I AM A WALKING MAN, not a Walkman

I cut back on Pop Tarts for breakfast. Way way back. And why shouldn't I? Kellogg's quit running a special Sony promotion which guaranteed a free song download with every box purchased. Besides already knowing that Pop Tarts have very little nutritional value, I also learned that you had to download Sony's CONNECT music player to your computer in order to play the songs. I grew suspicious. Sony has a shitty track record in the music industry; they were caught with their pants down when consumers downloaded purchased CD's onto their computers and discovered that Sony infiltrated their operating systems with a rootkit. Still, a man's got to have his free music. Ironically, after a few dozen songs, I discovered that I could only play them on the Sony music player, even though I prefer a different source. As for my MP3 player, anything but those F'N free Sony songs would download.

On August 30th, Sony sent me an email. I'll spare you all the bullshit and get to the meat and potatoes of their message:

Dear Valued Sony CONNECT Music Customer:

Today Sony announced its intent to move to a Windows Media Technology platform for Walkman products (they included a trademark symbol here). We strongly believe that the decision to embrace a more open platform for these devises will enable us to provide you with a better overall experience. Blah, Blah, Blah, Blah, BLAH.

They would have been better off apologizing for their greed. Thanks for the headaches.

I did receive a much nicer digital message this week regarding David Lee Gilbert, the rock and roll singer for The Rockets. Last month I did a special tribute to him and the band, including a slideshow with their song "Born In Detroit." Here's the comment:

Hi, it's me, Dee Gilbert. I just loved this tribute to my late husband. He would have been so honored by this. You are the best.

Now I'm walking proud. And burning calories too. I am The Walking Man. At least for the moment. Unless it's been copyrighted.

A FEW GOOD MEN (AND WOMEN TOO)

I’m no G.I. Joe hiding in a foxhole in Afghanistan; I’m more like an ugly-ass Ken gymnasticising the parallel bars of a paramilitary organization. You don’t break the chain of command where I work; you don’t turn down opportunities; you don’t question your superiors, or your superior’s superiors—unless you’re begging to be verbally counseled and written up.

As a recent transfer to a new facility, I had forewarned my coworkers of my plan of attack, and they, in turn, forewarned me of the possible repercussions. So when our former prison warden pulled the school principal out of our staff meeting to discuss matters regarding yours truly, a former coworker, a teacher who retired years later after the State Police led her out in handcuffs, said “Damn you’re good.” And indeed, I thought I’d made quite an impression.

After their discussion, my red-faced boss returned, and with an accusatory finger pointed in my direction said, “You broke the chain of command.”

I’m no G.I. Joe, and I’m certainly not a whistle-blower either. I simply answered a memorandum the warden had sent me. I was a hostage negotiator at my previous worksite and he wanted to know whether I would continue in that capacity.

My written response started something like this: I will no longer go beyond the call of duty of a Michigan Department of Corrections School Teacher. I listed several valid reasons, including issues regarding my wage and years of service. This was the beginning of a long, tumultuous battle with various administrators. Years later, and I’m still that ugly-ass Ken protecting what’s mine. I guess you could say, “I have the power of schmooze.”

A LOSS FOR WORDS

I’ve been at a loss for words lately, more so than Michael Vick at a press conference. I was standing at the officer’s podium, my ears burning, waiting to hear about the alleged incident that took place during our immobilization. A certain OPMT (Out Patient Mental Treatment) prisoner—drawing attention to himself for modeling off his skivvies and flip-flops—refused to lock-up, a mandatory requirement during such drills. He stood his ground, barking incomprehensible nonsense to whomever would listen, and rumor had it, as soon as the siren blew and the dogs howled, he ingested an illegal substance. It wasn’t until after they cuffed him that he decided to fight.

“So what happened with Captain Underpants?” I asked.

“He went to seg,” one officer answered, knowing damned well that I was hoping to extract as many details as I could. They didn’t budge.

I decided to “push on,” a popular term used by the prisoners when you’re not invited into the conversation. As I turned to leave, I slipped and grabbed the podium to right myself. “Why is there water on the floor here?” I asked.

“It’s not water,” another officer stated.

“Then what is it?”

“Dog pee,” he answered.

If I hadn’t been at a loss for words, I would’ve said, “Well can we get Michael Vick to clean it up?”

