Welcome to the Boulder County Jail

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The Boulder County Jail was unlike any I had ever experienced. It was splendiferous in comparison to those I had been an occupant of in Texas--I didn't have to step over snoring drunks in holding cells, avoid eye contact with other inmates, or be prodded with needles. The place had normal chairs, a television, carpet, refrigerated water faucets, and sack lunches that were almost fresh. There weren't even concerns about female and male inmates intermingling--I shared booking with a woman who still had burns on her lips from whatever glass dick she'd been sucking. And if all of that wasn't enough, I was fingerprinted by Eurkel (seen in the photo and with contacts unfortunately).

For those of you unfamiliar with the intake process of county jails, after that I was then taken to the fish tank where I was kept on lockdown for three days. My cell door was revolving and I met myriad lawbreakers. They all seemed to bond out immediately, leaving me to welcome one stranger after another until I made it to a more permanent housing unit.

When the call came to be moved and the latch of my cell door sounded, I quickly gathered my things and prepared for my relocation. I was in jail and I realized I'd be there for a while. I had no intention of calling my mother and asking for legal representation. The crimes were mine and I was prepared for the consequences of such. It was time to settle in and do what I had always done best--adapt.

When I entered "B-Unit," the V-shaped room full of offenders all gave me the once-over before returning to their card games, reading materials, or conversations. I did not give their inspective glances any notice. I had been too busy taking in my new home's amenities. There was blue carpet, a hot-water dispenser(for making instant coffee or Ramen Noodles), couches and armchairs, a television for each side of the day-room, piles upon piles of magazines and books to choose from, and even board games. As I silently thanked them, I wondered if taxpayers were aware they had funded the Hilton of county jails.

Still in awe of my surroundings, I entered my assigned cell and began to settle in. I cleaned the cell in my best OCD fashion and made my bed. In the middle of doing so, I was greeted by another inmate. He turned out to be my celly and I was appropriately polite. This means I did not ask the son of a bitch what he was in for. Inmates, especially those who are awaiting sentencing, do not appreciate curiosity. There is always that chance you might betray an important fact concerning your case that could later be used against you. Snitches looking to shorten their prospective incarceration time are rampant in every facet of the justice system. In the Boulder County Jail, where the scene could best be described as a serene form of imprisonment where retaliation is unlikely, snitches thrived. I was not going to be labeled one or fall victim to one--I kept my mouth shut.

While in the middle of organizing my meager collection of county-issued belongings, everyone in the unit was ordered to return to their cells for count--inventory of inmates always preceded meals. My celly informed me that after count we'd be served dinner and then allowed to go to rec. I was excited about getting to stretch my legs and was semi-thankful for the lack of appetite I had once chow arrived. I am not sure if anyone else has ever had the displeasure of being served such, but the Boulder County Jail has a definite affinity for Jell-O Salad. I couldn't give the floating shredded lettuce away, even amongst shouts of, "I got salisbury steak for potatoes" or, "I'll trade my steak for two soups." I can recall almost laughing hysterically when the solicitations for trading of dinner items were followed by, "I got dick for butt!" One thing about inmates, most manage to reserve their sense of humor.

After disposing of my untouched meal, I joined the line for those who chose to attend rec. We had all been issued Chuck Taylors when going through intake, but this would be the first time I ever played basketball in a pair. I was excited and looked forward to making some alliances on the court. Everyone loves a white boy who balls. One that looks like a pre-pubescent twelve-year-old but still has the testicular fortitude to take it to the hole was going to be a surprise to everyone. I could not wait to see their faces. (Click here to subscribe to my feed!)

A Frosty for my Troubles

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I wasn't immediately transported to the police station. I sat in the rear of the cruiser until some brass showed up. They were called in to wring the truth out of me. I wondered if their questions would be asked through barely withheld grins like the cops I had dealt with so far. Despite being handcuffed and irritably shifting from one ass cheek to the other (the backseat of a cop car for tall people is the first form of interrogation), I understood why the police found my situation funny. They were silently praying for my story to make the paper. I can still hear the journalists licking their lips.

There I remained until the detectives and my other captors had suitably sucked each other off. I was then removed from my captor's car, unhandcuffed, and placed in an unmarked sedan that was significantly more hospitable than my prior confines -- they were buttering me up. Once in gear, the driver began to speak, first asking my name and where I was from. Would this be the good or bad cop?

