Prison Proxy

Clarifying Comments

2010-01-04T04:21:00.000-08:00

The following are my responses to some readers’ latest comments.

In responding to my post, “Moving Forward,” Andy D asked how I handled the wood card situation at my new unit. Well, my new unit, with its foremost focus on education, and many unprecedented freedoms it bestows upon its inmates, has no active cliques or gangs. (In fact, this is where they send those in the gang renunciation program). Any fights, drug busts, etc. result in the offender’s being promptly shipped to a “rock and roll” unit.

So, the issue of whether I’m a wood or not never even came up when I arrived here. As I’m quite idealistic, I mainly laid down my woodcard (i.e. disassociated with the ‘woods’) at my last unit because that’s where it was a possibly perilous thing to do, and as such where I could express my disdain at such tribalism most effectively. It would have been pragmatic for me to simply wait to arrive here where I knew it would be a non-issue, but I thought that would be cowardly.

Or should I say, “Wood be cowardly.” ☺

In responding to my post, “Earning Forgiveness,” Jennie brought up true forgiveness. Just to be clear, when I use the term ‘earned forgiveness’ it is oxymoronic. Forgiveness, as such, tends to be given whether it’s been earned or not. The only problem with forgiving those who haven’t earned it is that such serves to incentivize their continued bad behavior. Just as waiting to forgive until they’ve redeemed themselves incentivizes the good behavior, and understandings, that lead to redemption. What I’ve been attempting to understand and define is when and how redemption actually occurs in various situations; or, put differently, how to quantify justice.

As regards to Jennie’s questions about my post, “Penitentiary Strategic Capital,” yes, in unit craftshops, any inmate/non-inmate business is conducted via money transfers to his trust fund. As for running a store, the profits are paid in commissary. But, when the profits accumulate to a certain amount, say, $100, one could sell that entire amount of commissary to another inmate—a network member—for $80, but in the form of money that his family sends to your family (and they can put it in your bank account). I used to take either side of this transaction based on my cash flows at the time.

As for stamps, I didn’t sell them at a discount; I bought them at a discount. For $30 in commissary, I’d buy 100 stamps. And when I’d use them in my craftshop venture, or in other ways, I’d lock in a 14 cent profit per stamp.

A wing of 200 inmates, in a prison that only runs store once every two weeks, can generally support four stores that each turn over $50 in commissary every two week store period. If an enterprising inmate were to have an equity stake in five or six of these stores on a unit, then he would earn a nice little amount of money.

By taking equity stakes in stores, or craftshop businesses, or buying others’ debt or equity stakes for discounts, or arbitraging stamps, I was basically trying to grow a financial economy atop the active real economy of a prison. And, like when hedge funds set up shop in far off and rudimentary lands, I was trying to reap profits by introducing such measures. Also, however, like the hedge funds, only a relative few inmates will directly profit from these measures, but everyone will be better off. Moreover, with moral investment opportunities hogging the available capital, the cigarette and drug trades will weaken.

Lastly, in responding to my post, “Man vs. Idea,” Anonymous really let me have it. In that post, I’m attempting to discern the relationship between the man and his ideas, and punishment and redemption. Even if my particular view is wrong, it’s hardly meaningless. As for my “cries of injustice being drowned out by the dull droning of a thousand inmates,” I thank you for the compliment, Anonymous. And if you’re right, well, I’ll take solace in that I fought the good fight. If I can come across as condescending, I apologize. And please define “tactically focused points” and I might try to write them. Might…

I’d bet that Anonymous, like myself, is sarcastic and pokes fun. I only make fun of vice though. In patronizingly calling me “intellectual and philosopher,” however, Anonymous is making fun of my virtues. Now, which of us is justified?

Old Farts

2009-12-30T04:09:00.000-08:00

I once wrote about an amusing barometer with which one could track the evolution of closeness between cellmates in prison. Basically, when cellis are not close, the passing of gas when both are in the cell will be done with the height of decorum, standing by the door, and gravely saying ‘excuse me.’

When they’re getting closer, they won’t even make a pretense at getting up to go to the door; will pass gas wherever they and their celli happen to be, and will accompany with stifled snickers of ‘excuse me.’

And finally, when they’re quite close, they’ll pass gas wherever they and their celli happen to be, with stifled snickers and purposefully refraining from saying ‘excuse me’ or any other sort of warning.

Now, let me stress that this particular evolution of closeness generally takes place within the framework of the juvenile predisposition of young men. The joke implicit in passing gas without saying excuse me, however, is exactly the impropriety therein. Hence, though we have desensitized humor, we do know and respect proper decorum in normal social interactions.

Here on my new unit, with its preponderance of older inmates, gas still gets passed within indecorous proximities, but their motive, or lack thereof, for such is completely different. It seems like the average older inmate tends toward the disheveled, is not overly hygienic, and, I hate to say, subsists rather than lives.

The utterance of an older man as we waited to go to breakfast this morning best symbolizes their general plight. We’d been standing about for ten minutes, when one fellow told another that it looked like, due to who was passing by our wing in the hall, that we’d be waiting for a while. The latter, with purported sagacity, said, “Oh well, I have more time than money.” And to that, I could only emit, ever so softly, the heretofore described high pitched hum that symbolizes, “Man, shut your b___ a$$ up!” ☺

Snapping me, however, from this 4:00am impromptu dramatization, was the stench from gas passed in the immediate vicinity. Yet, there were no stifled snickers or smirk preventing grimaces. Instead, everyone silently moved away from the area. It was simply a normal occurrence. We of the juvenile predisposition at least understand the impropriety of that act. We’re just motivated to, in the proper context, make light of it. The cliché older inmate doesn’t understand said impropriety or have a motive. In fact, he seems to have little, save of course for more time than money. ☺

Coping with Injustice

2009-12-29T05:13:00.000-08:00

Whenever an inmate that’s previously taken psychiatric medications while incarcerated arrives at a new prison, he must speak with that unit’s psychiatrist. As I was prescribed sleeping medication for a while when I was in the county jail, I had an appointment scheduled to meet with this unit’s psychiatrist this morning.

