The Great Instant Milk Experiment

 

I LOVE MILK!

 

Milk, yes milk, is in my Top Five Drinks List behind only Duvel Belgian Golden Ale, and followed by YooHoo, Coca-Cola, and original lemon/lime Gatorade.  And for a while here, I’ve been living in Milk Heaven, strangely thanks to the pandemic. Most of the past year+ we’ve been in emergency mode, and to prevent spread of the virus, meals have been delivered to our unit instead of being served in the cafeteria. Breakfast arrives at 6 am.  What with people sleeping in, choosing not to eat breakfast, or just not being milk fiends like me, I’ve been swamped with milk cartons or, sadly sometimes, milk pouches. Milk for cereal, for coffee, put on ice to save for lunch and dinner, more than even I can drink.

 

But then came the day the milk died.  The kitchen felt that too much contraband was leaving the dining hall smuggled in on the meal carts (go figure), so covid protocols be damned, we’re going back to the cafeteria again. We were promised that each unit would dine separately to reduce the risk of prison-wide infection, but since that would require time, effort, and coordination, the guards threw up their hands, said whatev’, and – Delta Variant, anyone? – the whole prison population gets thrown in together at meal times.

 

So no more hand-me-down milk for me!  But I was not to be deterred!  My initial plan was to keep to myself, eat a quick breakfast, grab a couple extra milks and rush back to my cell for coffee. But even though they couldn’t be bothered to keep the units separated during meals, the guards began to fiercely police food leaving the dining hall.  Heading back to the unit the first day meant you were scrutinized, checked-over, and possibly frisked by no fewer than three officers. I mean, you’d think milk was the infection agent for covid or something.

 

I can imagine their conversations, along the lines of:  "Officer Smith, you seized six milk cartons today!  Thank goodness you are keeping the units safe!" Or "Men, remember, there is nothing we need less than a bunch of criminals hopped up on dairy products and strung out on calcium!"

 

Did I mention that I love milk? What was I going to do?  I was willing to try the old armpit hide or waistband stuff to get past the guards, but to stop that the staff pulled out the big guns:  UNIFORMS!  And not just any uniforms!  Jumpsuits!  I mean, seriously? Nothing makes you feel less like a real person than parading around in one-piece jumpers. I’ve known inmates who refuse to leave their cells all day if they have to wear these things. But if this new costume keeps guys from taking a carton of milk back to their units, well the prison system is all for it.

 

They had me beat. No way could I get past the guard gauntlet in this get-up. So I turned to my last resort, a truly drastic move:  Instant Milk.  Yes, I’m a milk snob, the very idea of instant milk upsets me.  As a kid, my mother once tried to mix milk powder with liquid milk in order to save money, but my siblings and I bucked on that one– we weren’t going out like that! After all, what self-respecting American child is going to taint their monster cereals (of which the rare Yummy Mummy may be the best) with – gasp! – instant milk?

 

But here I am in prison 40 years later, and it’s my only choice. I don’t have my old fave Count Chocula, so here it’s Blueberry Flaxseed Granola. I open the powdered milk container, scoop out 3 tablespoons, add exactly 8 ounces of cold water and, with a sniff, begin to stir. It takes longer than you’d think for the granules to dissolve, but eventually, yes, the moment of truth arrives!  Do I dare to drink it straight? Or only in cereal or coffee? Baby steps:  two spoonfuls in the coffee (hmm, not bad).  With a bowl of granola? (Tastes okay, but not cold enough.)

 

Day Two of the Great Instant Milk Experiment:  I left a frozen bottle of water out overnight, thinking by morning it would have melted down to meet my strict coldness standard.  Fail. Again, with the coffee it was okay, but just not cold enough for cereal.

 

Day Three of the GIME:  Up at 6 am, mixed the stuff up and only then put the milk on ice for an hour and a half.  Result?  Satisfactory, maybe this could be tolerable long-term. I mean, it’s nowhere close to the real thing. Based on usage and price (I have to buy this stuff at the commissary store), it will probably cost me about $15/month to avoid the mess they call breakfast.  I’m doing okay, but you never know when I might crack and find myself suiting up in my jumpsuit for fresh milk again!