400th POST (Reflecting Back)

The first responder to my blog (excluding the people I know outside of cyberspace) said something simple, nice, short and to the point: “I like your blog.” Filled with the enthusiasm of a novice blogger, I went to her site and learned about her ongoing battle with depression, her husband’s suicide, her recent mastectomy, and her preteen daughter’s somewhat rebellious behavior.

I think I responded once or twice—probably not giving it as much thought as needed—and she, in turn, decided not to reciprocate. I’m not sure why she felt the need to visit me in the first place, or why she even commented. Could it have been the second stage melanoma scare I had talked about? Or the Relay for Life fund-raiser I participated in? For some reason, on that particular night, she must have felt a sense of hope, a tinge of Perhaps he’ll understand. Or maybe she needed to lose herself in someone else’s problems, even if for only a moment. If she had in fact returned to my blog, I’m most certain her impression changed—my life, she may have thought, is tragically comfortable, my problems pale in comparison. And I'd have to agree.

There are other bloggers I’ve lost touch with; some of whom I may have driven away with my comments, posts, or You Tube vignettes. Some bloggers probably used my URL switch as a reason not to come back; what better method is there to cut someone loose. With that said, this is my 400th Post.

Honi soit qui mal y pense

I promise, "No more wedding pictures for awhile," and in the words of Elvis C., "My aim is true."


This past week, as I paraded a young lying-sack-of-an-excuse student down the corridor in search of the school principal for a GED verification, I observed two convicts speed-walking my way.

"What's going on?" I asked. Both inmates stopped.

"I don't know who he thinks he is," the inmate with the burnt face said, "but he ain't gonna talk to me any old way." He was referring to the Dirt Man, aka, the horticulture instructor standing at the other end of the hallway near the entrance of his classroom. The other inmate leaned against the wall, distancing himself from the conversation.

"I can't tell," I replied. "Looks to me like you're doing the chicken walk to get away from him." Now I had three convicts to deal with during mass movement in our school building. "You want his ID?" I yelled to the Dirt Man. Not that it really mattered. I knew both of them and could look up their inmate numbers.

"Yeah," the Dirt Man answered, still seething from whatever they had done.

"Give me your ID," I ordered the burnt faced inmate. He started flexing on me, but I stood my ground. And why not? Our corridors have security cameras recording our every nose-picking moment. He readily complied.

His road dog decided to speak. "All he was doing was weighing himself."

"Give me your ID as well," I said as an afterthought. He, too, complied.

I don't know if my lying-sack-of-an-excuse student followed me, but I delivered two ID's to the Dirt Man, who explained to me that the inmates in question had been in his critical tool area. Also, he informed me that the school principal was not in the building.

As I walked past the two inmates, a corrections officer asked, "Why are those two guys standing in my hallway?"

I shrugged my shoulders and replied, "Probably because the horticulture teacher has their ID's." By now, my new student fessed up that he did not have all of his GED scores, that he still needed to take the mathematics test. Such is an average day in the Michigan Department of Corrections.

HOOKING UP

In my bachelor days fine dining meant ordering by number, and if I had had more influence, our wedding would've been planned in very much the same manner--out of one of those Little Wedding Chapels that sold various packaged deals at reasonable prices. However, due to free loading off the future in-laws for longer than I'd like to admit (living in their damp moldy basement rent free had been a logical choice for stockpiling my money) I decided to go the traditional route. We had purchased a house jointly, and after making a deposit on a hall for a specific day, we decided to get married at the Catholic Church in our new neighborhood.

Enter Father Pasquali. We told him of our new home and that we'd like to get married on August 21st. Rather taken aback, he commented, "I hope you didn't reserve a hall."

My future-wife and I looked at each other and decided to let him continue.

"I'll have to check with Anna, our secretary, to see if that date is available."

When Father Pasquali left his office, there was no finger pointing, neither of us said, "I told you so." We simply waited. Let fate decide.

He returned with Anna in tow, and she informed us that all of August had been booked except for the 21st. I believe I made the initial comment, "We'll take it," but if you were to ask my wife, she insists that it was she who spoke first. One thing is for certain, both of us had to provide the necessary documentation in regards to our Catholic faith and pony up the money for marriage classes. Dripping with sarcasm, on the short ride back to our money-pit-of-a-home, I said, "I am so looking forward to learning all about marriage, how about you?" I needn't tell you her answer, afterall, we had already made a major purchase under different last names. What better way to demonstrate our faith and commitment.