I was informed that they knew I was a burglar. I was on probation and bond for burglary. Captain Obvious had been doing his homework. I should have asked if that's what the shit sample told them.

After we exchanged congenialities I was asked to direct them towards other homes I had broken in to. I wasn't going to be seeing daylight for a while. The purse and its contents found in my trunk were more than enough to link me to several burglaries, so I agreed to point out as many of the homes I could. My inexperience with the area was a serious hindrance and many of the sites had been rural to a degree.

The best option available to me had been to cooperate with the investigation in hopes the court would look favorably upon me. Believe it or not, I've always been a terrible liar. Boulder's District Attorney was probably a moron, but I wasn't prepared to test him.

In all, I lead them back to 17 separate locations. (17 out of 30 probably) I made their work easy and the surprise on their faces was astonishing. They couldn't believe how quickly I had worked. I couldn't believe I got caught because of a bowel movement.

The two dicks tediously jotted down information at each of the locations and we then headed to the station. I'm not sure if they had been hungry or not, but in the most random of my police experiences they pulled into a close-by Wendy's. I don't recall whether they ordered anything or not, but they did ask me if I'd like something. I replied without hesitation, "Bacon Cheeseburger, no tomatoes or onions, Biggie fry, and a Frosty." I had already confessed, what the hell was that about? I wondered if he was going to be able to ring that up as a business expense.

Lips glistening with grease, we arrived at the Boulder County Jail. I was removed from the car for the last time and patted down. My Frosty was melting, but it was quickly returned to my hands as they ushered me into an interview room where I was left to enjoy my last free meal of the nineties.

An hour or so passed before one of the detectives returned with a piece of paper with a detailed summary of what I had told them along with a list of the locations I had taken them to. I signed promptly and was placed in the waiting room to be booked into custody. Anti-climatic, I know, but my journey through the system was an event in and of itself. Prison might have saved my life. (Click here to subscribe to my feed!)

Deeper & Deeper

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I stayed with my soon to be ex-girlfriend that night and woke to the feeling of complete despair. What the hell was I to do now? My problems hadn't disappeared and I wondered if bonding out was the best idea. In jail at least I had a roof over my head and free meals. My girlfriend was lactose intolerant, allergic to wheat products, and a vegetarian. She had blown more than one high of mine with her non-Texan fare and I couldn't stay there for long with her parents around.

I had spoken with my mother that morning and she conveyed to me that there was little she could do to immediately assist me. I was told to sit tight and give her a few days to work something out in the way of providing me with a place to stay. Didn't she understand what being homeless entailed? Hadn't I learned yet to listen to her?

Cash still padded my pockets and I settled on finding another cheap motel to set up shop in. My mind always raced in those years and I was rarely content with sitting and waiting for something to happen. Patience remains new to me even now.

Boulder, for those of you unfamiliar with its demographic, was blanketed with wealth and a youthful, trusting, and almost inviting community -- neohippie wannabe Rastafarian republicans. Crazy, I know. And if you didn't follow that...picture kids pulling up at school in Audi's, BMW's, and Benz's, only to emerge from their 50 thousand dollar daddy sponsored interiors with dreadlocks and snow-dirtied jeans. Boulder was one big oxymoron.

A crime spree can have many influences to its initiation I imagine. Almost all of them somehow point back to money though. Addictions are never cheap, bills need to be paid, and some perpetrators are just fucking greedy. I don't know where I fit into all of that, but I started my own spree and was packing my hotel room full with the spoils of my idiocy. I had never burglarized a home before and none of the homes I entered in this spree were forced-entry cases.

This was my modus operandi: Park in the driveway, knock on the door, smile innocently for the eventual peep-hole viewing, and should someone answer, ask for a random girl by name with a claim of having arranged to take her to school. "Oh, so Vanessa doesn't live here? Wow. Well, do you know of a girl, say, about this tall, with brown hair and blue eyes that might live on this street? I was almost sure this was it. No bother! Thanks and sorry." Looking in the mirror now, ten years later, it's hard to tag myself as either an unsavory or threatening looking person. I worked that to my advantage and never raised any suspicions.

