We all want to be noticed. We need other people to see us and acknowledge, if not our uniqueness, at least our existence. My stories and blog posts are an example of this. I need my existence to be validated by others. This is, perhaps, one of our basic human traits. But, sometimes it all goes so very wrong.
Within the prison walls where I work there are a couple of thousand guys who wish they had not been noticed. Getting noticed got them caught, convicted and incarcerated. Some of them will modify their behavior and, when they get out live out their lives quietly, being noticed only by their families and friends. Some will never learn.
Some of these poor bastards are so starved for attention or recognition that they will do or say anything to anyone. In prison, if you attract the attention of the guards it is usually negative attention. Running “cadillacs” across the wing gets the attention of our control officer.
A cadillac is anything small, usually a piece of soap wrapped in plastic, tied to a string and tossed under the door. If two offenders want to pass something, both will toss a cadillac into the wing so that they cross and then one will retrieve both, thereby establishing a link between cells. Cadillacs are used to pass notes, known as kites, postage stamps which is are used for prison currency, and contraband. The most common form of contraband in Adseg is tobacco and lighters. Smoking is not allowed in Adseg.
We have general population inmates that come into the unit as workers. Some are there to serve the meals and some perform janitorial work. Some of them are mules carrying contraband into the unit. They will compress tobacco into the finger torn from a plastic glove and then “keister”, insert into their rectum, the “bullet” and bring it into the unit. Once inside the unit, after their strip-out, they will remove the bullet and drop it and kick it beneath a cell door.
That cell has now become a store. The control officer will see a flurry of cadillac activity centered on a cell and we know we have a store in operation. Cadillacs going in contain stamps or IOU’s and cadillacs coming out have tobacco and rolling papers. The store keepers have our attention.
As soon as we know a store is in operation we go in and search it. Both occupants are stripped out before we bring them out of the cell. Most of the time one or both will have the tobacco concealed in their clothing, beneath their scrotum or between the cheeks of their butts. Sometimes they don’t both hiding it, as they know when we enter the wing that we are coming to their cell and we will find the stuff.
My wingman and I are very good at what we do. Our control officer pays attention. This past week we collected 7 disposable lighters and several pounds of tobacco. They hate us. We cost them a lot of money. The newbies coming in are being told by our long term residents that cadillacing on our shift is a good way to get bad attention.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Thursday, November 5, 2009
Newton's Third Law or...What the Hell was I thinking?
Newton’s Third Law of Motion: For every action there is an equal and opposite re-action.
This is perhaps the most important of Newton’s Laws as they pertain to our daily lives. Most everyone has seen the effects of this law by observing the recoil of a firearm when a projectile is fired. As the projectile moves in one direction the firearm itself recoils in the opposite direction. Generally, due to the difference in weight between the gun itself and the bullet, this recoil is quite manageable. Note I said “generally.
One of my Dad’s prized possessions was an old 12 gauge double barrel shotgun that had been given to him by my mother’s father. This old gun rested on a set of elk antlers that hung on our dining room wall. It wasn’t really a dining room; it was actually one corner of the room that served as kitchen, living room, my parent’s bedroom and the dining room. It also saw duty as the bathroom on Sunday evenings when Mom dragged out the washtub for our weekly baths.
That shotgun watched down over our family for as long as I can remember, brought down only for the occasional cleaning and to be admired by visitors who Dad deemed worthy. I was fascinated by the gun and, even though it was longer than I was tall, would beg Dad to let me hold it anytime he took it from it’s resting place. It wasn’t beautiful by any means, it had been used hard and the stock was scarred, the bluing faded and the exposed hammers worn smooth.
Even at the age of 10 I was not unfamiliar with firearms. I received my first .22 rifle for my 7th birthday and, except for the year that it was taken from me for shooting my brother in the forehead with a friend’s BB gun, I had that rifle until I was well into my forties. So, like motorcycles, guns have always held an attraction for me.