So, as I sat in the psychiatrist’s office, she pulled up my file on her computer, and began with the usual questions; “Why were you on such and such medication? How long did you take it? And you’ve done well without it? Are you okay here?”

I answered promptly to all of these inquiries, but then came a question that I hadn’t recalled ever being asked by a doctor before, when she said, “When do you come up for parole?”

Embarrassed, I told her that I had a life sentence (which is supposedly reserved for monsters), and will come up for parole, barring appeal, in the year 2042. She then looked up at me meaningfully for the first time, and asked me how I manage to cope. With less promptness than before, I mentioned that I had support from my family and friends, had great chances for a favorable outcome to my appeal, and that I stayed busy with reading and writing. She said that that was good, and I was then dismissed.

As I later reflected on our conversation (something that I tend to do with those rare ones that I have with women), I thought all of the coping mechanisms that I listed were mere consequences. Their underlying force is my recognition of the injustice in my having received a life sentence. If I actually deserved a life sentence, then I’d have trouble coping! But, given the fact that I’m innocent of the crime I was convicted of, and have long since rehabilitated from the absurd ideas that I did previously subscribe to, I can more than cope. I can fight that injustice, which results in my creating real value while here, and trying to redeem myself of my actual mistakes, both in thought and in deed.

The Dictionary of Beauty

2009-12-28T05:12:00.000-08:00

One of the cool things about being a writer is that one’s mind becomes conditioned to finding ideas to write about from the not-so-obvious contours of the canvas of life. Nor is that search solely relegated to one’s waking hours, for the dream that I had last night had at its core the idea that I’ll now write about.

In my dream, I was an advisor of some sort to the R&B and pop singer, Rihanna. Now, in my opinion, her best song, by far, is “Umbrella” (which is also one of my favorite songs by any singer). It’s one of those rare songs that induces a swell of happiness in the chests of many of its listeners. Moreover, I believe that such happiness is not from predominantly subjective attributes, but rather is a direct consequence of attributes of the object in question; in this case, the song.

I haven’t yet tried to define those attributes in “Umbrella.” So, in my dream, I was on a tour bus describing to Rihanna how I thought we should compare and contrast “Umbrella” with all of her other, generally less-happiness inducing songs, so as to try to isolate and define those fundamental attributes that it alone possesses. She listened amicably to my reasoning for a few moments, but then one of the others privy to our conversation interjected with an aside. Rihanna, apparently forgetting what I was just talking about, responded to the interruption in an open-ended manner, which led to others making yet more comments unrelated to my idea.

Then they, and the whole bus, floated away from me and I felt a profound sadness that I could only ascribe, after waking up (still sad), to my self-esteem taking a dent. But, wouldn’t a wiki-like dictionary of beauty be cool? If “Umbrella” actually is that much better than the rest of Rihanna’s songs, the dictionary of beauty would define the fundamental attributes of the song that are beautiful, and as such, induce happiness. Or those attributes of the Golden Gate Bridge. Or those attributes of the movie “Rounders.” Or…

That the world can even host such songs as “Umbrella” attests to the existence of beauty. Wouldn’t it be nice if we had a real-time, crowdsourced index of beauty’s precise mechanisms in an ever-growing number of instances?

That's a First

2009-12-25T04:50:00.000-08:00

Well, there’s a first time for everything, and yesterday was the first time that I’ve ever invited a TDC correctional officer to read this blog. Although, I must confess, it was her beauty and style that initially got my attention; it was her intellect—which became obvious during the course of our conversation—that led me to invite her here. Far be it, however, from presuming that I condescended to have her here, I appreciate her for condescending to come here. ☺

So, I want to remind her that I do write this blog anonymously. Not because there’s anything illegal or immoral about it, but as unjust systems—such as this one, in its current form—by nature disregard law and morality, I’d rather wait to reveal my identity until I’m God willing released soon, and past the point of any reprisals.

Also, as a member of a different collective (guards) here in prison, my new female friend can add value with her perspective, by transforming my sometimes biased opinions into more objective two-way banter. Of course, my responses to her comments will be delayed, as I have to receive and respond to all feedback via snail mail. Hopefully, however, the uniqueness will more than offset the slow pace of the discussions in this forum.

Thanks everyone. And thank you too, Miss B.

B.S.

2009-12-24T04:49:00.000-08:00

Well, as nice as my new unit is, I’m no longer in the craftshop. And, even if I were, another cadre of philosopher ribald is certainly non-existent, so the craftshop related posts that I until very recently wrote, in real time, will now be rendered from the fount of memories.

In prison, a popular phrase to express incredulous disbelief after hearing a probable fib or exaggeration, is, “Man, I’m gone!” Or, as it’s uttered in more rambunctious circles, “Man, shut your b____ a$$ up!” In either case, the word ‘man’ is drawled out for a moment, in a higher pitched voice than normal, and with an accompanying scrunch of the face.

So, in the craftshop, when associates would stretch the probable truth, or when my earnest buddy would unwittingly say something absurd, I’d, rather than saying either of the aforementioned phrases, simply emit a high pitched hum to allude to (and satirize) the high pitched ‘man’.