If the door wasn't answered, I'd wait for a comfortable amount of time, maybe knock twice or a third time, and then simply check the door to see if it was locked. Nine times out of ten the front doors were unlocked as if waiting for me, and this resulted in easy, quick, and numerous burglaries. It was all so easy! I'd have enough loot to get my own apartment and furnish the damn thing without any help from my mother. That was precisely the plan, though it happened organically. I just started and it worked.

Two particular burglaries stood out. The first involved a home in which I let myself in and actually opened the garage door of the home and parked my car inside of it. There were plenty of goodies inside and though I was doing my best to only steal cash, jewelry, and items that were easy to get rid of and untraceable, there were some pretty fine accessories there that might have spruced up my eventual apartment and loading them in broad daylight into the trunk of my car was not wise.

I worked on the bottom floor before I headed upstairs to see what my hosts had to offer. The last room I chose to enter was the master bedroom. Upon opening the door I was greeted by a large dog. Who left a dog at home with free range of their bedroom while they were at work all day? Someone with some valuable shit in their bedroom, that's who! The dog was a bit of an issue though. His tail wagged, but a sneer accompanied it. I tried to go all Caesar Milan on the confused pup and, just when I thought he was going to back down and let me enter the room, he lunged for the crack in the door. I instinctively slammed the door and an angry squeal resulted as the gaping maw of the dog was forced back into the bedroom. I felt terrible. One thing I am not is animal abuser.

The second instance in my spree which stands out occurred when I entered a neighborhood scoping for my next mark. As I drove down the street I passed a woman with a twin-stroller and its precious cargo. A mile or so further down the road I selected a house and pulled confidently into its driveway. I knocked once, twice, and when no one answered I let myself in. Didn't anyone lock their fucking doors?

As I stepped around the door, closing it behind me, I noticed on the console table in the foyer a silver-framed picture. It was the woman I had passed in the street and she was holding her twins, staring me down with a knowing smile. I believe I might have blacked out, but know I left the house empty handed without looking back. Looking back can sometimes scare the hell out of you. (Click here to subscribe to my feed!)

Unlikely Ride to Freedom

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Hesitation isn't powerful enough a word to describe the feeling which overcame me when I discovered who had arrived to pick me up from jail. Ever trusting and naive, I calmly entered the car, unsure of what verbal punishment would follow. What was she doing there picking me up after I had slept with her, her daughter, and pocketed her emergency cash? I was obviously dealing with one crazy bitch.

Conversation was nonexistent and the first few moments of our journey were filled with the hum of her car's engine as she violently shifted gears. Journey to where, was a good question, right? Most people go home from jail, but I was without one. My car was impounded so it wouldn't be providing me with transportation or shelter until I could somehow retrieve it. I'd sleep in the snow for a week if it only meant Mrs. Thompson would say whatever the fuck it was she was there to say.

The silence lasted a few moments longer and as we began to make our way towards Boulder it was finally broken. Her words were calm and she didn't even mention any of the atrocities I had committed. She was more worried about her husband finding out than anything and seemed willing to bite her tongue and assist me in whatever way she could to prevent such revelations from surfacing.

From our conversation I was able to discern that she had picked me up as a favor to my mother. I've never believed that was her only motivation; she was obviously terrified that I would rat her out and ruin her marriage. I had been a member of the Don't Snitch Movement long before being incarcerated and had no real intentions of putting her out there like that. This doesn't mean I didn't harbor bitterness, but was simply resolved not to make a terrible situation worse. What good would it do anyway? It certainly wasn't going to make the D.A. dismiss my case.

The drive was conveniently short. She was taking me to my girlfriend's house where I would spend the night and could be close by to retrieve my wheels in the morning. As we turned the corner onto Lauren's street, I can remember thinking that the next time I saw this lunatic ex-lover of mine that she might be staring me down from across the court room as she informed the jurors of how badly I sucked at life. I was sure those same jurors would be just as shocked by the circumstances surrounding my knowledge of the cash's whereabouts I had stolen. No way would she take the stand with so much to lose.