In my 10th winter my family was raising rabbits in an attempt to stay alive. For those of you who think rabbits are cute and cuddly little buggers, they may be if you keep them as pets. Ours were livestock. They were mean, nasty little bastards that would kick, scratch and bite if given the opportunity. I didn’t like them. But, the local coyotes loved them.
The snows lay deep that winter in the mountains of Idaho and eventually the rabbit cages that were built on stilts no longer kept the rabbits safe from the coyotes. The bloody smears left from a night’s feast of marauding coyotes brought tears to my mother’s eyes and the fear that her children would spend another hungry winter.
Dad was working long hours, skidding logs and plowing snow with a bulldozer for a guy who apparently couldn’t afford to pay him very often. He left for work long before daylight and staggered home 12 or 14 hours later, chilled to the bone and worn to a nubbin. My brother, Mike, and I decided that we would protect the rabbits.
We took turns sneaking from the cabin late at night when our parents lay snoring in their corner. Mike had a little .22/.410 over and under that he carried on his nights and I had my .22. Night after night we would slide silently from the cabin and take a position in the outhouse, peering through a hole in the door, bundled against the cold, waiting for the coyotes to appear. More often than not we would awaken in the morning to find blood smeared on the snow from another kill, but we had seen nothing.
Our parents were not as unaware as it may seem. After Mike sneaked from the house one night I heard my mother whisper to Dad and he, in his bourbon and cigarette scarred voice, rasp back, “ I know, they will be ok, they are doing what they can to help although I doubt they will do much good with those popguns even if they see a coyote.”
The next night it was my turn. The full moon gleamed on the snow, lighting the cabin through the single window, as I crept from my bed. I took my time, holding my breath as I listened to the sounds of my family sleeping. My “little popgun” got the night off as I climbed onto a chair and carefully took the precious shotgun from it’s lofty perch. As all firearms in our house, it was always loaded. Out the door I slid into the cold January night. I knew that I was in trouble when I looked back and saw the flare of my dad’s lighter. He knew I had taken the 12 gauge.
I huddled in the freezing icebox of the outhouse, waiting for him to come outside. He didn’t. Eventually, I drifted off, dreaming of warm summer days and fishing the river below the cabin. I was jerked awake by the squeal of rabbits. I peered through the hole in the door. In the bright moonlight I could see rabbits spinning in their cages, drumming a warning with their hindlegs. All of the cages were in a panic.
Desperately I scanned the snow, looking for the shadow of the beast. There! I saw a shadow slink from behind a jackpine. A coyote! He was 30 feet from the cages, a hundred feet from where I was hyperventilating. I eased the muzzle of the shotgun out the hole. The coyote slipped around another tree and stopped, a cold blooded killer in the spotlight of the moon. He twitched and raised his nose in the frigid air as the hammers clicked back on the shotgun. I froze. He looked right at me.
I squeezed both triggers. The world exploded in light and sound. Fire flashed from the muzzle. A giant fist slammed my shoulder as I was tossed against the back wall of the outhouse. The wall trembled, shuddered and collapsed outward. I opened my eyes, blinded by the muzzle blast, to see a shadow fall from the sky. I rolled to my right, tangled with the shotgun and felt cold snow against my face. Something hit me in the butt.
With my ears still ringing from the double blast I heard my Dad, roaring, “JESUS CHRIST!” My mother screamed. I bawled.
I felt myself being lifted and pulled by the collar of my coat. I opened my eyes to see my Dad, naked as a jaybird, dragging me from beneath the roof of the collapsed outhouse. My mother was wrapped in a robe, hand to her mouth, eyes wide, in concern or disbelief.
I dangled from the end of his arm. At least I was alive. For now. Dad shook me, looked me over, and pronounced, “No blood, you’ll live,” and set me on my feet. He bent down, shoved aside the fallen roof and retrieved the shotgun. Then, he handed it to me and said, quietly, “This is going to need a good cleaning before you go to bed”.
