Welcome to the Boulder County Jail

Follow the link if you missed the last post in my biography.

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!)

Counting Shaun, 20 Prison Characters Who All Likely Have Stories to Share

The contents below have nothing to do with my autobiography, but are a humorous and interesting read that should definitely have you checking out the author's own story. His story goes to show that the poor aren't the only people getting locked up (I'm not counting white-collar offenders, they end up at country club-like prisons), humor can be found in any situation, and that some jails (specifically the county jail ran by Sherrif Joe Arpaio where people who haven't even been prosecuted are subjected to entirely inhumane conditions) need to be inspected by health officials and human-rights activists alike. I thought his cause and story could use some help. Here is his bio, written by his sister followed by a great collection of real-life character descriptions from his journey through the system

Shaun Attwood grew up in northwestern England where he was an early participant in the burgeoning rave scene that soon took over the whole country.

Graduating from Liverpool University in 1991 with a business degree, he emigrated to Phoenix to try his luck in the world of finance and rose quickly through the ranks to become the top-producing stockbroker at his company two years in a row.

But it was not quite plain sailing, bipolar Shaun lost control of his life and finances in the mid-nineties, declared bankruptcy and quit his job.

The rave bug had never left him, and Shaun started to throw raves in Arizona while investing in international technology stocks online. By 1999, he was living in a million-dollar mountainside house in Tucson's Sin Vacas, working as a day trader by day and partying at night. It was the time of the Dot.com Bubble and he made a fortune on paper, but the bubble was soon to burst and Shaun lost all the money he had made and moved back to Phoenix.

In May 2002, he was arrested in Scottsdale during a SWAT-team dawn raid, and alleged to be the head of an international criminal organization with hundreds of underlings all involved in a club-drug conspiracy. The local media described him as "Bigger than Sammy the Bull," and reports suggested he was facing a life sentence.

In 2004, Shaun started a blog documenting the inhumane conditions at the cockroach-infested jails run by Sheriff Joe Arpaio. After two years of being held on remand in various hellhole jails while three trials were canceled, Shaun signed a plea bargain admitting guilt to three class 3 felonies: Money Laundering, Attempt To Commit A Dangerous Drug Violation, and Use Of An Electronic Device To Commit a Drug Transaction. He was sentenced to nine-and-a-half years in prison.

In September 2004, blog excerpts were published in The Guardian, attracting further media attention. -- Karen Atwood

His characters alone are worth giving his story a look. Enjoy!


Two Tonys - A whacker of men and Mafia associate serving multiple life sentences for murders and violent crimes. Claims all his victims "had it coming." His acerbic wit may upset the politically correct.

Xena - A transsexual giant and Wiccan priest. The charismatic leader of Cult Of Xena (COX). Tattoos include a wasp on his penis and ant trails running up his legs. Recently cut off his testes.

Royo Girl - An intelligent and attractive criminology graduate who visited me at the prison. Whether her interest is based on love or she is writing a thesis on my criminality is an open question.

Frankie - A Mexican Mafia hitman and leader of prison "booty bandits" who has been proposing our gay marriage ever since he saw me apply antifungal ointment to the bedsores on my buttocks at the Madison Street jail, where he was held on murder charges.

Slingblade - A sumo-sized schizophrenic Vietnam vet living in a world far removed from normality. He looks as if he could have a flashback and snap your neck at any moment. No guard or prisoner with a modicum of sanity would ever get between this murderer and a tray of chow.

Ogre - A burly biker and Californian-gang member who accidentally stabbed his wife in the knee, and seems to have become a classic case of prison pharmacology gone wrong. He claims to have got high with Pamela Anderson, and to have shared carnal knowledge with Jenny McCarthy.

Weird Al - The most unlikely bank robber you are ever likely to meet. His true story of suicide by cop gives new meaning to the power of unchecked depression. His cutting wit would make a stoic monk giggle.

Shane - After being denied psychiatric medication by ValueOptions, Shane turned to illegal drugs, which he financed with burglaries. He once resembled a sane person but he now refers to himself as "Jong Ill, next in line to the North Korean throne." The medication in prison caused him to suffer a period of spontaneous ejaculations.