As the wheels of her car crunched to a halt in the thickening snow I knew I didn't have much to worry about in the way of her potential testimony. My only problem remained finding somewhere to live and staying as far away from the Thompson family as conceivably possible. Mrs. Thompson had my balls in a vise, but she'd never tighten it without a push from my side of the conflict. Stepping from the car I felt relieved to be distancing myself from the bane of my existence and welcomed the cold that enveloped the night sky. It seemed warmer outside of the car and I was thankful that her face, one which had often made me smile, was one my eyes would never again have the displeasure of looking into. My hands were washed of that crazy fucking family, but were assured to get much dirtier in the upcoming weeks of my freedom. I seemed destined for prison and I'd be damned if I thwarted destiny. (Click here to subscribe to my feed!)

Busted in Boulder

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With the cash from Mrs. Thompson's bedroom I immediately rented an inexpensive motel room in Boulder, Colorado. The cold would not be leading to my demise after all. However, my ego had driven me to the wrong means of accomplishing this; a shelter would have been the first place most people turned I imagine (unfortunately, I am not "most people").

Three days from the date of my looting I was contacted by the police who were investigating the case. They wanted to talk to me as I suspected, and asked me to visit their offices. No problem.

When arriving at the station I was greeted by two detectives who led me toward an "interview" room. The stereotypical, over-used, you-must-be-a-fucking-fool interrogation ensued; it was Good Cop, Bad Cop. Yawn!

They mentioned finding my fingerprints on the sliding glass door and pretty much all over the house. Huge revelation there, given I had lived in the house for months. The next angle they tried was informing me that fingerprints could be dated and that my fingerprints were new enough to have been deposited after my eviction. Were these guys serious? I understood now why they worked the suburbs. It was hard to displace the smirk which fought to erase my otherwise composed countenance.

Despite the frailty of their evidence, I was taken in to custody and after a few hours transported to the Boulder County Jail. I was charged with second degree burglary and was able to visit the judge a couple of days later and receive a bond.

I can remember being behind the glass wall of the defendant section of the court room and a man being asked to stand as he was read his charges and bond. He had been arrested for possession of paraphernalia; a glass pipe. When the judge asked him if he had anything to say or would like to plead guilty, he responded with absolute seriousness, "But it was a small pipe, your honor.” Everyone chuckled, even the judge, though his furrowed brow seemed also to deepen in response to the guy's plea.

Looking back, it was a rare bright moment in the next few months of my life in Colorado. Humor never eludes me, even in the most desperate of times. Jail I could make the best of, it was the guilt of my mother having to deal with all of this that stirred my feelings the most. I'd do my best to make sure she wouldn't be having to deal with it.

When my charges were read, I plead not-guilty and was returned to my cell. The Boulder County Jail could best be described as the Waldorf Towers of county jails. You'll be glad to know that tax-dollars are spent on renting movies on Fridays and Saturdays for the inmates to view on couches with bags of popcorn and a two-liter of Pepsi to share between three inmates. Why would anyone ever want to leave? There was even carpet in the cells and porcelain toilets. Well, I bonded out anyway. My mother had been contacted by Mrs. Thompson and they somehow arranged for this to be taken care of. When I stepped outside the jail, for the first time, Mrs. Thompson's car stood waiting for me. I thought the detectives had been a joke. This surely was. (Click here to subscribe to my feed!)

Homeless, but not for long...

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After turning the Thompson's world upside down, I found myself sleeping in my car, without even a blanket to protect me from the snow's cold that now masked both my windows and any warmth my rolling home could have provided. I could hardly afford to leave it running when I didn't even have the money for proper shelter.

I had a girlfriend (who of course had no idea about the circumstances of my eviction), Lauren, but she still lived at home with her family. Her parents, as so many people seem to have been fooled, were fond of me but not the type to approach with such a proposition as was necessary to resolve my homelessness. I had no idea where to turn. The Honda would have to do for now.

My first night within its confines, I of course overslept. I had been due at work in the morning and wouldn't have been able to make myself appropriately presentable without an iron and mirror anyway. You can add unemployed to the list of my problems. I was definitely proving myself ill-equipped for adversity. My only option seemed to be calling my mother and having her wire me some money from Venezuela. How would I explain to her my situation though? Yeah, fuck that. You think you could have that conversation with yours?

