20 March 05

Odds & Ends

My former cellmate, Jerry, has returned and is now housed in Building 1.

Long Island has stopped earning tickets and has commenced a marketing correspondence course. He has turned out to be a good cellmate. He is respectful and easy going, but also someone who stands up for himself if anyone tries to push him around. Long Island gets released later this year, so I will have to shop around for a new cellmate shortly before he leaves, as I don’t want to end up playing what's called the "celly lottery": waiting for a random assignment, which can be good or bad. The key to happiness here is good cellmate chemistry.

I have a workout partner, Popcorn, who claims to be seven-eighths Chicano and one-eighth Pima Indian. Together we do my yoga routine and his jogging routine. Popcorn can walk on his hands and he has helped me half master the scorpion pose – I can hold the pose for up to thirty seconds but my feet do not touch my head. We jog up to five miles every couple of days and with Popcorn’s motivation I’ve been attending the twice-weekly 5:00am breakfasts in order to go to the 6:30am rec sessions. In order to rise so early, I now go to sleep between 9:00pm and 10:pm.

I’ve been trying to start a correspondence course with Rio Salado Community College but it’s a slow process.

In the chow hall, I sit at a table with String Bean and Fish. String Bean is the skinniest man in the unit – and probably the entire complex – standing six-feet tall and weighing
one-hundred-and-twenty-two pounds. He is so thin that the Medical Unit has authorised him to receive extra chow. Fish is an occultist intellectual with a British sense of humour, who, tragically, is HIV positive. Fish is due to be released shortly, and String Bean gets out in one year’s time.

Thank you for your support. I hope that your letters, emails, comments and questions keep coming because reading them makes my day.

Cheers! Jon

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Are we being moved?

The inmates are speculating that our entire unit is about to be moved. Probably to Tucson.

I spoke to a member of staff today who confirmed that the entire unit is being moved – destination unknown – within the next few months. He stated that this unit is being converted into a high-medium yard and that ninety inmates from Pima County are waiting to be moved here.


For up to date info on inmate movements see here http://www.azceg.org/


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15 March 05



I had better never see a book than to be warped by its attraction clean out of my own orbit, and made a satellite instead of a system.

Ralph Waldo Emerson The American Scholar 1837


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10 March 05

Anal Virginity Threats: Adam's Fetish
(Threat level: medium)

My behind is dodging a triple threat. Frankie and George have been joined by Adam. The fact that I just want to be left alone seems to have impassioned them further.

Adam introduced himself a few weeks ago:
“Wassup! I hear you’re from England?”
“Yeah.”
“I fuckin' dig English dudes. You wanna know why?”
“Why?
“I had a porno movie collection and there was somethin’ different about the English dudes that I just fuckin’ love.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Can you guess what I’m talkin’ about?”
“Probably.”
“The English guys were all uncut. I just love to see that. Are all English guys uncut?”
“As far as I know, only America and countries like Israel do it.”
“Yep, they butcher us at birth and charge us for it. It’s a scam. Uncircumcised men are a rarity around here They just drive me wild.”
“Well, I’m straight, so I’m not going to be able to help you in that department.”
“Alright then, but if you change your mind.”

More recently:
“I heard that you were into S & M on the streets?”
“A little. Why?”
“And I know that you’re into yoga, so you must be real flexible.”
“I’m flexible.”
“I love flexible guys. I’ve got somethin’ I wanna tell you about.”
“What is it?”
“You’re open minded right?” You wouldn’t take offence if I told you somethin’?”
“I doubt it. But it's still no if you’re looking to shag me!”
“Well, there’s somethin’ that I’m really into.”
“Yeah. Spit it out then.”
“OK, I’ll give you the rundown on how this came about. I had a boyfriend in here right, about a year ago.”
“Yeah.”
“We used to fuck around all the time. Anyway, this one day, he was positioned doggy style and I was lickin’ his ass.”
“Oh dear.”
“Just wait. Its about to get much better. So I was lickin’ his ass right and out of nowhere he accidentally – well, actually, it might have been on purpose – he farted in my mouth.”
“How terrible!”
“Yeah and he made it seem like it was an accident but he was fuckin’ laughin’ at the time.”
“It didn’t bother you?”
“It amused me. For a second, it was like an egg in the face, but I was in the moment, so I resumed what I was doin’.”
“Licking his arse?”
“Yes, goin’ to town on his ass.”
“Did he fart on you again?”
“No. Not on the same evening.”
“But it did happen again?”
“Well, yeah, actually, it grew to the point that it was highly entertaining, so I encouraged it.”
“Didn’t it put a weird taste in your mouth?”
“That’s what was so cool about it, his farts didn’t smell. If there was an offensive odour, I wouldn’t have done it.”
“So, did you start demanding that he would fart in your mouth?”
“Kinda. Later on. What I did was make bets with him.”
“Like what?”
“Silly little bets. If I lost he would have to fart ten times in my face bare-assed.”
“I assume that you lost quite a bit?”
“Oh yeah. I picked things to ensure that I would lose.”
“You loaded the dice so that you would end up being farted on?”
“Naturally.”
“And this man could perform ten back-to-back farts after you intentionally lost these bets?”
“Well, as many as he could do at one time. I would count them and carry the balance over until the next session.”
“So what started out as an accidental fart on the face turned into a sexual thrill?”
“Most certainly. I have this thing about – I dunno – I like to lick ass, and the fact that the farts didn’t stink, it wasn’t offensive, added some spice to the ass lickin’.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah. I would lick his ass, he would fart in my mouth, I would fuck him, and he wouldn’t even need lotion or lubrication because he was so turned on by farting in my mouth, which turned me on all the more.”
“That good eh?”
“Yeah. The farts were like foreplay.”
“He was a talented man, if he could fart repeatedly at will and they never smelled too bad.”
“Yeah. When he owed me enough farts, he’d put me on standby until he was ready and when it was all good, I’d depants him and go to town.”
“And now you see farts in a whole new light?”
“Somethin’ like that.”
“Thanks for sharing that with me. Your tendency is unusual – I only ever read about it once in a Marquis de Sade book. I'd like to write about it. Would you mind?”
“If you think it’s interesting enough, I don’t give a shit, just don’t let anyone know who I am.”
“OK. I’ll change your name.”
“I like the name Adam.”
“Adam will work.”