T-Bone - A deeply-spiritual and massively-built African-American. A prison gladiator with more stab wounds than Julius Caesar. A good man to have on your side.

Repo - A giant whose bald head is emblazoned with flames, skulls, and other satanic insignia. He makes the villian in The Hills Have Eyes seem as scary as Pee-Wee Herman. As part of an investigation into the recent murder of a prisoner, he was sent to the hole and is facing the death penalty.

Max - A car-jacking Chukchansi Indian who went home to Las Vegas in 2007. He sold his semen to an old pervert while in prison. The rest of his sexy stories are being posted under the "Zucchini" series.

Midnight - A car-crash sufferer whose consequent addiction to pain killers, crack, and crystal meth lost him his home and family. He is dying from cancer and has been bleeding from the rectum.

Slope - A hillbilly biker with militiaman tendencies who’s been serving a sentence for murder since Wham were topping the charts. Born and raised in Sunnyslope - a neighbourhood putting as much energy into becoming the crack and crystal meth hub of Phoenix as if it were vying to host the Olympic Games.

Kat - A Navajo transsexual and talented artist specializing in Native American and Southwestern designs. A source of handbag-trance tapes that no self-respecting clubber listens to anymore, yet still manage to make tears stream down my cheeks. Kat removed his testes two days after my release.

Iron Man - A martial-arts expert and personal trainer whose crimes include smashing someone’s door down: "I didn’t hurt anyone. I just wanted my fuckin’ money." His workouts are brutal. "I’ll have you in the best shape of your life by the time you get out," he told me.

Gina - A transsexual who used a razor blade to detach his testes. After attempting to cauterize the wound with a cigarette lighter, Gina ended up in the hospital. Minus the testosterone, plus makeup tattooed on, soft-spoken Gina resembles a woman.

Long Island - Promising young cellmate I taught to trade the financial markets. Released and rearrested for forgery and running over a policeman.

Hammy - Best friend I grew up with in my hometown. Fond of alcohol, especially Stella Artois.

Posh Bird - Woman I have an on-again-off-again relationship with. She starts studying for a Postgraduate Certificate in Education in September and wants to become a teacher.

Myspace.com Blogs - Meet the Inmates. - Shaun Attwood MySpace Blog

Unusual Circumstances You Luckily Can't Relate To

Yes, I realize I'm an idiot! A reformed one...

1. Snorting cocaine while in the lavatory of an airplane: Might as well start the list off right. I was 17 and on my way to Utah to meet my biological father for the first time. I had found him on the internet and after surprising him with a call he thought he'd probably never receive, went to visit for a week. This trip just happened to coincide with my coke days and I was nervous enough that I thought it almost a necessity. I am a member of an entirely different mile-high club -- and yes, I licked the bag. Talk about being jittery when you stepped off the plane. On the trip I learned that Mormon girls are indeed easy, my dad was as big an asshole as me, and that Utah, although beautiful, was not my cup of tea. That trip remains the only time I've ever visited my father and to this day I still haven't spoken with him again.

2. Telling a black off-duty police officer, "Well maybe you outta suck my....": With only a week left on parole, I decided to visit Birmingham. I had gone over to a friend's house with a six-pack of Steel Reserve tall-boys. I know, disgusting...but beer in Alabama is weak across the board, except for the Reserve. I had only made my way through two of the beers when he and I got into an argument and I decided to leave.

I had been dropped off by a girl I dated while she went to one of her own friend's houses on the same side of town. I walked to the base of the apartment complex and posted-up outside the gates of the pool with my only beer in hand (we had split the six pack) and waited for Hannah to show up. While minding my own damn business, just a cracker trying to keep his cool, an Explorer pulled into the parking lot. Some real Magnum P.I. shit.

The SUV nearly slid into a spot used for pool-goers and out jumped a sawed-off little lady with an obvious scowl. She looked as if she'd just left the gym and I almost retreated a step. I didn't know what the hell she wanted, but I was the only person around. "Maybe you should throw your beer away," she said. Her tone was demeaning, authoritative, and totally out of line. Her dislike of whitey was apparent. I should have told her how I sat on the black side of the prison cafeteria for three years and to just chill -- we were on the same side. But I was already pissed and assumed she thought I was below the legal drinking limit (I've been carded for video games at Wal-Mart). I was 27 and replied with my best smirk, "Well maybe you outta suck my...."