For instance, in a recent conversation that a few of us were having about supplements, my earnest buddy interjected with the supposed fact that he’d consume a bottle of 100 amino acids in a month when he was “going hard” (i.e. working out intensely). There followed a short but awkward silence (as everyone knows that he’s never ‘gone hard’), and the conversation, by the grace of some kind soul, began to sputter ahead, but there was then an almost imperceptible change in its backdrop. As that change—the high-pitched hum—became a noticeable fixture, all turned their heads toward me.

Woe is me! Please, my friends, forgive me for my opportunistic jesting!

There I sat, emitting that symbolic hum and mouthing the word “man” in a jibe at my earnest buddy’s exaggeration. Nor was that the only leg of the joke. In a jibe at my earnest buddy’s complex of being even jokingly disrespected (remember, he’s why I changed my name in the craftshop to Uhoes), there was the ambiguous nature of hum’s allusion; that is, it worked with either of the aforementioned phrases. The former phrase was not so disrespectful, but that latter phrase contained the “B” word. That’s the very word that my earnest buddy hates the most to be referred to as, and that I buried its potential usage in ambiguity attested to the fact that the second phrase is the one that I actually alluded to, and the “B” word, the one intended.

Pretty Woman

2009-12-23T04:49:00.000-08:00

My biological clock is ticking…

As I consider my ever increasing predisposition to have a crush on female officers, I can only ascribe it to my likewise increasing idealization of females. Put simply, I abstract the fundamental feminine qualities present—to whatever degree—in many a young lady. And, likewise, I ignore her imperfections.

Her coquettish rolling of the cuffs of a sweater all the way up to those little, painted fingernails outweigh a little chunkiness. Her intentionally obvious and delightful habit of humoring trumps a tendency toward irritability. And her mastery of girlish glances more than offsets when those feline eyes throw daggers.

I just came from the chow hall, and while there I saw the most captivating female officer. Objectively speaking, she wasn’t perfect (really, who is?), but I instantly forsook and forgot those imperfections and basked in her beauties. We made eye contact for an iconic second, and she blessed me with the hint of a smile. And my biological clock missed a few ticks…

The only question is, if I love the Woman in any woman, am I cheating on her with Her? ☺

The Nazi Next Door

2009-12-22T04:48:00.000-08:00

In general, on whatever wing, pod or section that one may end up being housed in at a prison, there will be, along with most other archetypes, the cliché white guy with a shaved head and Nazi tattoos.

On my wing here at my new unit, said white guy just so happens to be my neighbor. And, as soon as I got here, he was very helpful in answering all of my initial questions (“when do they pick up mail?,” “who sells bleach?,” “when do we go to commissary?” etc.) and proffering sound advice. During the course of our chat, however, I noticed a swastika tattoo on his hand. But, as he was older than the usual racial gangster, and was so helpful to such an obvious non-Aryan as myself, I supposed that his tattoo was simply a relic of his past ignorance (like my own dragon tattoo).

Well, a few days later, I overheard this same individual make a racial slur against Jews, and, for a moment, I was taken aback. But then I realized that it really wasn’t that surprising. My supposition that he’d grown past his tattoo was rash, subjective and wrong. And the irony is that his still being racist was actually the most commonsensical notion, given the context.

By the way, I haven’t bothered to inform him that I’m half Jewish, and I don’t plan to either. People are free to think what they will. Just so long as his beliefs don’t lead him to try and harm myself or my interests, then he can be as racist as he’d like. Of course, I won’t be starting any more conversations with him. That’s not an attempt to chastise, either – such would be an unnecessary nod to a stranger’s ignorance. I’m simply trying to avoid any problems before they crop up.

Just Like a Tattoo

2009-12-21T04:52:00.000-08:00

The singer Jordin Sparks has a new song out that I believe is entitled “Tattoo.” In it, she sings of a man remaining forever on her heart, “just like a tattoo.” Instantly upon hearing her coo this, I glared into the eyes of the meaningless dragon tattooed on my right bicep.

To say, “just like a tattoo” means that the majority of the aspects of the thing in question resemble those of a tattoo. And one predominant aspect of such, in my mind, is the association of tattoos with a degree of regret, as they’re often the reminders of the impetuosity of one’s youth. (I mean, c’mon…a dragon of all things. What was I supposed to be? A ninja? ☺ ).

Another predominant – and more objective – aspect of a tattoo is it’s physical permanence. This aspect is what Ms. Sparks was using for the analogy in her song. But, if one considers the separate predominant aspect that I’ve just described, then the analogy is destroyed. If a girl were to remain with me in the same manner as this stupid dragon has, I certainly wouldn’t love her for that! ☺

When using symbolism, it’s vital to consider all of the underlying object’s plausible attributes, and what implications they could convey.

The Pros and Cons of My New Place

2009-12-18T04:51:00.000-08:00

I’ve only been here at my new unit for four full days, but my initial opinion is that I’ve made a good trade in situations.

As regards to the benefits, first and foremost, as I now reside just outside of my hometown of Houston, it will be much easier for my family and friends to visit me. There are televisions in each cell as well. Though I’m no big TV fan, such access is unprecedented, so I’ll probably catch an episode of Family Guy or a political talk show from time to time.

Here, the cell doors are left open. We can lock it shut with our own lock if we wish, but access to the cell is unrestricted. Thus, here, there are no four hour forced waits in a loud dayroom for a chance to go into one’s cell. We also have recreation four times a day here, versus four times a week at my last unit.

Moreover, they feed very well here, both in quality and quantity, versus atrociously in both respects at my last unit. That will save me a lot of money at commissary; which, I might add, they run every week here, versus every two weeks at my last unit.

It’s much more peaceful than my last two units as well. I’ll be attending the on-site University of Houston campus. And, I’m now in the best region for parole, which will probably be a huge boon in the future.