Back in the cabin I sat at the table, cleaning the shotgun. Dad, wearing his wool longjohns , sat across from me, silently smoking a Pall Mall. The rest of the family went back to bed. He finally butted out the smoke and said, “Put some liniment on that shoulder when you finish with the shotgun. You stay home from school today and get that outhouse back together. Your mother doesn’t like squatting in the snow. Just one of those woman things, I guess.”
This is perhaps the most important of Newton’s Laws as they pertain to our daily lives. Most everyone has seen the effects of this law by observing the recoil of a firearm when a projectile is fired. As the projectile moves in one direction the firearm itself recoils in the opposite direction. Generally, due to the difference in weight between the gun itself and the bullet, this recoil is quite manageable. Note I said “generally.
One of my Dad’s prized possessions was an old 12 gauge double barrel shotgun that had been given to him by my mother’s father. This old gun rested on a set of elk antlers that hung on our dining room wall. It wasn’t really a dining room; it was actually one corner of the room that served as kitchen, living room, my parent’s bedroom and the dining room. It also saw duty as the bathroom on Sunday evenings when Mom dragged out the washtub for our weekly baths.
That shotgun watched down over our family for as long as I can remember, brought down only for the occasional cleaning and to be admired by visitors who Dad deemed worthy. I was fascinated by the gun and, even though it was longer than I was tall, would beg Dad to let me hold it anytime he took it from it’s resting place. It wasn’t beautiful by any means, it had been used hard and the stock was scarred, the bluing faded and the exposed hammers worn smooth.
Even at the age of 10 I was not unfamiliar with firearms. I received my first .22 rifle for my 7th birthday and, except for the year that it was taken from me for shooting my brother in the forehead with a friend’s BB gun, I had that rifle until I was well into my forties. So, like motorcycles, guns have always held an attraction for me.
In my 10th winter my family was raising rabbits in an attempt to stay alive. For those of you who think rabbits are cute and cuddly little buggers, they may be if you keep them as pets. Ours were livestock. They were mean, nasty little bastards that would kick, scratch and bite if given the opportunity. I didn’t like them. But, the local coyotes loved them.
The snows lay deep that winter in the mountains of Idaho and eventually the rabbit cages that were built on stilts no longer kept the rabbits safe from the coyotes. The bloody smears left from a night’s feast of marauding coyotes brought tears to my mother’s eyes and the fear that her children would spend another hungry winter.
Dad was working long hours, skidding logs and plowing snow with a bulldozer for a guy who apparently couldn’t afford to pay him very often. He left for work long before daylight and staggered home 12 or 14 hours later, chilled to the bone and worn to a nubbin. My brother, Mike, and I decided that we would protect the rabbits.
We took turns sneaking from the cabin late at night when our parents lay snoring in their corner. Mike had a little .22/.410 over and under that he carried on his nights and I had my .22. Night after night we would slide silently from the cabin and take a position in the outhouse, peering through a hole in the door, bundled against the cold, waiting for the coyotes to appear. More often than not we would awaken in the morning to find blood smeared on the snow from another kill, but we had seen nothing.
Our parents were not as unaware as it may seem. After Mike sneaked from the house one night I heard my mother whisper to Dad and he, in his bourbon and cigarette scarred voice, rasp back, “ I know, they will be ok, they are doing what they can to help although I doubt they will do much good with those popguns even if they see a coyote.”
The next night it was my turn. The full moon gleamed on the snow, lighting the cabin through the single window, as I crept from my bed. I took my time, holding my breath as I listened to the sounds of my family sleeping. My “little popgun” got the night off as I climbed onto a chair and carefully took the precious shotgun from it’s lofty perch. As all firearms in our house, it was always loaded. Out the door I slid into the cold January night. I knew that I was in trouble when I looked back and saw the flare of my dad’s lighter. He knew I had taken the 12 gauge.
I huddled in the freezing icebox of the outhouse, waiting for him to come outside. He didn’t. Eventually, I drifted off, dreaming of warm summer days and fishing the river below the cabin. I was jerked awake by the squeal of rabbits. I peered through the hole in the door. In the bright moonlight I could see rabbits spinning in their cages, drumming a warning with their hindlegs. All of the cages were in a panic.