After she realigned her jaw, I was informed she was a courtesy officer for the apartment complex and that she was going to get her cruiser and come back down the hill to prove it to me. I believed her (that was the only way a cop could afford to live there), but why hadn't she identified herself to begin with? I would have gladly complied in that case. Such is my luck though; and the reason I drink infrequently.

The officer held true to her word and quickly returned with her squad car. While I sat on the curb waiting for an on-duty police officer to show up, Hannah arrived and tried talking the woman into just letting her give me a ride home. The officer replied, "Don't worry honey, he told me to suck his.... I'll give him a ride." I am in no way a racist, but take a trip to Alabama and you'll be hard-pressed to meet white or black people that aren't. I find it highly unlikely she would have treated a black man the same way. I mean, we're talking about a BEER here.

3. 360 degree turn at 135 MPH: It was my first week of having a 300zx. I was 17 and decided to take a road trip to Tyler, Texas. I headed up I-45 with my friend David as co-pilot and when on a deserted stretch of the highway in a remote region of the state, I pushed my new car to see what it had. I've always had an obsession with speed and quickly accelerated to 135 MPH. The highway was two-lanes wide on each side and separated by nothing but grass.

I can remember approaching what looked too be a painter's van (there were several ladders on top). The van was in the fast lane and I was doing more than twice his speed. Texas highways are notorious for their signs cautioning, "Left lane for passing only."

The van didn't look like it had any intentions of abandoning the fast lane and I calmly steered my way into the slow lane. Just as I was about to pass the van, the driver cut me off and I was forced to swerve back into the vacant lane. I immediately lost control and passed him in reverse before completing the turn and careening off into the median. The T-tops were down and my black interior became littered with freshly cut grass. David sat in the passenger seat, hands clenched to the dash with a pile of shit in his pants. Alive and without a scratch to the car, I headed on my way to Tyler. David rarely rode with me again.

4. Having sex with a married woman and then her daughter while a resident of their home: The consequences of this act are what set my crime spree into motion. Homeless in the winter of Colorado, this "achievement" had little chance to set in. I definitely regret this one and for more reasons than one. No one likes being called a whore, right?

5. Taking a dump in the middle of the aforementioned crime spree and getting apprehended because of it: You haven't started reading my autobiography yet?

6. Getting charged with 17 counts of second degree burglary and not calling your mom to tell her about it and beg for legal representation: I ended up not needing one. I was facing 8-24 years and was ineligible for probation. I was sentenced to 8 years in prison at the age of 19.

7. Driving a Suburban into the ocean: This was another "what the hell" moment of my teen years. At the beach with my high school quarterback Quincy Tennon, we got wasted and started looking through cars of vacationers. A Suburban owner had left their keys in the ignition and we...drove it into the ocean. Why? Who the hell knows, but I can still see the headlights shining into the night and the waves crashing into the hood. We didn't entirely submerge it, but it was in Galveston Bay for sure.

8. Taking my SAT in the joint: I might have been the first person in the whole United States to do such. The GED teacher at my facility had to get certified to administer the test and the warden had to approve of the whole idea. All those books I had read in 23 hour lock-down definitely helped with the verbal sections. I scored a 1310 overall and often wonder what my score would have been had I not been out of high school for four years. Some of the math required had long been forgotten. BTW, colleges weren't exactly beating on my cell-door to offer me a scholarship.

9. Wahooing beer while tripping on shrooms: Wahooing is a term used to describe stealing beer. You walk into the place and grab your beer and then run out. Pretty simple. Doing so while trippin' and in the rain can be a disaster. I parked the car across three available spots and almost directly in front of the door. I guess I thought I was in a Dukes of Hazzard episode, except Felipe, Mario and David definitely wouldn't have agreed on a Rebel Flag paint scheme.

Felipe and I casually walked into the quickie mart, grabbed two cases each and walked out. You are supposed to run, but I guess we were invincible or some shit. I jumped into the car after handing my two cases to my friends in the backseat and closed the door. Felipe was already in the passenger seat as I depressed the clutch and threw the car into gear.