I still had a key to the Thompson's house and after a couple of days living out of my car had become positively bitter. I convinced myself that I was the victim somehow and that Mrs. Thompson owed me one way or another. Evict someone...sure! Put a kid out in the snow with no resources (either monetary or familial) who is strapped to the state by a little thing called felony probation, and you're practically inhumane. I mean fuck, I hadn't even seen snow before a few months prior, went skiing in blue jeans (Lucky Brand of course) I was so obviously ignorant and Texan, and had practically been raped while in a drunk stupor the first time we shared a bed. That would be their bed, the one she shared with her husband. She owed me and the fat wad of cash she kept in one of the drawers of that very bed would be sufficient compensation for my winter eviction and present state of affairs.


On a day when I knew no one would be home, I simply let myself in with my key and retrieved the money. I knew I would of course be the prime candidate if and when the police were informed. The only option to circumvent the crime being attributed to me was to make it look like it had been an actual break-in. I chose the garage's side door as my supposed entry point and kicked it in about as well as any 155 pound man; more than twenty attempts and several instances where I thought I had separated my shoulder. The scene was set and I would be sleeping in a hotel room that night. I just knew I wasn't going to freeze to death over getting my dick wet. I was much smarter than any cop I'd ever met and proof of my crime would be hard to come by. (Click here to subscribe to my feed!)

Corruption of a Family (Part 3 of 5)

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Life was ideal in my new mountain home. As a matter of fact, it couldn’t have been better given only a few months earlier I had been staring through the tangles of a barbed wire fence and sharing a musty room with 40 or so fuck-ups just like me; talk about paradise.

My first few months of newly granted freedom I tooled around a great bit, taking in my new territory from Broomfield to Denver to Boulder and more. Colorado was breathtaking and the urban bustle of Houston which I was used to was nonexistent. Wealth seemed to be everywhere I looked and people were very…well…friendly. I can remember walking in to fraternity parties near the CU campus and strangers greeting me. You didn’t greet strangers in Houston. You stayed close to your own and took your time to get a feel for strangers. You never knew who the fuck might be walking into a party there.

I have always tended to have more girl friends than guy friends and it didn’t take me long to find a pair of girls to show me around and give me more of a personal tour of my new surroundings. I definitely needed to know where to score some dank and we all know girls get the best drugs. I was tired of cruising “The Hill” in Boulder looking for a dreadlocked cracker with a dingy backpack. I bet “The Hill” has the highest ratio of white people with dreadlocks per square block than anywhere in America. And they ALL have backpacks with salivating cargo.

The girls were of course much more to me than just a weed connect. One was a model and both stood taller than me; I am almost 6 foot. Mariah I met while buying groceries and the Amazonian model was her friend. I can recall going to the Denver Broncos Super Bowl parade in downtown Denver accompanied by the model and groups of people parting for her as she carved her own little twisted swathe through the crowd. I had been in awe of how great a berth was provided her. I, on the other hand, was getting shoulder-bumped every time I tried to squeak through the masses like some kind of chump.

These two girls and I wrecked shop. We celebrated New Year’s Eve together – never mix mudslides and champagne by the way – and countless other intoxicating adventures. These usually resulted in me coming home and passing the fuck out. On a night I’ll never forget, because so much of my life’s path I believe could be altered by having not participated in the event I am about to betray, I came home drunk and did just that….passed the fuck out.

When I woke, which should have been early afternoon but was instead only minutes after falling in to my slumber, I was being straddled by Mrs. Thompson in a black negligee. The scent of red wine radiated from her and even her lips were stained with the stuff. Maybe for a moment I thought of asking why she was atop me, but that was quickly replaced by an urgency to remove my clothes. Shock would have to wait for later. I was way too drunk to give a fuck then anyway. (Click here to subscribe to my feed!)

The Corruption of a Family (Part 2 of 5)

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The year was 1997 and I had moved to Colorado from Texas to start a new life. I had moved in with an affluent family who were set on assisting me in whatever way they could to make the transition as smooth as possible. I was way out of my element. I had never even seen snow and my mother would be spending the next three years in Venezuela. I was in Colorado to stay and these people I hardly knew I had little choice but to trust. Trust and pride have always been my greatest downfalls. My pride rears its blind head later.