Desperately I scanned the snow, looking for the shadow of the beast. There! I saw a shadow slink from behind a jackpine. A coyote! He was 30 feet from the cages, a hundred feet from where I was hyperventilating. I eased the muzzle of the shotgun out the hole. The coyote slipped around another tree and stopped, a cold blooded killer in the spotlight of the moon. He twitched and raised his nose in the frigid air as the hammers clicked back on the shotgun. I froze. He looked right at me.
I squeezed both triggers. The world exploded in light and sound. Fire flashed from the muzzle. A giant fist slammed my shoulder as I was tossed against the back wall of the outhouse. The wall trembled, shuddered and collapsed outward. I opened my eyes, blinded by the muzzle blast, to see a shadow fall from the sky. I rolled to my right, tangled with the shotgun and felt cold snow against my face. Something hit me in the butt.
With my ears still ringing from the double blast I heard my Dad, roaring, “JESUS CHRIST!” My mother screamed. I bawled.
I felt myself being lifted and pulled by the collar of my coat. I opened my eyes to see my Dad, naked as a jaybird, dragging me from beneath the roof of the collapsed outhouse. My mother was wrapped in a robe, hand to her mouth, eyes wide, in concern or disbelief.
I dangled from the end of his arm. At least I was alive. For now. Dad shook me, looked me over, and pronounced, “No blood, you’ll live,” and set me on my feet. He bent down, shoved aside the fallen roof and retrieved the shotgun. Then, he handed it to me and said, quietly, “This is going to need a good cleaning before you go to bed”.
Back in the cabin I sat at the table, cleaning the shotgun. Dad, wearing his wool longjohns , sat across from me, silently smoking a Pall Mall. The rest of the family went back to bed. He finally butted out the smoke and said, “Put some liniment on that shoulder when you finish with the shotgun. You stay home from school today and get that outhouse back together. Your mother doesn’t like squatting in the snow. Just one of those woman things, I guess.”
Monday, November 2, 2009
Newton’s Second Law of Motion or...
Does my ass make this bike look small?
Newton’s second law of motion states; Acceleration is produced when a force acts on a mass. The greater the mass (of the object being accelerated) the greater the amount of force needed (to accelerate the object).
This one really needs no interpretation but for those who were actually worse students than I, here are a couple of practical applications.
Like most teenagers of my time I operated in a different time relativity continuum than my parents. That is to say, what they wanted me to do right now, I would get to, eventually or not at all if I thought they had forgotten about it.
One evening after dinner my sisters washed the dishes and bickered while my brother held the bathroom hostage and read another chapter of his Luke Short western. My parents sat on the porch enjoying the rhythmic clanging of the hammer as I tried to beat the dents out of the door of Dad’s truck. The truck was an old International pickup and the dents were caused by the front wheel of my motorcycle. I had foolishly been practicing clutch control. It should be obvious that I needed more practice.
The girls called out that they were finished and Mom told me to go inside and take out the trash. I suppose that I must have sighed in exasperation as 13 year olds often do. Dad took exception to my attitude and strongly suggested that I get my ass in gear. I seem to recall mumbling, “If you don’t like the gear my ass is in now, you are going to hate the other choice”.
I don’t know what force propelled Dad from the porch to the driveway but, I do know what caused my sudden acceleration toward the kitchen. That was the amazingly accurate placement of his logging boot directly between the cheeks of my already ample butt. Acceleration was virtually immediate due to the amount of force acting on the mass of said ass. Lesson learned.
The second example is more directly related to my lifelong interests in motorcycles. At age 16 I was an aspiring motocross racer. I had traded the old 100 Twin Yamaha for a Yamaha 360 MX. But, here again, I was plagued with the time relativity problems of my early teen years. I was slow. Of course, I rationalized my slow starts by telling everyone that there was no point in joining the crowd at the first turn and crashing, so I just killed the bike at launch time and let everyone get strung out before I joined the fray.