As regards to the costs, while they’re few, they are significant. For one, there is very little room for storage in the cells here, so my office will have to be downsized. Also, every inmate here works, versus my last unit with its hordes of medically unassigned. Though I got one of the most laid-back jobs here – due to my medical restriction (‘no repetitive use of hands’ – thank God for my multi-bone breaking motorcycle wreck in 2000! ☺) – we’ll still be going to work more than the few times a year we did at my semantically similar job at my last unit. (And please know that I’m not some lazy bum content to subsist off of your taxpayer dollars while wishing to not have a job. It’s just that I’m better at picking stocks and writing than I am at shucking peas, and it’s better – morally and fiscally – for all parties, and the economy, if inmates be allowed to create as much value as possible.)

The last cost, while perhaps not the greatest, is by far the most poignant. If you guys have ever seen the movie Boiler Room, then you remember it’s ironic introduction. In it, a string of three, jam packed buses are gliding over night streets in route to a glowing New York City. The protagonist Seth’s voice-over begins by saying, “The Notorious B.I.G. once said that you have to either have a wicked jump shot or you’ll be selling crack rock. I couldn’t agree more, so I did the white boy version of selling crack; I sell stocks…”

And as soon as Seth says ‘stocks’, the scene switches to the inside of one of the buses, and screen full of young men in ties simultaneously erupt in cheers. They’re taking shots, playing cards, shooting dice and snorting lines. The distilled essence underlying this scene is that these kids are going to live fast, but like gods.

At my last unit, my craftshop buddies and I were plugged in. We didn’t take shots, shoot dice or snort lines, but we did live like relative gods. The camaraderie of success symbolized by the cheers in that bus…was almost possible at my last unit.

And here, so far, it just doesn’t seem like such could ever be the case.

Moving Forward

2009-12-09T05:17:00.000-08:00

Five years ago, when I resided at a unit near San Antonio, I put in for a hardship transfer, to be moved closer to my hometown of Houston. The hardship was denied, so my next step was going to college and eventually ending up at a unit right by Houston, with a University of Houston campus on site. It’s been a long and bumpy road, but it’s finally culminated this morning, which was my first wake up on this new unit. I’ll be starting college here next semester, going for my B.A. in Humanities. And, my parents will be able to visit me—living only thirty minutes away—every weekend they’d like.

The three-day trip here was grueling. On Monday night, about 10:30pm, an officer came to my cell and informed me that I was on the chain bus. I begrudgingly—given that I really had it my way there—packed up my property, wrote notes to my buddies there, and letters to my parents and friends. At midnight, they inventoried my property, and at 4:00am, sent me to a holding cell to wait for the bus. By 11:00am Tuesday morning, when the bus picked me up, I’d bee awake for 26 hours. I caught an unsatisfying nap on the way to Huntsville, where I was to stay the night. Checking in there was rough as well, with all of the inventorying in and out, waiting, etc. Another bus picked me up there, grimy and with only six hours of sleep in the previous 45 hours, and I arrived here at 8:00am. It took eight hours to check in, and after taking a shower, cleaning my new cell and calling home, I finally got some sleep.

My last unit’s culture can be best summed up as liberal. The opposite is the case here, to say the least. But I’ll adapt. Besides, it’s the road forward. I’ll keep you posted.

Shadows of an Empty Night Hall

2009-12-08T05:16:00.000-08:00

During the holiday season, they keep our unit’s craftshop open until 4:30am (versus the usual 10:00pm) so as to allow the inmates to handle their increased workloads. During the first few nights of this schedule, I stayed until 4:00am for the sake of sheer novelty. However, due to the trauma that even a few days worth of a severely altered schedule has on my abilities to sleep and get work done, I had to start coming in early again (though I’m still having trouble getting to sleep at a decent hour).

One thing, though, that gliding through the bright but eerily empty prison hallway late at night reminded me of was when I used to go with my mom to my elementary school’s PTA conferences. They were held at night, and when my friends and I would sneak off and roam the school’s hallways, I noted their strangeness when viewed at that hour and void of all activity. It was like another dimension, and gave me chills.

And the shadow of those chills stirred when I beheld this prison’s empty night hall.

Uhoes

2009-12-07T04:30:00.000-08:00

As you know, I recently changed my name in the craftshop to “Uhoes,” so as to make a joke out of my earnest buddy’s complex involving being called a hoe (i.e. a coward), even in jest. Now, quite a few individuals will, upon seeing me, say, “Hey, what’s up, Uhoes?” And, if I just so happen to be sitting with him, well…☺

He’s gotten upset about it several times, and after my responses of, “But it’s MY name, it’s ME they’re talking to…” lost their neutralizing effect, I finally told him to just relax, as it’s just a joke. But, the just-a-joke defense is actually a philosophical package deal. As regards to criticism, one can criticize openly, ensconce the criticism in a joke, or abstain from criticizing. My joke about changing my name to Uhoes is openly pseudo-self deprecating. That is, I only pretend to take the flak, when his complex is obviously the punch line. He at least tacitly understands this, hence the anger. But what he may not understand is the package deal. That is, when I say it’s just a joke, such seems to negate any criticism. But, if the joke is funny (and “Uhoes” happens to be one of the most popular themes in the juvenile jungle of our craftshop), the punch line (the moral of the story) holds water, and the hidden criticism is true.

Earning Forgiveness

2009-12-04T04:29:00.000-08:00

Punishment is defined in the Oxford Dictionary of Philosophy as the deliberate infliction of harm upon somebody, or the withdrawal of some good from them, by an authority, in response to their being supposed to have committed some offense.

The elements of its justification are that it’s done for retribution, reparation, reformation, deterrence and prevention.