CLOCK WATCHERS

I’ve had inmates, the type who’ve made an art form out of procrastination, tell me they can do the rest of their time standing on their head, and that’s all fine and dandy—if you’re easily mesmerized by grains of sand sifting through an hourglass. I have a name for people like them: Clock Watchers.

Regardless of the environment, I’d rather build a sand castle, even if I have to do it one grain at a time, even if others claim I’m in my own personal prison called “marriage.” I’ve tried to explain the difference between imprisonment and personal commitment to no avail. “At least commit to something,” I advise.

If they listened—truly, truly listened—they’d work in tandem, emptying pockets full of sand onto the prison yard, physically escaping the loneliness of the Clock Watchers, working toward a common goal, instead of traveling through the same tunnel vision of others. But then again, that would involve risk.

Fourteen years later, my marriage, and my sand castle continue to change, and I am the better for it.

A FEW RANDOM THOUGHTS

Never in my wildest dreams did I think I would be teaching convicted felons for the Michigan Department of Corrections. Even when as an impressionable young boy listening to my grandfather’s stories about working with trustees at the Jackson Penitentiary Farm System, my thoughts were on becoming a dentist. For whatever reason, pulling and drilling teeth had a certain allure more so than taming the savage beast of man. And why would anyone say, “When I grow up, I want to teach the Charlie Mansons of the world.”

One time, my grandfather had an ex-felon show up on his front door step. I don’t know exactly what he had said to his unexpected visitor, but I’m sure part of it was, “Get the hell off my property before I shoot your ass.” It wasn’t until years later, after he retired and moved, that two trustees escaped and brutally murdered a family in the local farming community.

My grandfather has long since passed, and my grandmother’s health isn't what it used to be—a steady diet of radioactive iodine isn't helping. She returned a handwritten letter I had sent to my grandfather some sixteen years ago during my four-week DeMarse Academy training in Lansing, Michigan. He never wrote back, but he did enjoy knowing that I went through the same self-defense and anatomy of a setup courses.

Yesterday, I had a special treat for everyone—some 20 year-old video footage of myself as a promising public school teacher. Those were the days when I looked forward to having a positive influence on my students. Now, it doesn’t really seem to matter as much, although the graduation ceremony you witnessed (I was behind the camcorder) seems to say otherwise.

In order not to bore you, I wiped out my voice (who wants to hear a history lecture on South Carolina’s Ordinance of Nullification anyway?) and dubbed in The Wolfgang Press. Thanks for your loyalty and if you haven’t seen the video yet, now may be as good a time as any.

One last thing: Welcome home Bro.

JUXTAPOSITION

WHEN YOUR BOUNDARIES CHANGE

Prior to my transfer from one prison facility to the next, I intermittently supervised an inmate school clerk. I say, “Intermittently” because not only did I perform the school principal’s enrollment and student orientation duties, I taught GED classes as well. The only way to do both effectively was to cut corners, and by that, I mean overlooking a few Michigan Department of Correction's operating procedures and policies.

Never one to follow all the rules (which is probably why the convicts can identify with me) I had Inmate Clark, a former rapists/murderer, typing prisoner details on an old stand-alone Macintosh computer. I can still hear the muffled screams of that dot-matrix printer spitting out triplicate copied forms from a corner office. Each form, otherwise known as a prisoner detail, once signed and delivered by me, gave an inmate access to our school building at specific times of the day.

“JR,” the school officer asked, “since when is it okay to leave an inmate unsupervised?”

“Since there’s not enough staff to do the work,” I answered.

After explaining how I would assume full responsibility if anything were to happen, business continued as usual. There were a few occasions where I checked that Macintosh computer and deleted numerous files devoted to a so-called pornographic novel. When confronted about it, Inmate Clark assured me that he would seek an alternative method for his creative writing endeavors.

I knew better. On my last day at the facility, I told Inmate Clark that his days of generating prisoner details were over. “Go back to your regular filing duties and stay out of that corner office. Do you understand? Because I’ll deny everything.”

Evidently, he did not get my message. After two weeks of settling into my new job, an investigative questionnaire caught up with me.

Did you ever assign Inmate Clark his own office?

No.

Did you ever let Inmate Clark use a school office computer without direct supervision?

No.

Is there anything more you would like to add to clarify this matter?

NO.