Toward the end of the season I had given up any thought of actually winning a race. If I could only beat the one armed kid on the Suzuki I would be happy. Even that hope was dashed in the final race of the season when the duct tape and baling wire holding the clutch lever to the handlebar fell off during the first moto and I had forgotten to bring more of either.
Then my friend suggested that I ride his brand new Honda 125 Elsinore. I laughed because I was racing in the open class for bikes over 250 cc’s. Keep in mind that this was in 1973 in western Montana and that none of us had ever seen a two stroke Honda before that time. My buddy was a novice and had never raced but, his folks had money and he had a shiny new bike that scared the crap out of him.
After I was caught trying to steal a hose clamp for my clutch lever off the one armed racers Chevy pickup I relented and said that I would ride the Honda if no charges were filed. The one armed guy wanted to see the fat guy on the little bike get run over. So did everyone else. The cops took the handcuffs off and I got ready to ride.
I imagined I heard the Elsinore groan as all 240 pounds of me climbed aboard. I could feel my ears turning red inside my helmet as the crowd laughed and pointed at the Shriner clown on the mini-bike. All I needed was a fez with a tassel.
The tiny two stroke shrieked as I held the throttle wide open with the front tire against the gate. No need to kill this bike to hang back from the crowd to the first turn, I would be lucky to get there before I was lapped, or so I thought. The gate dropped. I popped the clutch.
Somewhere, deep inside that little engine, an atom split. An atomic bomb went off between my meaty thighs. I screamed. And held on. The knobby tire hooked up in the dirt and we launched. Down the straight that little bastard shrieked like a berserker headed to battle. I shrieked like a little girl. And held on. Somewhere before the first corner I finally got my feet on the pegs and speed shifted to second while standing on the rear brake. That would have worked better if I had rolled off the throttle. The bike screamed and the back tire slid out as the brakes locked up. Then the nuclear reactor overcame the brake in a cloud of blue smoke, the rear tire caught just as I dabbed the dirt with my left foot.
The only bike ahead of me into the turn was an old Bultaco. I had a bird’s eye view of it as I high sided and was launched over the top of him. The rider’s eyes were the size of dinner plates as he looked up and watched me fly. They got even bigger as I landed directly in front of him. The Bultaco went airborne after using me for a ramp and exited the track.
I rolled into a ball like a possum and waited for the next collision with my eyes closed. It never came. I heard crashing, screams of pain and some new curse words. As silence settled over the track and the crowd held a collective breath, I opened my eyes. The atomic bomb had exploded. Bikes and parts of bikes lay strewn everywhere. The Elsinore was dead.
My friend sat beside the track and wept as I scoured the dirt gathering all the pieces of his bike. I borrowed empty beer cases from the spectators and loaded the parts into them. I lightheartedly suggested that we bury them in the infield. He stopped sobbing as I bent to retrieve the shift lever. The force of a boot against my ass accelerated me face first into the dirt. It reminded me of something but I wasn’t sure what. Then I got it. Newton got it right.
Newton’s second law of motion states; Acceleration is produced when a force acts on a mass. The greater the mass (of the object being accelerated) the greater the amount of force needed (to accelerate the object).
This one really needs no interpretation but for those who were actually worse students than I, here are a couple of practical applications.
Like most teenagers of my time I operated in a different time relativity continuum than my parents. That is to say, what they wanted me to do right now, I would get to, eventually or not at all if I thought they had forgotten about it.
One evening after dinner my sisters washed the dishes and bickered while my brother held the bathroom hostage and read another chapter of his Luke Short western. My parents sat on the porch enjoying the rhythmic clanging of the hammer as I tried to beat the dents out of the door of Dad’s truck. The truck was an old International pickup and the dents were caused by the front wheel of my motorcycle. I had foolishly been practicing clutch control. It should be obvious that I needed more practice.