The element of retribution balances an injustice by rectifying the situation (i.e. an eye for an eye…). Reparation pays a duty from the accused to the victim. Reformation focuses on the punishment teaching the accused to behave better in the future. Deterrence focuses on the punishment deterring potential criminals from committing crimes in the future. And, prevention focuses on the punishment preventing the accused from committing other crimes.

I believe that each of these elements are, to varying degrees, sound reasons for punishment. On the opposite end of the spectrum from punishment, however, is recognizing when forgiveness has been earned. And as the initiation of these elements justifies the initiation of punishment, their completion likewise justifies forgiveness (deterrence and prevention, as purely social aspects, are impossible for the accused to “complete”, so must be exempted from this dynamic).

The combined completion of the first three elements equals true redemption. And since with true redemption the accused’s forgiveness has been earned, it would be dishonest on the part of all other parties not to bestow it. (Granted, redemption gets harder to attain as the alleged crimes get worse, as culpability rises, or for any number of other factors, but Man always has the capacity for such).

With the element of retribution, denying earned forgiveness will render yet another unjust situation again in need of retribution. With reparations, denying earned forgiveness may cause any attempts at reparation to cease to exist, and victims will lose the only direct and tangible recompense that they can legally get from the accused. With reformation, the very means to the end of earning forgiveness—from society, the victim, and the self—denying earned forgiveness will reduce cases of reformation to the rarest kind: those solely for the self. With deterrence, denying earned forgiveness will also deter other penitents from attempting to earn forgiveness. And with prevention, while denying earned forgiveness will have no effect on his being prevented from committing more crimes on the outside during the time of his punishment, it will actually induce his committing crimes within the prison, and again upon his release.

Granted, the majority of the assertions in this post are still theories, but if we, as a society, could have a serious discussion about them, perhaps then we’d eventually arrest our exploding prison population.

The Difference Between Humor and Funny

2009-12-03T05:00:00.000-08:00

Due to an inclination toward mockery, much of my humor has a zero sum game element to it. And, possibly because I’m the object of my own mockery much of the time, many of my associates like my wit and impromptu dramatizations.

Except for one buddy – the little earnest fellow who’s graced these posts a few times. He and I are not birds of a feather. In the coffee shop context that I generally manifest around me, by tending toward philosophical and cultural discourse with the most nearby associates, I can come across as a high-minded aristocrat (though even that is kind of a running joke). He’s rubbed the wrong way by this aspect of me, so we butt heads, and he sometimes ends up as the fodder for my mockery.

Every now and then, loud arguments will crop up between several of us, with my mocking the topics at hand. (I like to later call these incidents “scandals” ☺). My earnest buddy would allege that my mockery isn’t humorous at all. Now, the philosopher Voltaire once said that if anyone wanted to debate with him, the two of them would have to first define their terms. I couldn’t agree more. After vigorously defending the humorous nature of my wit by detailing the actual elements of humor therein (e.g. in congruity, subtle allusions to other humorous subjects, irony, hidden absurdity, etc.), yet still not swaying my buddy’s position, I finally realized what he meant when he said the word humor.

The distinction between humor and funniness is that the former is objective, and embedded somehow into the topic at hand, whereas the latter is a subjective appraisal by those privy to said humor. A witticist could make a humorous remark, but if the hearer just lost his job, he may not find it funny…even if he can find the humor therein.

When I explained all of this to my earnest buddy, he agreed in his usual prompt fashion that implies he knew of such all along (even though his arguments until then showed otherwise). In my exasperation with him of late, I’ve begun to note the humor in my even referring to his as my buddy. But, that also is not so funny.

Aggregate Theft Theory - Another TDCJ Absurdity

2009-12-02T04:16:00.000-08:00

Imagine if you had a sister, and she was caught purchasing $1,200 worth of electronic products that were discovered to be stolen. You have an Ebay store that you’ve run for the past 2-½ years. To date, you’ve sold around $200,000 worth of electronics similar to the ones your sister were caught with.

On this evidence alone, the state then charges you, your sister, your father, and your mother with first degree felony of theft over $200,000. Using the aggregate theft theory, the state alleges that the entire $200,000 in sales of electronic products in your Ebay store consisted of stolen goods, purportedly because the particulars involved your sister’s actions on the day she was arrested. But, at trial, none of the complaining parties can confirm that any of the $200,000 worth of products that you sold on Ebay was stolen from them, or even where the products came from for that matter.

This miscarriage of justice occurs, I believe, with the state alleging aggregate theft, and as such moving the locus of necessary proof from the $1,200 instance of your sister buying stolen goods, to your having $200,000 of similar goods over 2 ½ years. As your farce of a trial proved, however, there was simply no evidence to link your sister’s theft of one day to any familial aggregate theft.

The state could theoretically place anyone in a murder trial, and just because a jury convicts, that person would go to prison. (But even then, a person was killed, that much is true. In this instance, save for your sister’s theft, it’s not even known if a crime in fact occurred). The question is how the specific charges are applied to the specific person. In this case, with the aggregate theft charge, whereas the state initially would have had to prove your sister guilty, now you essentially have to prove that you’re innocent, and all solely due to the implication that since she purchased $1,200 worth of stolen electronics, the $200,000 worth of similar electronics you sold must have been stolen, as well. But, when there’s no way to prove anything – as the aforementioned complaining parties showed at trial – you’re basically as good as convicted.

In the end, you and your family get over 200 years in prison. (And to those who think, “That much time? Sheesh, they must have done something really bad.” Don’t forget to consider the opposite viewpoint, and question whether that “something” deserved that much time. If not, then you have a justice system that metes out injustice.). Your mother and sister, neither of whom had a criminal record, sit in the county jail for 18 months on million dollar bonds. Your father, who was already in prison on another charge, gets a life sentence. And you get 50 years, and lose everything.