 

 

Showdown on the Track

I run.  I run a lot.  Known on the compound as “that old guy who runs all the time.” Overlooking the “old” part, can’t argue with that.  When we’re not locked down, I get in 50-minute runs around our quarter-mile track inside the walls, averaging 35-40 miles per week.  For me, that’s up to six miles a day.  Sometimes, when I’m feeling especially chipper, I can push it to seven.  I’m not the fastest guy here, but for a guy in his 50s, I do okay.  Can maintain an 8-9-minute pace the whole time, steady as she goes.

 

            Lately, some of the younger guys have taken to running sprints on the track.  When invited to join them, I declined. Trying to keep up with 20 and 30 year olds in sprinting?  Um, no.  I told them, “Let me know when you want to do a 5-miler.”  Little did I know that they would take me up on this challenge!

 

            As you would imagine, most guys in prison work out and they are pumped. Pull-ups, push-ups, burpees, curls, more burpees, all day long. So these guys with superhero physiques imagine they can do anything.  Before I knew it, a plan was hatched, a 5-mile challenge race.  Seven of the fittest dudes were recruited, ranging in age from 23-38; the rest of the guys laid bets.  Even being the old guy, I felt pretty confident.  Some of these guys would crush me if we ran just one lap, but I knew I could chug along at a 2-minutes a lap pace pretty much forever. 

 

            Race Day arrived and the betting was fierce!  I walked out on the track like Tiger Woods. You could bet the field against me. My competitors each had his own strategy:  go out hard to wear me out, use each other to draft, hold my slow pace and outsprint me at the end, etc.  My plan was to clock my 2 minute laps until and unless I needed to go faster.

 

            So right off the rip two guys raced ahead. One of them dropped out on lap 8 of our 20. At the 3-mile mark, the other guy still led by half a lap.  The rest of us hung together, except for one runner who lagged far behind.  Our 3-mile time was 23:40, just under 2-minutes per lap, in line with my plan.  The guy in front eventually faded and walked off the track at lap 14, along with one of the guys who’d been pacing me.  Now, just three of us were left, and that one guy half a lap back.  As we turned into mile four, two were totally gassed, so that left me with just one to beat.

 

            What he didn’t know was that I had a secret weapon, having just read an inspirational book by an ex-Navy Seal, endurance athlete and overall bad-ass David Goggins.  I came to the track with a warrior’s mindset. No amount of taunts or trash talk could touch me. Yes, this was a good-natured race, just something to do, but for me it became a true test of will. I built it up in my mind, so that my opponents were not just fellow inmates. They represented all the obstacles and detractors I expect to face when I leave prison. I silently repeated Goggins’ hashtag over and over:  #canthurtme.  As we turned into the last mile, my opponent became the embodiment of the pain, the shame, the haters, the DA, the prison, basically everything that has happened to me since my arrest seven years ago.  I wasn’t angry, but I was armored.

 

            We hit the last lap side-by-side, the whole prison yard cheering and jeering.  My opponent (who, by the way, is a nice guy and a friend), said, “Last lap, I got you OG, you can’t outsprint me at the end.”  A few of my buddies who had also read the Goggins book heard my reply, the only words I spoke the whole race, taken straight from the book:  “The problem for you is that I’m a Bad Ass MotherF__ker.”  I dropped the hammer.

 

            No way was I going to wait until the last turn to outsprint a guy half my age.  I kicked in to a higher gear at the start of the lap and that final quarter mile went by in 1:28. Margin of victory:  20 meters.  Winner:  The Old Man.

 

            Not only did I win, what I said at the end of the race had made its rounds before I caught my breath, the whole yard in hysterics, because no one had ever heard me talk like that.  So, does my Michael Jordanesque fabricated battle mean that I won’t have struggles in the future? Of course not.  But for this one day, at least, I got my mindset straight. As a bonus, I’m now King of the Track. Thank you David Goggins. #canthurtme.