I settled in well to my new home. I had a nice job working at Sears Home Life Furniture and was waiting on a date to take my college entrance exams so that I could attend CU. I had a cute girlfriend, a small circle of dependable and interesting friends, and my prior scrape with the law seemed a distant memory. I was finally away from the chaos that is Houston, Texas, but despite my seemingly "made" set-up, I often longed for the company of my old cronies and the familiarity of H-town. There would be no going back. I was well aware of the fact that I wouldn't last half-a-year on probation in the for-profit Harris County Criminal Justice System, and I still had five left from the golf club fiasco.

The father of my adoptive family had been in town the first week of my arrival. When he left a noticeable calm came over the remaining Thompsons. The daughter, who was seventeen and a high school senior and somehow managed to finish third at Miss Teen Colorado, was just pretty enough to make you look. If you ever had to listen to this young lady open her mouth though, you would understand my above reference to her managing to finish third. On top of all this, she had an immediate and transparent crush on me. Sex? No fucking way you could get past the diologue required for such an act. Nick's dick was not leaving his pants.

The other sibling of the family, a man in a boy's body who was the best swimmer in his high school as a freshman and relied almost entirely on his God-given physical gifts, was your typical 15 year old jock -- head strong, girl-crazy, extremely competitive, but somehow impressionable. We clicked immediately and before my first two weeks in Colorado were up, he already made it clear to me that he was quite the pot-head. I was more than curious about the dank I had heard about coming out of Colorado. In Texas in 1997, the only thing keeping hydroponic marijuana from being an urban legend was the full page centerfolds in High Times of the stuff.

As for the mother of the family, she simply enjoyed life, and though I cannot really pinpoint what the significance was for her of me arriving, something changed in her when I showed up. She drove a Subaru Forester hatchback, spent most of her hours running her online business consulting operation, and dressed like your typical married 37-year-old woman. After her husband left town for work and within a month of me taking up residence in her home, she had traded in the Forester for a sleek two-door coupe(I picked it out at the dealership and she payed cash.), had more than once flirted with me behind closed doors, and allowed her kids and myself to have a party of sorts in her illustrious house. The kicker -- she smoked a blunt with me in her master bathroom after having not smoked since college. Oh, and her son and daughter helped us extinguish it. Just wait until you find out where all of this craziness leads to. We already know I end up in prison, but what are you thinking were the stepping-stones for such? The tale is unfolding before your eyes and you won't believe what kind of situation I wound up putting myself in. (Click here to subscribe to my feed!)

Colorado: A New Beginning (Part 1 of 5)

Colorado -- A mountain paradise filled with left-leaning republicans. That seemed to be the political landscape in 1997 anyhow. The people which populate the state were progressive in their stances towards marijuana and always looked for an excuse to celebrate.

I was fortunate enough to have experienced one of the Broncos' super bowl wins and the ensuing riot. After all the shit Elway, the Broncos, and their fans went through over the span of a decade, a celebratory riot was perhaps in order. The 55-10 loss to the 49ers in an earlier super bowl would have been enough to make me start cheering for another team. The Denver fans had been overdue for a melee.

That short foray into football was nothing more than a hesitancy to continue writing on the subject of this entry. Since my first post on the time-line of my short life, "A Simple Introduction", I have been struggling with how I would begin and expand upon this "story" in a blog-like fashion. A short explanation to start should suffice.

Having just graduated from a boot camp in Texas -- not the military kind either -- I was now a resident of Colorado. Aspirations of a new life and college degree should have been in the forefront of my still developing mind. To say that it was would be a complete lie.

The family who took me in, who I will refer to as the Thompson's, were overall good people. The husband was in his forties and V.P. of a small natural gas company in Palestine, Texas. His wife, 37, ran a home-based business consulting agency and was the mother of two teenage children.

The house, as you'd expect, was impressive. The family, whom I had met before on a previous trip to Colorado, seemed perfect. The dad would be out of town nearly three weeks a month, the kids were within 3 years of my age, and the mother was laid back and easy to look at. When I first learned of the husband's unusual work schedule the only thing that came to mind was him having an affair.

How could someone stay away from their wife that many days a month? Year-round? Whatever the case may have been, I knew that life without two "grown-up"men in the same house could only be a blessing. He was either a fool or didn't give a fuck; I wouldn't have trusted an 18 year old male fresh out of disciplinary boot camp around my wife and kids. Especially if I new he'd be living in my home while I worked a couple of states away for 36 weeks out of the year. What about you? (Click here to subscribe to my feed!)