Even just imagining this, you can see how far out of perspective the justice system, in its current form, can take things. I generally don’t ask for comments, but this is for a good friend of mine, and he’d like to use your feedback as research of sorts. And, of course, I just think this blog as an informational link between him and you is downright cool. ☺

So, please let us know what you think about this case. Read more about it at US vs. Medina 485 3rd, page 1291.

Saved by the Shower Shoes

2009-12-01T05:21:00.000-08:00

In prison, on the older style units without shower stalls on the pods, those who are in the know carry around a pair of shower shoes with them everywhere they go. Given that I don’t go shower with my wing at its allotted time of 6:00am (because after a full day of movement, recreation, etc. I’ll need to take another one anyway), the three options I have for bathing are 1) getting into the shower at some other time (due to being in good standing with whichever officer is working the shower door), 2) birdbathing in the cell or, 3) birdbathing with the industrial sink in the craftshop.

In any of these instances, however, the conniver for cleanliness must have a pair of shower shoes in hand for quick usage. As regards to cleanliness, a shower is obviously optimal. Birdbaths, even when taken with scientific precision like mine, come in second. But their efficacy, contrary to popular belief, isn’t attested to by actual grit on, or a foul smell emanating from one’s person. Rather, it’s from the oily feel of the skin anywhere from 6 to 24 hours – depending on the season – later. I believe that the oily feel is due to the fact that the dumping of cupfuls of water on oneself, that the vast majority of birdbaths necessitate, simply does not get all of the soap out of one’s pores like a shower does.

Yesterday, for the first time in many months, a confluence of events reduced me to having to take a birdbath in the industrial sink in the craftshop. I got clean (they all feel the same at first), but sure enough, I was slightly oily when I woke up the next morning – which I promptly rectified with an ultra-efficient in-cell birdbath (where my system is perfected).

Yet even craftshop birdbaths aren’t the worst. Once, in a gymnasium long long ago, a certain porter gained access for he and his compatriots to have out-of-place recreation sessions. And, in the midst of winter, after a basketball game, I took a birdbath with the water fountain and a nearby mop (in my boxers of course). The winter winds and ice-cold cupfuls of water practically killed me, as I scrubbed down with my teeth chattering away. But, thanks to my trusty shower shoes and a little bit of tenacity, I succeeded. I stayed clean in a place that seemed hell-bent on preventing such.

The Prison Good Life

2009-11-30T07:20:00.000-08:00

One thing about my unit—the defining thing, in fact—is that it’s wide open. That is, the authoritative regime, and underlying culture, is such that contraband proliferates and illicit activities flourish. I don’t directly benefit from such an environ, as I don’t smoke or sell drugs, gangbang, or have sex with female correctional officers. But, I do benefit indirectly, in having created an almost paradoxical freedom of movement, and by having access to all of the non-immoral contraband that I desire (e.g. bleach, sandwiches, new clothes, etc.).

By exploiting these indirect benefits, having nothing to do with the direct benefits, having a laid back job (the medical squad here goes out to shuck peas a few days a year), and being in the craftshop, I have close to as good of a life as it gets in prison. And believe me, I don’t forget that for a second.

But there is one weakness in this perspective.

Any day now, I am going to transfer to a unit closer to home so as to attend the University of Houston. That unit, though it has many rare and great benefits, has an authoritative regime and culture nothing like my current one. Thus, along with the much lesser incidence of drugs, gangs, etc., my beloved freedom of movement and non-immoral contraband are also in much lesser degrees. Moreover, it will take a good while to get in the craftshop there, and even then it’s open much less often than the one here (ours has friends in high places). And, last but not least, the medical squad there goes out a bit more than the one here. All in all, it appears that, all else being equal, my life will take a big step down at my new unit.

Let us, however, consider the benefits that I hold so dear. For all their wonderful attributes, they are all prison-centric. I mustn’t forget that I write this blog, manage several stock portfolios, and am a stakeholder in a craftshop initiative that we’re trying to take mainstream. If I can expand my involvement in these free world endeavors during (or because of) my arrival and transition at my new unit, then it will instead be a clean step up. After all, I’ll trade prison-centric to free world-centric any day of the week!

The Goon Squad Hits Home

2009-11-27T04:12:00.000-08:00

Last week, the new goon squad hit our wing, and my cell was one of the ones that they shook down (i.e. searched). Given my celli’s infatuation with contraband, they had a field day in the cell. My celli got several cases, and they took both of our radios, which had been altered.

Around 6:00 the next morning, when my celli was at court, one of the goon squad officers brought me confiscation papers for my radio. As I was asleep, he tapped on the end of my mat to wake me. I did awaken—none too pleased—and signed the paper, then went back to sleep. Minutes later, the lieutenant who heads the goon squad came to my cell, and, thinking that I was my celli, woke me up to serve me his confiscation papers. I, obviously inebriated by a state of semi-sleep, informed him that I wasn’t my celli, and the lieutenant—a hard nosed operator, let me tell you!—softened a bit, and said, “alright, dude, alright. Go back to sleep.”

As the lieutenant’s stance shifted from the usual overlord to empathizer—so much so that I vividly recall it through the aforementioned state of semi-sleep—I realized something (or, more precisely, I finished realizing something): Basically, laced throughout the entire realm of society are untold numbers of general collectives of people. College kids, drinkers, cops and Eskimos are but a few. As individuals, we belong to a large number of these general collectives, and in our personal and social lives, we constantly dip in and out of these collectives. When the lieutenant saw my state of semi-sleep, he exited the general collective of Correctional Officer (albeit momentarily), and entered that of Empathizer. And, just like that, our social relationship changed for a moment.