Prison Nicknames

In prison, nicknames carry weight. Here in the new prison I've been shipped to, I've had to learn a whole new batch of them. Some make sense, some are funny, some are demeaning, and some make you scratch your head. Learning the names of the guys known only by initials is a challenge. So far, I've met DJ, DC, DA, D, JB, JO and KP. Guys with the same name get an adjective to clarify, such as Straight Paul and Gay Paul. (When I asked if that was the best they could do to differentiate, they looked at me like I was crazy.)  There's Black Rob and White Rob, too. But then there's Scooter, a guy who had been here awhile, and a new prisoner with the same name. Initially, the tried and true method was applied, so we had Asian Scooter (the OG Scooter) and White Scooter. But then OG Scooter went all "Highlander" on everyone ("There can be only one!"), so we gave the new guy an entirely new handle. Don't ask why, but he shall forever be known as Moped.

Other guys include the obligatory OG and Old School, a Whitey who is Black, a guy dubbed Bama who is from Carolina, and a Chino and a Tiburon (that would be me) who aren't Hispanic. Big Shirley is our male-to-female Trans prisoner (who prefers to be known as Maddie and whose real name is, I kid you not, Guy). Think I'll reach out to Roseanne Cash about possibly recording my new song, "A Girl Named Guy." (For those of you who don't get this little joke, seek Johnny Cash's "A Boy Named Sue" on the interwebs.  Btw, did you know that this ditty was written by poet Shel Silverstein?)

So on to the demeaning names:  A guy with a partial arm amputation is known as Chicken Wing. Big Al isn't quite five feet tall, but Big Troy stand 6'3" and easily 300 pounds. Goldsmith's teeth are capped in gold.  Chief is Native American.

In the non-sense category we have Slick, Nut, Dig, Wax, Mars, and Bear. All of these guys can explain their nicknames, but their explanations only make sense to them.

Let's not forget Buddy Lee and Ricky Bobby -- both, of course, good old boys.

Moving on to the celebrities, there's a Don Johnson, a Randy Newman, a Martin, a Luther, and a King, a Polo and an Usher. But the most amazing name of all, there's this guy who goes by the initials JFK. Not a nickname, it turns out. His full name is John Fitzgerald Kennedy! For good measure, his cellie's name is Hoover, so of course he goes by J. Edgar.

Emotional Overload Playlist

 The songs on today's playlist all get to me in some way.  I'm not claiming that they're all great songs or that they'll make you cry, but they work for me. When I don't care to fake it or put on the brave face, I just put this on and let it roll.  This playlist, for me, is cathartic, cleansing in a way.  All the stress from the pandemic and the BOP's response, all the hassles my fellow inmates and I have endured, the isolation, loneliness, sorrow - I find that sometimes you have to embrace it.

We were allowed outside early this morning, 39 degrees and windy.  I put on my earphones and ran, not too fast, not hard, but just let the music drive me through all my feelings, "alone" with them for 45 minutes.  Just ran away from it all. I'd like to claim that it was the wind and allergies that had my eyes watering, but you'd know better.  Anyway, here are the songs on my Emotional Overload Playlist, in hopes they may connect with you:

1.    Hallelujah (Jeff Buckley).  Pure beauty this version of Leonard Cohen's classic.

2.    Bartender (Dave Matthews & Tim Reynolds version).  DMB does tearjerkers? What gets me here is Dave's tone of desperation throughout, on bended knee searching for something, anything....

3.    Can't Find My Way Home (Eric Clapton & Steve Winwood). A guy strummed this on guitar on the ballfield one evening at dusk, while we all sang along, lost in thought over the hard journey ahead to find our ways home.

4.    Bother (Stone Sour).  "I wish I was too dead to care...I wish I was too dead to cry...my flaws are open season."  Any guy in prison will tell you they've had these thoughts. Some give in and go dead inside. The rest of us? Just gluttons for punishment, I guess.