SEEING DANGER

I’ve always felt that you should have an idea of what, and not who, is coming through your classroom door. Murders, rapists, pedophiles, drug dealers, and thieves are the norm. Instead, I’m speaking about what is commonly referred to as OPMT’s (Out Patient Mental Treatment). “He’s OPMT,” an officer will say, as if that justifies any peculiar behaviors you’ve witnessed.

Some OPMT’s constantly battle demons. Some listen to the voices inside their head and cut their way back into reality. Some are comical (the offender who repeatedly fell in love with storefront mannequins and couldn’t resist kidnapping them); some are sick (the head banger, forced to wear a bike helmet, who inserted a ballpoint pen into the drinking fountain and mounted it until someone said, “Hey! People drink from that!”)

Last Thursday, returning from a peaceful lunch, I witnessed two officers escorting an OPMT to PC (Protective Custody). After completing his orientation earlier in the day, and because he hadn’t been screened for his medication yet, he started spewing racist venom at all the black inmates in his cellblock. “N-this, N-that! N…N…N…” As they marched his ass backward in handcuffs down the walkway, he looked up momentarily and we made eye contact. Young, fresh, white meat removed from GP (general population).

We didn’t speak to one another until yesterday. No one informed me of his current situation, and he certainly didn’t reveal anything to me. What I’ve told you I learned mostly on my own.

He seemed anxious to please me and dove right into his class assignment. The young black inmates took turns getting up from their desks and walking by him.

“How’s it going?” the first inmate said on his way to the pencil sharpener.

Then the next guy, “You doing okay?”

Then a third guy, “You need any help come holler at me.”

By then I had had enough. “Sit your asses down and cut the crap.”

After class, I asked the school principal to give me the scoop. Turns out, he’s some suburban kid who repeatedly stabbed his mother in the eyes more than one hundred times. However, that wasn’t the information I was seeking. I told her what transpired in my classroom and that we might have to adjust my class rosters to avoid a potential blowout. She agreed.

THE CURE

The Cure's Prayer Tour 1989 (Lovesong)

However far away / I will always love you
However long I stay / I will always love you
Whatever words I say / I will always love you


When Bill Davidson broke ground on The Palace of Auburn Hills, my boss DW, of DW Properties, brokered a deal among several business owners to lease a suite. The way it worked: DW Properties would manage and distribute the tickets for basketball games, concerts, and miscellaneous events in exchange for one share at a considerably reduced cost. Talk about the art of the deal.

As soon as The Palace opened its doors, DW—with his old school charm and history of hiring young, inexperienced secretaries for a little extracurricular activity (he made Warren Beatty look like an amateur)—convinced the concierge to come work for him. If this were any indication of past hiring practices, the suite holders would be storming the fort demanding changes.

Here is a perfect example of my experience with a DW Properties’ secretary: “Excuse me, sir,” a Barbie-doll-like secretary said, directing me toward the Fax machine, “It must be broke or something.” I checked it out. Everything appeared to be in working order. “But the document’s still here,” she stated, somewhat puzzled.

When the concierge left her Palace job and set-up camp in the offices of DW Properties, I gave her my standard nobody’s special around here greeting, “Who the hell are you?”

Instead of eliciting a warm bubbly smile, this one lashed back. “And just who the hell are YOU?”

Even though we were the same age, we definitely did not hit it off. Not that it mattered. I soon discovered that this secretary was different from the others. She actually had a head on her shoulders. She kept The Palace suite holders happy—distributing tickets, handling complaints, and billing each in a timely fashion. As for our working relationship, I would plunk box after box of old invoices on her desk week after week, and she would input the information into her computer and shred the documents. After saving that last box of invoices to her computer, I complemented her on a job well done. Then I made an unusual request, “I want you to delete all the invoice files on your computer.” She looked at me incredulously. “If you won’t, I will.”

She soon learned that DW had enemies everywhere, even in his own camp. Not long after that, I asked her if she would be interested in having lunch with me.

Six months later, DW noticed his secretary wearing a concert t-shirt. “You should’ve told me you were interested in the Cure, I could’ve gotten you in for free,” he said.

Little did he know, not only did he pay for her concert ticket and t-shirt, he paid for mine as well, plus food and drinks. We started going to all sorts of events, compliments of DW Properties.

Next week that secretary and I will be celebrating our 14th Wedding Anniversary.