Collectives that cut across the officer-inmate one are visited all the time here in prison. During Dallas Cowboys games, some officers and inmates will band as Cowboys fans, while others will band as Cowboys foes. When certain female correctional officers are nearby, they’ll become gossips and lusters.

When I first got in my unit’s craftshop, we had a second shift captain that absolutely loved the place. He’d constantly drop by and visit for as long as possible. One day, as he walked by our station, my buddy said, “Say, Cap, this is Dave, he just got in.”

The Captain squared up with me, beaming a smile, and congratulated me. Yet, he was practically tremulous in his effort not to reach out and shake my hand. And I was too. Sometime people can’t meet in a general collective, no matter how natural it feels.

A Folger's Economy

2009-11-25T04:11:00.000-08:00

They recently started selling a $6 bag of Folgers coffee on our unit’s commissary. The stuff is very smooth, and tastes great, but, given that they also sell a $3 bag of decent coffee, and a $1 bag of caffeinated dirt, the Folgers bag is just not worth the price. Especially as it’s the smallest bag of the three.

So, one would naturally expect the instances of seeing bags of Folgers here to be few and far between. And such would be the case, save for one catch: due to the high price, up to three bags purchased doesn’t count against one’s allotted amount to spend at commissary. For minimum custody (i.e. non-disciplinary) inmates, who are allowed to spend $85 every two weeks, being able to buy an extra $18 worth of coffee has had no discernable affect on the total amount of Folgers coffee being used as currency in the black market.

But, for medium custody (i.e. disciplinary) inmates, who are only allowed to spend $30 every two weeks, the three bags of Folgers almost doubles what they can spend at commissary and, thus, they’re black market buying power. This, plus its ease in transporting and high value relative to size (an inmate can easily put ten bags in his jacket and smuggle $60 across the unit), has led to a veritable ocean of the stuff pouring out of medium custody and into the rest of the unit. But no one wants to drink it!

As a banker, bags of Folgers have been popping up in the profits of my own operations. I initially used them to pay my associate, from whom I regularly purchase new clothes and sandwiches, but he recently informed me that his people won’t accept them for a while, so he can’t either. Basically, everyone’s playing hot potato with the things, and they’ve been ending up everywhere from football pots to payment for getting disciplinary cases pulled. There have even been reports of distressed sellers letting bags go for $5 each.

And as an arbitrageur, I’ll keep my eyes peeled on those markets for distressed prices to get even lower ☺.

Fixing the Energy Crisis...Sort Of

2009-11-24T04:28:00.000-08:00

Before I begin this post about my idea for solving the problem of the inherent intermittence of wind power, let me state the obvious fact that I’m a layman, and any number of technical or logical flaws could nullify my solution. I’m actually going to consider that case to be the most probably, and simply hope that my thinking outside of the box could spur a real world solution.

The problem, as I understand it, with a windmill powering a community si that there may be too much power for the community to use when the wind is blowing, or too little when the wind isn’t blowing. Power is local, and the option of storing and tapping excess wind power is expensive, so what happens on the still days is that a nearby natural gas plant gets tapped. But that can be quite expensive as well, so the economic viability of wind power is reduced.

My idea is to set up factories that make all energy intensive products, near the windmills. On windy days, these factories will use all excess wind power and significant cost savings (relative to the same type of factories using carbon based power) will accrue. In a partnership between the factories and the power producers, some portion of the cost savings will be used to offset the higher price of the natural gas that the community must consume on still days. All parties will be incentivized with cost savings, and we’ll have a cool mechanism for storing the economic value of wind power (though not the power itself) for use on still days.

Depraved Inspiration

2009-11-23T04:25:00.000-08:00

The rapper Jay-Z and the R&B singer Alicia Keyes have a new song out about New York City. He raps three verses and she sings the refrain, along with a little solo at the end.

The song is seemingly one of celebration, and the inspiration that an achievement such as the city of New York has on Man. Apparently, however, that would be the effect on Man, literally, because as is unfortunately the general case with rap, Jay-Z presents Woman in a low light. In the third verse, he raps, “Mami takes a bus trip, now she’s got her bust out, everybody rides her, just like a bus route.”

The next few lines I couldn’t quite discern, but I believe that he capped the thought shortly thereafter by saying that the city of New York could return the bus route girl to a virgin. Why does Jay-Z refer to the city’s power of healing Woman’s depravity, with no similar mention of Man? And why does it take some outside power to redeem Woman of her depravity, as if she as an individual could never redeem herself?

Given that these lines, and one or two other references in the same light, present her as sexually indiscriminate, and only redeemable by the same achievement – New York – that simply inspires Man the hero, women are once again rendered as stupid objects.

My question is why the beautiful, talented and rich Alicia Keyes would be a party to this esthetic attack on her own sex? She seems to be the living antithesis to the girl being ridden by everyone like a bus route, so why would she not demand that Woman be presented at her highest, as she herself seems to have attained? In the refrain, Alicia sings of the city making one feel brand new, but the incongruity of such and the non-newness of how a bus route girl must feel, while being sung, beautifully, by a plausible heroine…is all just too much.

All in all, this song is a valiant effort at moral inspiration. While Jay-Z seems to be flailing against the prerequisite sexism of his genre, it’s still a pillar of his worldview. Let us all “route” for his eventual success.

Hate Crimes and the Freedom of Thought

2009-11-20T04:05:00.000-08:00

The new hate crime legislation is a step down a slippery slope. By making a crime enhance-able based on the motivation behind it, the long arm of the law will now reach even further into the realm of thoughts. It’s already a challenge (albeit necessary) to try and determine a man’s knowledge or intent during the commission of a crime, but to go even further, and attempt to prove his initial motivation will be even harder to prove while remaining objective.