5.    Bridge Over Troubled Water (Simon & Garfunkle). Maybe you have to be over 40 to know this song, and if so, no explanation needed. If younger, hit the Interwebs - it'll be worth it.

6.    Into the Mystic (Van Morrison).  One of my Top Ten Favorite Songs Ever!  Van at the top of his game, every line telling a story, and all that longing oozing.

7.    Nothing Compares 2 U (Prince & Rosie Gaines). It's Prince's song, but it's Gaines who pushes it to the stratosphere. When they trade lines they just tear at your heart, then the horns hit to bring it home.

8.    Cold (Chris Stapleton). Dude sounds as if his heart is absolutely shattered. No idea if this is autobiographical, but I'm buying it. The guitar crying in the background adds a knockout punch.

9.    He Ain't Heavy... (Neil Diamond).  Cheesy, you say? Maybe. Do you have a brother? Close friend? Sister? This song will make you want to give them a call.

10.    Fast Car (Black Pumas). "Anyplace is better." Trying so damned hard, but getting nowhere, yet still optimistic about somehow starting over.

11.    Love Me Anyway (Pink & Chris Stapleton). Who hasn't had these thoughts?

12.    Sometimes I Cry (Chris Stapleton). When I can't do nothin' else....

13.    I and Love and You (Avett Bros. - Live Vol. 3).  My wife and I sang along to this tune at one of their concerts, and as I remember it, half the crowd was singing along, too, in tears.

14.    Everybody Hurts (REM - Live in Dublin). While you aren't sitting in lockup like me, you and everyone else out there has hurt. But it helps to remember, that you are not alone.

15.    Anyone (Demi Lovato - Live at Grammy's). She has to re-start it, because she starts crying. Power, vulnerability, despair - heart-wrenching!  This one's the knockout punch - if your iron heart has not cracked after this one, you must be an android.

Okay, that's the new list - hope you like it! It helps me, and maybe it can do the same for you on a tough day.

The Only Line that Matters

 

This unit’s got 3 computers for the 128 guys living here. They can be used to check emails and account balances, download music, read prison memos, and submit electronic cop-outs (inmate requests). Everybody wants to use these pc’s, of course, so you would guess that there would be some sort of sign-up sheet, assignment by cell number, maybe form a line?  No, no, and no.

 

Remember the stock exchange trading floor in the film Wall Street? All those manic traders shouting, gesticulating, pointing?  If only things here could be that organized. The minute the cell doors open in the morning, all hell breaks loose:  “I’m first!”  “Yo, you got me?” “Who’s last?” Keep in mind that the unit is just one big room with tiers of cells wrapped around it, like you see on tv.  As soon as you step out of your cell, you start calling your spot. So when one of the lucky first 3 guys to the computers finally finishes his work, the scream, “Who’s next?” goes out. Guys call their spots from the shower, while playing cards, or on the phone. Utter chaos!

 

Now suppose you are downloading music? There’s a 15-minute time limit before you have to log off and start over, but doing so is considered a breach of some unwritten rule. Therefore, you have guys actually getting in line behind themselves, saying things like:  “Wait up, I’m after me!”

 

The complainers, of course, get upset about how long they have to wait to use a computer. I try to explain that if “being in line” means you can be anywhere on the unit doing whatever, there’s no real pressure for guys to wrap up their computer work. But the idea of forming an actual waiting line?  No way.  They go, “What, you mean I’d actually have to stand in a real line?”  End of discussion.

 

After all, guys in prison hate lines.  I know, everybody hates lines, but in prison, crank that up a notch.  We have to stand in line to shower, to use the phone, to use the bathroom, to put hot water in your mug, to get in and out of every door.  Lines, lines, everywhere a line….

 

Some guys, however, can transcend line hatred. These zen Yodas have achieved a higher level of existence that I am seeking to attain. Their mantra has been stated many ways, but always comes down to “I’ve got nowhere to go and all day to get there.”  If the chow line eats up a half hour, well that’s 30-minutes closer to going home.  To these guys, all of life is a line, and the only one that matters is the one at the exit door.  So if my life is a 24-7 line to release from prison, why does it matter where I spend a tiny chunk of it on any particular day?  I can be in line to play chess or shower or use the computer, what’s the big deal?

