount of cussing among the jail staff, you might say a 'gratuitus amount'.

There is also, among the staff, a large percentage missing front teeth (noticed in booking room, to be fair)

The cursing/cussing/swearing etc what have you is all benign work place banter. It actually comes off as a kind of "Kiss my grits." road side diner but with

           XXXXX
                   and
                 XXXXXX
with badges pinned to
xxxxxxx xxxx xxxx
serving the food.

Those who do not get the diner analogy/reference it's not worth the sidebar to explain so, you know, disregard.

While staring at a plate of 'food' that's been offered (and politely, oddly sincerely - therefore, suspiciously offered) a conversation between officer

             xxxxxx
                     and                     xxxx concerns the assassination of JFK (which is, by the way, like talking about baseball, TV etc - boring)

Officer________

                 
says that he's always said that it was Johnson & Hoover behind the whole thing - "I'm dead certain." - he adds, thusly preempting any debate on the preamble.

"I'm dead certain" said in a way or a tone that suggests officer_______

is dead certain about a lot
xx xxxxxx
he has no xxxxxx xxxx xxxxxxxxxxxbased on facts/reality. 

Like, as when, in May when gas was $4.19 and I said it would be $5 by summer - I had no idea - I was, as the staff might and do say, "Talkin' out my ass."

Enter into booking hive - mammoth bull head deputy_______

(some names I do not want to omit for obvious reasons -humor/self-sabotage but....) 

His head is shaved in such a way as to suggest it's been shorn to the second third or fourth dermal layer with a salve of car wax applied and buffed to an ultra-high sheen - a ritual, you might imagine, performed in the nude with a straight razor and ear damaging levels of death metal.

But still, a little more 'together' than Loughner.

Heard not seen: "Looks like third shift didn't do a damn bit of paperwork last night! I mean, what the fuck?"

Usual On The Job Complaints met with the usual OTJ indifference.

11:30am

DNA swab

N&C-b

Anything outside of Standard Operating Procedure - e.g., A DNA swab is, here @PCJ, usually sealed in a postage paid, preaddressed, plastic mailer sleeve but when faced with a Non-SOP or slight variation in the swab-seal-send SOP (say, the DNA is to be sent to a different jurisdiction - and out of state -OMFG) brain cells_____

                           neurons                          xxxxxxx xxxxxx             implode and xx xxx xxxxxxxxxxx xxx xxxx xx xxxx

Anger, confusion, Perp-perplexion. 

N&C-c

Heard but not seen:

"Can I ask a rhetorical question?"

I do not how to properly illuminate here the level of

xxxxxxxxx xxx xxxxxxx xxxx! xxx xxxx?

12ish

Scrub my bunk and locker with some kind of acrid green fluid in a spray bottle.

Delousing powder not available, another movie fantasy destroyed. 

I scrub so thoroughly that one of the other 'residents' asks me if I work there

N&Cd

12:45

Make my bed, lay in it.

3:12

Fall off bunk, land on edge of steel bunk below and bruise several ribs, crack one.

 Various other injuries incurred.

N&Ce

Jailer asks me, "You still doing comedy?"

Paris is beautiful this time of year, even to a corpse.

Seen but not hearing:

A lumbering disheveled (and grumpy looking too) jailer with a large hearing aid distinctly stuck in his ear - I assume it's a hearing aid, it's "massive" as the british like to say

(British affinity for words that begin mass-) it could be a control port. 

As he walks he rises to one side and drops to the other repeatedly- it's the worse case of uneaqualibrium I've ever witnessed.

Notes & Conclusions

a)Never mind

b) Does the thought of your DNA being compared to a data bank of DNA from unsolved crimes give you a slight, tiny, chilling pause?

c)It is also not advisable to, as an inmate, offer to pay for additional postage and suggest a Sharpie as solution to the "How do we change the address on the mailer sleave?" problem.

d) Do I work there? I'm a convict, not a

xxxx.

e)Beyond some magical miniature voo doo doll being held vengefully somewhere in Seattle, I have no idea how exactly this happened.I'm not what you'd call "uncoordinated" although I do have a very specific strain of "luck".

"What's with the crazy font changes and stuff?"

- ask blogger. Backspacing in Google land may cause the axis to shift. All of them.