SELF-IMPLOSION

The last time I saw the Rockets, Lenny D. kept pestering me to sell my concert tickets at regular cost. I'd spent the summer of 1981 teaching swimming classes and lifeguarding for the Bruce Township Parks and Rec. Not much money coming in; yet, I'd purchased those two tickets with the intentions of asking my coworker, a popular high school cheerleader, whom I never talked to except for the occasional "hello," if she'd be interested in going. In order to challenge myself, I told a few friends, perhaps for no better reason than to hear their words of encouragement.

Thus Lenny D. And his phone calls. And he wasn't a friend. Just someone from my high school graduating class. The cousin of a friend. "Are you going to ask her?" I heard him repeat into the receiver every time I gave a reason for my delay. I hadn't yet discovered that some ten years later he'd run a backhoe over a major gas line in downtown Rochester, Michigan, and blow up a building. I had learned about the explosion on the local news. His involvement was revealed months later when I asked, "What happened to your eyebrows?"

He fessed up to the accidental dig but claimed no one informed him of the gas line.

"You're lucky to be alive," I said. He acted like it wasn't such a big deal. No deaths occurred and the area had been evacuated.

"You're too late," he claimed. "Why don't you sell me the tickets?"

The phone calls continued into the next morning, the day of the concert, pushing me over the edge. "I already called her," I said. "It's a done deal."

Shortly thereafter, I picked up the phone and made that call. There's no sense in going over the details except to acknowledge that it was our first and last date and that I had probably sabotaged all chances of ever dating her again. By the start of my senior year, I became a faded memory.

As for Lenny D., I'd run into him now and then. "Hey, can you give me a ride home?" he asked. He had a suspended driver's license for too many DUI's and the Michigan State Police were waiting for him in the parking lot of our local watering hole.

"Sure," I said, knowing that my condition faired much better than the night I'd last seen the Rockets in concert.

Here's Turn Up The Radio:

GLADIATOR SCHOOL

I'm unwinding to The Tragically Hip and thinking about what I could've done differently Wednesday morning, the day a fight broke out in the next classroom. I heard furniture flying, thump-thumping, and muffled expletives. Had two of my own students escorted out fifteen minutes earlier--hey, you got to do something when they're swarming you like a pack of rabid dogs. I told a third inmate to "get the hell out, and stay out, and if you come back, bring you i.d. because I'm gonna write your ass up for being out of place."

"C'mon man," he pleaded, "I'll behave. Just let me stay in here for awhile." He sensed that I wasn't in the mood for his bullshit and off he trotted to "Gladiator School," or at least that's what the corrections officers jokingly call the classroom next door because of the broken chairs and tables that get hauled away on a regular basis.

The younger prisoners (17 to 22 years of age) often complain that I'm a miserable old cuss. I'd like to think I'm playing the part. I'm not so sure this prisoner drawn sketch is an accurate portrayal of my physical features, but it certainly fits my working mood. So, when the thump-thumping continued, the youngsters I've bitch-trained to stay seated looked up at me. "You gonna see what's happening?" one of them asked.

"Don't tell me how to do my job. I'll check on it when I'm good and ready." The thump-thumping grew louder. Followed by more muffled expletives. "Stay where you are," I ordered. Sometimes those dogs just won't listen; they followed.

The prisoner I'd threatened with a write up and his foe had each other in headlocks. I'm not quite sure what the teacher was trying to do. Standing there in disbelief, I guess. From what I'd gathered, he pulled his PPD (Personal Protection Device) which alerts custody of a problem. Sixteen years with the Department of Corrections and I've yet to use this little device. In fact, I've only had one alleged stabbing incident. I say "alleged" because no one could prove it took place in my area. When questioned by the inspectors, I replied, "I didn't see shit."

So here I am, listening to The Tragically Hip and wondering whether I had done the right thing. I worked crowd control, ordering my students back into my classroom while other staff members pried the two inmates apart. Soon they were handcuffed and hauled off to segregation without anyone getting injured. Much different than the time our horticulture teacher witnessed a handcuffed inmate get a pencil buried in his arm. "Don't pull it out," the corrections officer advised, not missing a beat. And why should he? Healthcare and Segregation are in the same building.

TO BE A SUCCESS

Michael "Flash" Haggerty is so popular he no longer visits my house. Not that I want him over. I would much prefer seeing him at my old high school friend’s place in Capac, Michigan, where we can socialize over barbecued chicken and cold beers. I have put my foot down more times than I can count. Dug my heels in deep.