The girls called out that they were finished and Mom told me to go inside and take out the trash. I suppose that I must have sighed in exasperation as 13 year olds often do. Dad took exception to my attitude and strongly suggested that I get my ass in gear. I seem to recall mumbling, “If you don’t like the gear my ass is in now, you are going to hate the other choice”.
I don’t know what force propelled Dad from the porch to the driveway but, I do know what caused my sudden acceleration toward the kitchen. That was the amazingly accurate placement of his logging boot directly between the cheeks of my already ample butt. Acceleration was virtually immediate due to the amount of force acting on the mass of said ass. Lesson learned.
The second example is more directly related to my lifelong interests in motorcycles. At age 16 I was an aspiring motocross racer. I had traded the old 100 Twin Yamaha for a Yamaha 360 MX. But, here again, I was plagued with the time relativity problems of my early teen years. I was slow. Of course, I rationalized my slow starts by telling everyone that there was no point in joining the crowd at the first turn and crashing, so I just killed the bike at launch time and let everyone get strung out before I joined the fray.
Toward the end of the season I had given up any thought of actually winning a race. If I could only beat the one armed kid on the Suzuki I would be happy. Even that hope was dashed in the final race of the season when the duct tape and baling wire holding the clutch lever to the handlebar fell off during the first moto and I had forgotten to bring more of either.
Then my friend suggested that I ride his brand new Honda 125 Elsinore. I laughed because I was racing in the open class for bikes over 250 cc’s. Keep in mind that this was in 1973 in western Montana and that none of us had ever seen a two stroke Honda before that time. My buddy was a novice and had never raced but, his folks had money and he had a shiny new bike that scared the crap out of him.
After I was caught trying to steal a hose clamp for my clutch lever off the one armed racers Chevy pickup I relented and said that I would ride the Honda if no charges were filed. The one armed guy wanted to see the fat guy on the little bike get run over. So did everyone else. The cops took the handcuffs off and I got ready to ride.
I imagined I heard the Elsinore groan as all 240 pounds of me climbed aboard. I could feel my ears turning red inside my helmet as the crowd laughed and pointed at the Shriner clown on the mini-bike. All I needed was a fez with a tassel.
The tiny two stroke shrieked as I held the throttle wide open with the front tire against the gate. No need to kill this bike to hang back from the crowd to the first turn, I would be lucky to get there before I was lapped, or so I thought. The gate dropped. I popped the clutch.
Somewhere, deep inside that little engine, an atom split. An atomic bomb went off between my meaty thighs. I screamed. And held on. The knobby tire hooked up in the dirt and we launched. Down the straight that little bastard shrieked like a berserker headed to battle. I shrieked like a little girl. And held on. Somewhere before the first corner I finally got my feet on the pegs and speed shifted to second while standing on the rear brake. That would have worked better if I had rolled off the throttle. The bike screamed and the back tire slid out as the brakes locked up. Then the nuclear reactor overcame the brake in a cloud of blue smoke, the rear tire caught just as I dabbed the dirt with my left foot.
The only bike ahead of me into the turn was an old Bultaco. I had a bird’s eye view of it as I high sided and was launched over the top of him. The rider’s eyes were the size of dinner plates as he looked up and watched me fly. They got even bigger as I landed directly in front of him. The Bultaco went airborne after using me for a ramp and exited the track.
I rolled into a ball like a possum and waited for the next collision with my eyes closed. It never came. I heard crashing, screams of pain and some new curse words. As silence settled over the track and the crowd held a collective breath, I opened my eyes. The atomic bomb had exploded. Bikes and parts of bikes lay strewn everywhere. The Elsinore was dead.
My friend sat beside the track and wept as I scoured the dirt gathering all the pieces of his bike. I borrowed empty beer cases from the spectators and loaded the parts into them. I lightheartedly suggested that we bury them in the infield. He stopped sobbing as I bent to retrieve the shift lever. The force of a boot against my ass accelerated me face first into the dirt. It reminded me of something but I wasn’t sure what. Then I got it. Newton got it right.
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