 

The only line that is important to me ends with my foot touching soil outside the front gates. As I told one greenhorn when he asked me why I seem so chill in line:  “The only line that matters to me ends with the start of the rest of my life.”

Charmed? Seriously?

 

The topic today is the tv show Charmed.  Maybe you know it?  Alyssa Milano, Rose McGowan, the other girl, and sometimes the pre-Big-Boys Kailey Coroco, attractive women to be sure, but plenty of shows have hot women. As you might expect, the popularity of tv shows in prison is directly correlated to said hotness.

 

Still, Alyssa Milano alone cannot explain the INSANE level of devotion inspired by Charmed among my fellow guests of the BOP.  The following is a 100% true report of our prison Nielson ratings.  In the common room, there are eight televisions. One is dedicated to sports (usually ESPN), another to news (most likely CNN), the others to Telemundo, BET/VH1, and – the tv known as the “white” tv is typically tuned to Discovery/History/A&E.  This leaves three tv’s that rotate among FX/AMC/TNT (movie channels), and local tv for shows like American Idol and Family Feud.  All good, no problems, right?

 

Not so fast!  An argument, a serious argument, broke out over which tv would have Charmed on every morning. As more than one person emphatically stated, “I ain’t never been to no prison in the m-f’ing BOP that don’t show Charmed."  Guys got really upset over this. Life without Charmed? Unthinkable! Some guys got into discussing what things are worth taking a stand for, the list going something like this:  (1) being called a B__tch; (2) comments about your wife or mother; (3) dude blowin’ up your hustle (taking money out of your pocket); and (4) Charmed!  Obsessive viewers can quote lines from their favorite episodes.  If you say, Season 3, Episode 4, they can recite a synopsis that will pass a fact check conducted via phone with a Googler on the other end.  I’ve even observed guys turning the channel from a Breaking Bad marathon so as not to miss Charmed!  Workout schedules are planned around favorite episodes.  The other day, they even switched off ESPN to watch the show.  Now, you must understand the gravity of such a situation. The gamblers need ESPN nearly 24-7 for scores, odds, injury updates, etc.  But for Charmed, hey, go for it.

 

As I may have said before, prison is truly Bizarro World (refer to the interwebs for Bizarro-Superman explanation and then Seinfeld for an amusing take on the concept).  I mean, on what planet would someone argue that Charmed is a good tv show? Milano a great actress?  Don’t get me wrong, Who’s the Boss was a cute show. What 12-15 year old boy didn’t like Milano on that show? But nobody was ever fooled into thinking she’d be a future Oscar winner.

 

Maybe it’s like comfort food – just knowing it will be on every day, that you can rely on it, adds some continuity to your otherwise Groundhog Day life.  After all, it’s a harmless, sometimes amusing/entertaining way to eat up some time. They show the episodes in order. When the four seasons end, they just start over again from the beginning, and the guys just keep watching!

 

I wonder if the ladies of Charmed know about their incredible popularity in prison? Here’s a million dollar idea:  “Prison Workouts with Alyssa, Rose, and the Other Lady”- a book or day calendar!  You could dress the Witches in prison garb and add in little blurbs about them, like VH1’s pop-up videos.  If – no when! – this takes off, you can move on to other publications, such as:  Orange is the New Black Yoga, Martha Stewart’s Convict Cooking (don’t laugh, through her friendship with Snoop, guys in prison LOVE them some Martha!), and Felicity and Lori’s Guide to Prison Parenting.  We’re talking media empire here! ConvicTV, books, movies....  Just wait until the former President goes to prison, this thing will explode bigly, it will be YUGE!