"That’s it," my wife threatens, "I’m calling Flash."

Her words sting. No man likes to be told they’re inadequate. Especially me.

Flash is known for his rock and roll roots in a band called Adrenalin, which later morphed into DC Drive. Flash started the band. Last time I spoke with him—the usual testosterone-filled, male-to-male greeting, "so how’s it going?"—he brought me up to speed on a few reunion concerts he participated in at the Emerald Theatre in Mount Clemens and the Freedom Hill in Sterling Heights.

During their glory days, the band warmed up for Bob Seger and Aerosmith at the DTE Music Theatre (or should I say "Pine Knob?") Their music appeared in the sound track of a Hollywood movie starring Louis Gossett Jr. However, Flash isn’t Flashy like his name suggests, even though he has a successful plumbing business in Eastpointe (or should I say "East Detroit?") and no longer makes every house call. Instead, he has employees do that for him.

"Go ahead," I tell my wife, dropping my pipe wrench. "Call Flash."

Flash is wearing the white jacket.

THE POINT OF NO RETURN

My favorite albums are framed and hanging on the basement wall of my house. Nostalgia on vinyl, under glass ... relics of a by-gone era. Knowing how little room we have, my wife suggested I select a few favorites, those artistic album covers: Steve Miller Band's Pegasus, Journey's angelic-like Earth, Kansas's ship sailing to The Point of No Return, ELO's UFO, and of course, the Rockets' Rocket.

"Display them," she said, "and sell the rest." And I did.

Lately, I've been tempted to pry the backs off those frames, read the liner notes, and put needle to plastic. It ain't easy just looking at them when my wife's Sanyo stereo system, complete with turntable is nearby.

Luckily, a few years back I discovered twenty or so songs by the Rockets digitized and readily available in cyberspace. Do I feel badly about helping myself? No. Not really. As a high school kid, I bought those albums, T-shirts, and concert tickets. I was (and still am) a Rockets fan. Besides, their music has never been digitally remastered on CD.

I'm not sure my student appreciates David Lee Gilbert's voice like I do. David and he drank and did drugs together. Call it "The Has Been" and "The Never Been" wasting away their days; Two points of light on a wide spectrum of possibilities. One flaming out early; the other serving time in prison.

Currently, my student is fighting a habitual offender label he incurred. He entered a guilty plea to the possession and sale of cocaine in 1988. Ten more years were added to his minimum and maximum out dates for a 3rd degree sex offense that happened in 2000 here in Michigan.

Here's the paperwork the inmate signed regarding the drug charge:

It appearing to the satisfaction of the Court that you are not likely again to engage in a criminal course of conduct, and that the ends of justice and the welfare of society do not require that you should presently be adjudged guilty and suffer the penalty authorized by law ... yada yada yada ... therefore, it is ordered and adjudge that the adjudication of guilt and imposition of sentence are here-by withheld and that you are hereby placed on probation for a period of two years under the supervision of the Florida Department of Corrections and its officers, such supervision to be subject to the provisions of the laws of this State.

And my student's response sent to his attorney regarding his current sentence:

This conviction was used to compute my prior record variables and to enhance my sentence to 2nd degree habitual offender. If this 1988 conviction from Florida isn't supposed to be on my record, then I should have merit to appeal my sentence. I'm hoping that some good can come out of this. If this prior conviction can't be used, it would change my sentencing guidelines considerably.

If I were his lawyer, I'd deal with the realities of the situation. I'd ask: "Were you under the influence of alcohol or drugs at the time of your sex offense?"

I'll bet he was.

THE ROCKETS

Dave Gilbert had a voice to die for.

"Rocket to the crypt" by Brian Smith, Detroit MetroTimes music critic.

See yesterday's post also.

WASTED TALENT

Most people are appalled when I tell them there's a music room at our prison. "The inmates have regularly scheduled jam sessions," I say--initiating all sorts of responses, the most popular being: "That's bullshit!" I also toss in the following trivia: "Guitar string is a necessity with our tattoo artists; they use it to make needles on their homemade tatttoo guns."

There's an abundance of creative types in our prison, artists and musicians everywhere. Then there's your average working stiffs like myself, earning an honest wage off other folks' miseries. Last week I overheard a student reminiscing about his younger days jamming with David Gilbert. I interrupted his conversation. "Are you talking about David Lee Gilbert from the Rockets?"