Boot Camp: A Goodbye to Texas

The rest of boot camp had gone according to plan. I was in great physical condition and was excited about graduating and getting my life back on track. What track my life would end up on was not very clear, but I wouldn't be peering through barbed wire any longer.

Colorado was my destination upon release. I'd visit with mom and dad at graduation and for a couple of days after. Then it was back to Puerto La Cruz for them. Again, I wasn't permitted to go to Venezuela because of my five remaining years of probation. I could stay state-side however.

While in boot camp my mother had called in a favor to a friend who lived in Colorado to see if her family would mind having an extra guest for a few months until I started college. I had never seen snow before, and although I would have preferred the exotic locale my parents were heading back to, I was still pumped about the prospect of living near Boulder.

In the two days I spent in Houston prior to my big move, I had the chance to catch up with a few old friends. The only eventful occurrence I missed turned out to be a tragedy. Felipe, who I referred to in my story "Mike Tyson, a Chunk Of Ear, and a Dumb Bet", managed to roll his Blazer and return to the 4th grade. As cruel as it sounds, over the years, I couldn't help but wonder if karma had been a factor. His drunken miscue was a sure sign I needed a change of scenery.

As I climbed aboard the plane, headed for my new home in the mountains, I wondered when I would see everyone again. Spring break? Summer? Who knew? I just had to get "my" life together and everything else would have to be secondary. I never planned on losing contact with the people who had shaped my life. It has been over ten years since I've seen any of them and I just want them to know it wasn't because I was hitting the slopes in Breckenridge. (Click here to subscribe to my feed!)

Boot Camp -- Tug-Of-War, the Ropes course, and monkey-fucks.

Following my regression in boot camp everything else went well. My new platoon turned out to be very cohesive and the experience was both beneficial and enjoyable despite the circumstances. My mother's transfer still loomed in my mind but I was doing my best to distract myself with the world around me.

Every week the boot camp held an official field-day for the six platoons. The single-most anticipated event of these field-days was the tug-of-war competition. Many people have competed in tug-of-war events. I doubt, however, there were fifty people on either side of the rope, each in the physical prime of their lives. With such numbers a cadence is necessary for success, and if you can manage to get that many people working fluidly in conjunction it is almost impossible to lose.

The platoon who generally won this event was the dominant platoon of the facility. Out of six platoons, each separated by two weeks of seniority, the senior-most platoon "held" the rope ninety percent of the time. The weekly winner was allowed to take the rope back to their barracks and proudly display it until it was "taken" from them in a future field day.

My new platoon, the Bravo platoon, were winners of this event my last six weeks of the program. We were the envy of the camp and graduated without losing the rope back to anyone. It was interesting to see so many people of so many different backgrounds with so many different motivations all working together for a common goal which altogether depended on teamwork.

Another twist to boot camp in Texas, which will stand out blatantly in effectiveness from my boot camp experience in Colorado a couple of years later, was the on-site "Ropes" course. It would prove to be an interesting technique in promoting a teamwork mindset upon a group of individuals who likely would be trying to kill each other on the outs.

Bloods, Crips, Folks, and spoiled little crackers like myself all worked together in harmony to overcome the various challenges presented in the Ropes course. I witnessed several people terrified of heights defeat their fear; I witnessed sworn enemies depending on one another for success. I also witnessed perhaps the fastest descent of a zip-line ever when one of our 350 pound fat-bodies gave it a whirl.

One of the more memorable landmarks of the facility was a mosquito-larvae and microorganism infested stagnant wading pool which was reserved for days when your platoon was altogether fucking up. The condition of the water was far more of a punishment than any exercise they could have us doing in it. Keep in mind -- one of these exercises was called "monkey-fucking". This entailed squatting on the balls of your feet with your arms behind your calves and each thumb positioned inside your shoes. In this position you were then required to lift your ass up and down repeatedly. Try it some time if you are an exercise guru! The backs of your thighs and buttocks will hinder your walking for days if you do it right.

Monkey-Fucks seems like a good stopping point. In my next post I'll be discussing a few more aspects of boot camp, my graduation, and how I ended up in Colorado. (Click here to subscribe to my feed!)