And even if it could be proven that a man killed another man because the former despised gays, and the latter was gay, it’s still the actual murder that is the crime. In a free society, people are allowed to be as ignorant, bigoted, etc. as they’d like. Freedom of thought is antecedent to the freedoms of speech, religion, press, etc. But when the ignorance that one was purportedly free to exercise directly results in a crime, and then that ignorance – in this case, the hatred of gays – is used to enhance that crime, we see that said ignorance wasn’t free after all, and that freedom of thought –the lifeblood of a democracy – is not inviolable.

Rock Stars and Bald Fades

2009-11-19T04:49:00.000-08:00

In the late 90’s and early 2000’s, I ran with a predominantly preppie crowd, in my hometown of Houston. Our styles were similar, all the way down to a certain element of our haircuts. On top, they’d be different (e.g. short, spiky, long bangs, wavy, etc.), but on the sides, we’d all sport bald fades. That is, the sides of our heads would be bald, and blended up into the hairstyle on top.

We, and practically the entire southwest side of Houston it seemed, all went to this little Asian barbershop every Friday evening to get our hair cut. No one who was anyone went to any of the barbers except for one. The youngest, most stylish, and by far the most skillful barber in the place, situated at the corner chair, was Danny Boy; an Asian male of perhaps 25 years of age. He could cut a bald fade in less than ten minutes, and such rapidity, combined with his skill, resulted in his tip jar looking like a Christmas tree.

The line for him flooded out the door and into the marijuana-filled cabins of the usual genre of suped-up Honda Civics and Acura Integras. Granted, there are probably a few more barbers matching his caliber around the city, but Danny Boy was the only one who I know of that achieved rock star status.

What, then, are the fundamental characteristics that rock star status necessitates? Why is Danny Boy a rock star, while few other barbers could even dream of earning a widely recognized nickname? Rock stars have street cred, usually look good, are cosmopolitan, and, most importantly, seem to somehow play the part (for lack of a better word) of their persona better than the rest of us. Rock stars are artistic representations of themselves.

President Obama is a rock star. Vladimir Putin was possibly a rock star eight years ago. Oprah is a rock star. Twitter is a rock star. Che Guevara is a posthumous rock star. Steve Jobs is a rock star.

Taylor Swift is a rock star. Yet I wouldn’t be surprised if there were 1,000 other singers in America of a similar look and sound. Realists may say that Taylor just happened to be in the right place at the right time, while her doppelgangers were not. While, in that particular instance, said allegation may be true, I believe that, as a general rule, the Marketplace of Ideas isn’t so gullible as to bestow its vote based on sheer randomness. I believe that, even in that particular instance, it recognized that, unlike the majority of the others, Taylor actually IS art. And that’s why she, and Danny Boy, are the rock stars.

Penitentiary Strategic Capital

2009-11-18T04:48:00.000-08:00

My intra-prison portfolio is growing. I have two businesses in the craftshop that I can invest up to $200 in, every other month. They pay me a 50% return on my investment in that same time frame. I’ve funded two guys in running “one for one-and-a-half” stores. Basically, I put up the initial capital – generally $40 – in the form of commissary snacks, and they sell that commissary on credit for a 50% markup to be paid the next commissary, to hungry inmates. As I get half of that premium, I essentially get a 25% return on my investment every two weeks. (Another service I provide my store runners is swapping out any bad money – that is, unsellable at any premium, like soap or stamps – for more good money). Lastly, my stamp arbitrage operation is doing fine; I generally purchase 200 stamps a month, for $60. When I close the valuation gap, I net a 47% return.

All of the assets in this portfolio are moral, save for one potential element of the stamp arb operation. Though some of the stamps are procured at a discount from distressed sellers (i.e. inmates who, for disciplinary reasons, can only buy stamps – and not foodstuffs – at commissary, and thus have a surplus in stamps and a shortage in everything else), many are the profits from kitchen workers’ sales of stolen foodstuffs. This is where the issue of morality comes in: if the workers are stealing as a form of genuine political protest (due to the fact that the state’s paying them in “good time” – that can itself be taken away at any time – is a form of institutional slavery, these workers are demanding value for the value they’re given, and they have a right to such, even if, at one time, they themselves didn’t understand this principle), they they’re being moral. But if they’re stealing because they’re thieves, and would steal in any circumstances, they’re being immoral. And by funding either the political protesters or the thieves, I’m, by extension, being either moral or immoral, respectively. (If I can’t find a way to assure it’s the former, I’ll probably shutter this operation soon).

This portfolio – which could be grown quite a bit, I might add – requires an initial capital outlay of $340, and subsequent monthly outlays of $260. And it will produce profits of $148 a month, which is a return of 44% the first month, and 57% all subsequent months. If one were to establish a network across fifty prisons, with a portfolio of this size in each, his initial monthly outlay of $17,000 would generate a monthly gross profit of $7,410.

Operating expenses – basically cash conversion charges; much of the profits would be in commissary and actual greenbacks, so network members would have to be compensated for converting these to money transfers to our bank account – may reduce the monthly gross profit figure to around $5,000. In fact, the manager of this portfolio could be a hedge fund (Penitentiary Strategic Capital) and I’ll be a partner for anyone out there who might be interested. ☺

We could scale up to 5,000 prisons, in democracies around the world, and mint money as we foster rehabilitation via capitalism. After all, all of this investment funneling into prison craftshops and on-the-wing entrepreneurial initiatives will induce a lot of innovation. And that’s a winning proposition, both morally and financially.