I looked to the right and a dude with a turban was holding the longest crow-bar I'd ever seen. He took a check swing at the front windshield -- Felipe's side -- and Felipe fell for it, leaping up and out of his seat onto the console. This of course knocked my car out of gear as I let the clutch out, and my car died. The clerk heard it and took three healthy swipes at my windshield before I could pull away. The windshield looked kind of cool sagging inward without entirely caving in. They were some good shrooms! Why did we need beer?

10. Stealing a rented crotch-rocket from Panama City: Senior week, 16 years old, and someone had a fake identification. I was there with my older cousins from my step-father's side of the family. This wasn't my idea, but I rode back to Alabama with it in my cousin's Escort hatchback. Ok, it was a mini-crotch-rocket, and it fit snuggly inside the back of his car. The problem was that you had to lay it on its side. Motorcycles leak gas when you do so, and the cigarettes we smoked on the way home were pretty nerve-wracking. A state trooper would have gotten a kick out of pulling us two over.

We did make it home though, and the motorcycle sat at my cousin's lake-house for more than a year before his dad discovered it and called the company to have them pick it up. He was a detective in Hueytown, Alabama and must have handled the situation perfectly.

11. Stealing a keg with the same Escort getaway car: Panama City again, and the same trip to boot. This was an impulse buy -- Budweiser truck, open door, kegs, Escort. The problem was that once the keg was yanked down from the truck (it yanked me down actually) it nearly crushed my feet and was a definite hassle. This was a two-door Escort and the seat had to be pushed forward. Even then it was no easy fit through the door opening. We escaped and then were pissed to discover it was a keg of Natty Light. Damn you Anheuser-Busch!

12. Tripping on acid in the halfway-house: Not sure which is worse. This one, or blow on an airplane?

Prison Vocab

Below is a list of common prison terms and some other unusual prison tidbits.

• Spread -- A spread is a meal prepared by a group of inmates. A trash bag is usually filled with 4 to 5 Ramen Noodles packages, diced summer sausages, dehydrated refried beans, beef or chicken sometimes stolen by the kitchen workers, Louisiana Hot Sauce, and whatever else the group might prefer. Boiling water is then added to the mixture and the trash bag is tied closed and encased in newspaper to keep the heat in. After about 5 minutes the trash bag can then be untied and carefully torn open to provide a perfect eating surface. Not until you pour the melted cheese over the top through. College kids everywhere should give it a try. You'd be surprised.
  
  
• Fifi (French Whore) -- A device used to simulate sex with a woman. It is usually made by rolling a trash bag inside of a towel. The excess plastic is then folded back and over the outside of the towel and secured in place by several rubber-bands at different intervals along its length. A cup of lotion is then heated and squirted generously inside of the inmate's new toy.

• A Drop -- Is a package being delivered outside of the prison walls for an inmate on an outside work crew to pick up and smuggle back in. Most drops consist of a can of Bugler tobacco, rolling papers, Vaseline, Syran Wrap, and whatever drug that inmate might prefer. Loose tobacco was the norm because shoving a whole cigarette up your ass without breaking it has to be impossible.

• Keister Bunny -- The person packing his ass. This term isn't reserved for the people bringing the contraband into the place either. Many inmates keep their anal cavities packed as it is the last place correction's officers usually search for banned substances and items. The announcement of "Full-Body Cavity Searches" sent most of the bunnies scrambling from the day-room with the quickness.

• Mule -- See Keister Bunny

• Canteen/Commissary -- Items sold to inmates by the state. This includes everything from Ramen Noodles to New Balance and Televisions.
  

• Store -- An inmate runs a store. This means his cell is usually packed with excess amounts of canteen. The merchant prisoner usually charges two for one. The prison system refers to this as bartering and it is not permitted.
  

• Rollie -- A rolled tobacco cigarette. When papers aren't available the note section of state-issue Bibles are the usual substitute. Individual rolls of toilet paper are also encased in a waxy form of paper which could also be used. A rollie generally ran you from a $1 to a $1.50 worth of canteen.

• Taylor-Made -- A whole cigarette as you would find in a pack. A rarity in prison. (I explained why already. ) These generally ran you $3 bucks a piece and were most high in demand when of the menthol variety.