 

 

One Way to Productively Spend a Day in Prison

 

This is by far the most secure Low Security federal prison in the country. These guys love locking doors. You’d think they must have attended a Compulsive Door Lockers Anonymous group and recruited guards there. The sound of that lock clicking really starts to get to you. I have nightmares of something jumping off while I’m in the shower and the door getting locked, so I’m stuck in a shower cubicle you can barely squeeze into for God knows how long. At least I’d be clean!

 

The BOP’s approach to Covid continues to baffle us all.  We’re two to a cell, at maximum capacity, but they make a half-hearted stab at socially distancing us at lunch, rec, etc. Like those of you in the world, we are simply exhausted by it all. It’s difficult to look back and comprehend what’s transpired over the past year. At least the days keep ticking off, each day one step closer to home.  I have no idea what kind of shape the world will be in when I join you out there. All I know is this message from a guy who recently got out.  He wrote:  “Imagine the worst day when you get home – no job, no money, PO on your case, dog got hit by a car, truck in the shop, like that. You don’t know what to do, so maybe you just go sit outside and enjoy the sunshine. Instantly, this worst day you can imagine is 1,000 times better than your best day in prison.”

 

Here’s one way to productively mark time until that glorious “worst” day. I just finished my sixth project as a self-appointed Locker Engineer.  First you have to understand that everything we own – our books, our grooming stuff, our clothes, our bowls, everything – has to fit in this 3-foot by 2-foot by 1.5 foot locker, that’s divided vertically down the middle with shelves on one side and a void on the other where nothing will go. My project? McGivering shelves for that blank side of the locker.

 

Here’s my solution. You can try it at home, a little pandemic fun, if you will.

 

Let’s start by collecting materials:  (1) one flexible rubber (stab-proof) pen (if not available, because, well, you aren’t in prison, any small flexible cylindrical piece of rubber will do); (2) 10-15 to go sporks/spoons in their clear plastic wrapper; (3) sturdy cardboard box at least 11x16 inches; (4) scissors; and (5) ruler.

 

Step One:  Creation of homemade wire.  Open all the utensils, careful not to mangle the wrapper (that’s what we’re using here). Discard the utensil, its accompanying world’s least absorbent napkin, and the salt pack (unless you’re working on some good hypertension for your Compassionate Release Plan).

 

Step Two:  Carefully tear each wrapper into 2-3 vertical strips.

 

Step Three: Now for the magic! Twirl each length of wrapper until the entire length is twisted into a string, then (careful not to let it untwist), with a nice even steady pull, stretch, and abra-cadabra, you now have what looks and feels like high-tensile strength fishing line!

 

Step Four:  Repeat with all the other wrappers, then tie them together lengthwise into one long line with square knots, and you have a sizable length of fishing line.

 

Step Five:  Create the Support Structure. Remove the ink cartridge from the flexi-pen (kind of like the ink tube in cheap Bic pens) and cut the clear rubber cylinder into 3/8” sections. To make the anchors strong, fold a single piece of your fishing line in half and slide it through the rubber tube. Tie the ends of the fishing line together. Now run a second rubber piece through the loop you’ve just made, so you end up with a T-shaped anchor with a loop (see illustration below).

 

 

 

Step Six:  Fit the horizontal part of the T into one of the holes in the locker (where shelves would ordinarily go) and you’ve got a pretty sturdy anchor in place. Repeat in other holes around the corners of the locker.

 

Step Seven:  Run your length of fishing line from one anchor loop to another, working diagonally, to create a spider’s web across the opening, creating an under structure for your eventual shelf.

 

Step Eight:  Cut out a square of cardboard that will fit the frame, lay it on top of the spider’s web you’ve formed, and Voila! A sturdy shelf! You’d be amazed at how strong it is.

 

Step Nine:  Repeat to make two more shelves and you now have six equally-sized cubbies in your locker, all strong enough to hold books!

 

And what will this cost you? Nothing! But your construction crew will greatly appreciate your opening a bag of Hot Tamales (the greatest candy ever!) to share around. The best part is, not only are the shelves useful, building them takes up pretty much a whole day. Tick another one off the calendar, help out a buddy, and eat yourself into a sugar-induced stupor. Hey, another successful day in prison!