"Yeah," he answered. "I did carpentry work with him before I came to prison."

If I were to draw a timeline of Gilbert's life, this inmate knew him after the fame, after the rock-n-roll lifestyle took its toll. The Rockets were (and still are) my favorite Detroit rock band. They should've made it big, if only Gilbert, their lead singer, would have quit his alcohol and drug use. They warmed up for Journey, the Who, and many other rock acts. Headlined a few shows of their own too. By 1983 though, the Rockets disbanded. Gilbert's downward spiral lasted for eighteen more years. He became another working stiff just like the rest of us, trying to survive, trying to pay the bills. Unfortunately, his substance abuse problem did him in. On August 1, 2001, at the age of 49, he died of cirrhosis and liver cancer.

As a tribute, tomorrow I'll post a slideshow along with the Rockets' "Born in Detroit."

Here's the lyrics:

Well Hollywood is fine if you're just passin' through / People out there will treat you pretty cool

Parties in the hills are always lots of fun / Malibu is great if you wanna catch some sun

And I know folks who really love the town / But it just ain't home, I never stick around

Born in the city - the city where they make the cars

Born in Detroit - you know I'm gonna be a star

I say "Hey Motor City, love you for what you are"

New York City's such a soulful town / Anything you want, you know they'll shake it on down

Hot spots, hot shots, the place never sleeps / When I used to live there I was always on my feet

But even though I dug it, I knew I couldn't stay / Home kept callin' I was on my way

Born in the city - the city where they make the cars

Born in Detroit - you know I'm gonna be a star

I say "Hey Motor City, love you for what you are"

When you're cruisin' down Woodward on a Friday night / Don't take no orders and run from a fight

Good times, bad times, I've seen it all / I'm gonna keep rockin' so let's have a ball

C'mon baby, don't you wanna go back to Detroit City - the home of rock 'n roll

Born in the city - the city where they make the cars

Born in Detroit - you know I'm gonna be a star

I say "Hey Motor City, love you for what you are"

I LIKE TO FISH

Yesterday, as I entered the administration building (the clubhouse before our lovely gated community) custody staff corralled me. Entryway to the time clock, lunchroom, and bathrooms were off limits; all doors were locked.

As I stood in line waiting for my turn to pass through the electronic gate and into a shakedown room, a corrections officer started passing out twenty-dollar bills. "Here’s that twenty I owe you," he kept saying. At our facility, the maximum allowable amount you can carry inside the joint is twenty bucks. (Later in the day, this same C.O. was busy trying to retrieve his money.) As I stood there, I pulled a breakfast bar out of my pocket and ate it. The coworker beside me shook his head at my obvious cover-up; you cannot bring food inside either.

When it was my turn in the shakedown room, a corrections officer searched my personal belongings. "Why is this in here?" the officer asked, pointing to a crappie rig in my lunch bag.

"Do you want the long explanation or the short explanation?"

"The short," he said.

"I like to fish."

After taking off my shoes and socks, and emptying my pockets, I waited for an officer to frisk me. No problem there.

The only difficulty I had had to do with that damn lunch of mine. Not so much the fishing gear, but the storage thereof of my freshly cut cantaloupe and ham sandwich.

"Put your lunch on the cart."

"Do you have a refrigerator in here?" I already knew the answer to that.

"We’ll make sure it gets refrigerated."

"How long will that be?" I asked.

My persistence paid-off. They allowed me access to the lunchroom. When I returned though, they made me get back in line for another shakedown. By now, I had had enough. What could I possibly smuggle in, after being searched and allowed access to a secured area? The sergeant decided it was a little too excessive and let me pass through.

Others were not so lucky:

A corrections officer didn’t leave his cell phone in his car. When he entered the administration building and saw the line, it was too late. He voluntarily informed the sergeant of his mistake, which in turn, resulted in an automatic five-day suspension without pay.

The librarian (why is it always the librarian?) wanted to use the bathroom. After being denied the luxury, he decided to utilize the parking lot. Upon his return, custody staff confiscated his identification card. The charge: Refusal of a shakedown. The consequence: Suspension with pay pending investigation and possible termination of employment.

Here’s my hypothetical question: If, after a long drive into work and a very large cup of coffee, would you be compliant? Or would you find a place to relieve yourself?