• Snitch -- Anyone who rats someone out for something. Whether it occur inside the prison walls, in the court room, or behind closed doors at the police station.
  

• Dry-Snitch -- Someone who rats another person out unintentionally or through more clever means. For instance...Picture two men about to get into it over a bad tobacco transaction. They head to a location where the beef can be handled. One of these inmates begins running his mouth, calling out the other inmate, but in such a manner as to draw attention from "The Man". This of course halts the confrontation before it can get ugly.

• The Man -- Just like the Police, Prison Officials are referred to as The Man.

• Hooch -- Fermented bread and fruit which is held in a trash-bag until it becomes alcoholic. The smell alone is generally enough to keep most inmates from trying to brew their own.

• Chow -- Dinner, Lunch, and Breakfast. They are all Chow.

• Cho-Mo -- A child molester. The most hated person in prison. More than snitches or cops believe it or not.

• Tree-Jumper -- A child molester. In Colorado they were housed at the Fremont facility to protect their lives. We referred to it as Treemont.

• Baby-Raper -- A child molester. I could probably come up with a few more names for these pricks, but I'l leave it at three and with this note: I once saw one get his wig split by a tube-sock weighted with Irish Spring. A one-hitter-quitter that likely served him as good as castration. Prison justice can be beneficial at times.

• The Yard -- Where all the inmates get to play. All the "good" inmates anyway.

• Punk -- Someone who takes it up the ass.

• Bitch -- Someone who takes it up the ass.

• Ho -- Someone who takes it up the ass. Which means if you call someone any of those, you should be prepared to fight.

• The Bootie Flu -- AID's/HIV

• Moist -- As in "You're Moist". You know, soft as hell.

• Peckerwood -- A racist white bastard.

• Race Traitor -- The Peckerwoods most hated enemy.

• Lean -- Those from Texas already know what I'm talking about to a degree, but the term Lean in prison referred to Sucrettes. You could order the cough drops on canteen and then melt them down in your miniature crock-pot. After allowing to cool a bit, the medicine can then be drank down providing an adequate buzz very familiar to that of Hydrocodone. They banned the Sucrettes just before I was paroled.

• Cap -- A cap always referred to the lid of a Chapstick. This was used as a measuring device for marijuana and always cost you $25 a pop. The joints people would roll would be no more than an inch and a half in length, but Colorado bud is all good so there were never any worries about whether or not you'd get high.

If you have any words to add to the list, please drop a comment and I'll gladly include it.

A Frosty for my Troubles

Follow the link if you missed the last post in my biography.

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!)

Without a Paddle

Follow the link if you missed the last post in my biography.

Fear was an emotion I lacked in those days. In the middle of a crime spree, cops on my trail, and a participant in a pursuit I would likely lose, I could escape it no longer. I remained calm though, and before the officer could have even completed the turn-around, I had scaled another one of the steep driveways in my car. Unless the pig's cruiser had a moon-roof option there was no way he would be able to spot my car from the road below.

I sat, sweat drenched hands trembling with adrenaline, and waited on him to pass. Peering through my rear-view mirror for what seemed like an hour, he finally did just that. His lights were on, but the sound of the car's siren never reached my ears. Before the pursuing officer left my view, I was quickly back down the driveway and headed the opposite direction. Was I going to escape unscathed?

Just as I gained some significant distance from my uniformed pursuer, I blew past his apparent backup--burglarizing houses in a canyon isn't the wisest of locale choices. Expecting a barricade around every next bend, I chose to hide rather than flee; but hide where? Unexpectedly, I noticed T-intersection and maneuvered my way onto the adjoining street. It was a dead end but the last home on the left seemed an adequate conceal myself--there was a huge motor-home parked in the driveway.

I positioned myself on its far-side, and in a rare attempt at begging for the Lord's mercy, waited. If there was a road-block the Boulder police would know I was trapped somewhere in the canyon. Fingers crossed, I began thumbing through the remainders of my ass-paper apartment locator magazine just to kill time. I could have used the missing pages.

It took nearly an hour before the cops exhausted all the other possibilities for my whereabouts. A fleet of of cops pulled up behind me in the driveway, and I knew it was all over. The officer exited his patrol car and I was greeted with a rather unpleasant tap to the window. I rolled it down, met his demeaning gaze, and prepared for the worst. He asked for my license, registration, and insurance. I owned them all, but not a one was in my possession. Paranoid about dropping some form of identification while in the commission of a crime, I had deemed carrying a wallet as an unnecessary risk.