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6 March 05

Loneliness

It is 11:40am and I am miserable. Claudia - the young lady who I was living with and engaged to at the time of my arrest - had promised that she would visit today but she hasn’t shown up. Visitation hours range from 8.00am until 3.00pm, and the afternoon is near. I was up bright and early, showered and shaved, beaming in anticipation of her company, but every passing hour has increased my tension. I am so sad my appetite has vanished.

This state of mind is not Claudia’s fault - it is my own. I am forever in her debt for everything she did for me. It would be wrong to expect her to put her life on hold for me. If I love her then shouldn't I want her to be happy? It's difficult. Losing her is one of the worst things that's happened to me. But what can I do? Kick and scream? Feel sorry for myself? Or try to be like Mr. Spock? There's a difficulty with trying to be like Mr. Spock: I am human, emotional, and fallible. And fragile on days like these.

5 March 05

Good Suffering at Tent City

Link to New Times article about Leslie and other victims in the gulag.

4 March 05

Observations from the Rec Field

It’s 5pm and I’m sat at a picnic table on the rec field.
“We gotta lotta shit to do.”
“What shit we gotta do?”
“Wide pushups, pullups, dips.”
Nearby, two stocky Chicanos are working out. One of them, Mooga, will be released later this year. The other, Horns, is serving a life sentence. They look like mini-Arnold Schwarzeneggers, but with beer bellies. They are topless, clad in knee-length orange sports shorts, toting Sony cassette players on their hips. Their Blues Brothers-style sunglasses make them appear comical and dangerous. They are taking turns suspending themselves by their toes from a picnic table and performing downward-sloping pushups. As their muscles ripple the turquoise tattoos on their coffee-coloured skin come to life.
“One more set.”
“How many are we doin’?”
“Five.”
“We’ve already done five!”
“Then let’s do another five.”
“Ah, fuck no!”
They are departing, strutting their pumped-up physiques with arms akimbo. They resemble gunslingers ready to draw their Walkmans. Shrinking in size as they swagger into the distance, they now look like little birds stretching their wings.

Being outdoors is soothing - if you don't pay attention to the architecture of oppression: the endless razor wire, and battleship-grey buildings.

Lamps, on steel poles, seem to be hovering in the sky. They look like the UFOs described by H.G. Wells in War of the Worlds.

Practising a variety of basketball shots, is Speedy, a youngster. Speedy falls. “Damn!”
Stretching his lower limbs he assessess the damage.

Mooga and Horns are approaching, their bickering is growing louder.
“Before we do da dips, lets do dat one over dere.”
“You’re fuckin’ gay, man!”
“You talk alotta shit every day, man. Lets go”
“You go homes!”
“I already did my set, man”
“Okay. Here I go”
“Dis man, Mooga, can work out, talk a lotta shit, and smoke at the same time.”
“Tu tambien.” (You also.)
In a voice like Johnny Rotten’s, Mooga is singing, “Insane in the membrane! Insane in the brain! You’re insane, got no brain!”
By placing his knees over one dip bar, Horns is suspended upside down, he is using the other dip bar to do pullups.
Wheelo, a thinner Chicano joins them.
“Don’t fuck with Wheelo. That’s the Godfather right there,” Mooga says and helps himself to one of Wheelo’s cigarettes.
Horns shoulderbarges Wheelo.
“What’d I tell you! Don’t fuck wiv Wheelo!”
The Chicanos are getting smaller again as they head for the outdoor urinal.
The sun is trying to hide behind the Administration Building. Its rays are causing Speedy’s sweaty chest to glisten.

The Chicanos are back.
Looking directly at me Mooga yells,“You, come here!”
“You come here,” I say.
“No you come here!”
“Estoy ocupado ahorita.” (I’m busy right now.)
“Don’t gimme that shit. I want to show you somethin’.”
Undoubtably, Mooga wants to show me something I don't want to see, so I change the subject.
“How would you describe yourself, Mooga?”
“Vindictive, out of control, wild.”
The Chicanos are on the move again. Mooga is yelling obscenities and throwing gravel at Wheelo.
The sun is almost out of sight. The rain clouds have wandered west and a pink tinge is making them look more cheerful. The wind is carrying the smell of manure.
“Rec is terminated! Rec is terminated!”

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