I refused when asked for permission to allow a search of my person or vehicle. I had been informed that without being able to identify myself or provide proof of ownership for my vehicle, I had no right to deny them a search of any kind. Well, if you put it that way officer! I shut my mouth and stepped from the car. My eventual cpator went straight for the latch that popped the trunk. Inside was a single purse. He he picked and asked me whose it was. I lied and informed him that it belonged to a girlfriend. He replied by searching its contents. Jewelry was its only burden. Nothing else. Four to five houses worth of jewelry.

"Your girlfriend doesn't carry a wallet or makeup? Just jewelry?" I nodded, and was placed in the back of the cop car while they completed their search. I guess my response seemed suspicious. The grins shared by the fraternity of swine as they congratulated one another was proof they had been waiting on me to slip up. I must have committed 25-30 burglaries in about a week and a half. Having their neighborhoods safe from my scumbaggery had definitely been a topic at their morning pow-wow.

The back of a police car was nothing new for me and I watched closely as they finished the search, rummaging through the entrails of my Honda like ravenous vultures. Nothing else of note was extracted other than a set of gloves I had been using. They were bagged and the officer who placed me in the car joined me shortly after. More questioning followed.

"You wanna tell me why you took a shit in that lady's backyard? She was watching you the entire time. She called us after you tried opening her front door. You scared the hell out of her! We're getting a chuckle out of it though." Maybe I wasn't as infamous as assumed. I decided to keep my mouth shut and just leaned back. Inside, I laughed at the irony of it all, and wondered if one of his cronies would have to collect the organic evidence. Little did I know, that shit ended up being the last "free" one I experienced for the next three years. (Click here to subscribe to my feed!)

Up Shit Creek

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The mother with twins hadn't shaken my conscience for too long. The looting was easy and I accumulated a huge stash of spoils. I was close to having enough money to rent a place of my own, but was hindered when I tried selling a Rolex to a private jewelry store. The owners had informed me it needed to be authenticated and wrote me a receipt. Its sale alone might have ended the spree there. Ah well, I was having too much fun anyway. Doing something you know is totally wrong can often be accompanied by a thrill. Guilt, wicked excitement, and the justification I had cooked up by being homeless were all juxtaposed, tugging at one another with no clear victor.

I left my personal pawn shop one morning and headed to another secluded neighborhood in Boulder. I chose a ranch style home as my next site for plundering, and following an investigative knock and subsequent no-answer, let myself in through the unlocked front door. There had been little sound upon entry, only the hum of a nearby refrigerator. I was alone as planned.

The master bedroom was the place to start. I didn't find much of interest, only a television that would have looked nice in my eventual living room. I entered the walk-in closet and discovered a gun safe. The bolt for the locking mechanism was engaged, but the door had been left ajar. It seemed the owner found better use of it as a door prop. Why invest in a safe, especially one which will be used to house guns, only to leave it open? There were pump-action shotguns, hunting rifles with sophisticated scopes, and handguns galore. Luckily for the owner guns scare the hell out of me.

I decided to only take the T.V., and with half of its weight perched on my right leg and the width of it struggling to slip from my lanky grasp, I wrestled it into the trunk of my car. I exited the neighborhood with my car's trunk as open as the home owner's gun safe. The word brazen comes to mind. Or maybe foolish? Either way, I made it back to the depository with my burden in-tact and without consequence.

After I grabbed a quick bite to eat I headed out looking for more homes. The television from the previous burglary wouldn't do me any good unless I could get together the cash to get off the streets. My next neighborhood of choice was located in a canyon and the houses rose sharply to one side of the road and disappeared from view on the other. Viewing the homes was difficult because of the mountain's incline. I decided to focus on the elevated homes. My car's moon-roof had been the obvious deciding factor in this.

Coming across a home that fit the look didn't take long. I turned into the driveway, the rear end of my Honda announcing my arrival as it scraped the road I had just left. The driveway's steepness reminded me of the clicking ascension of a roller-coaster ride and the potential energy placed upon my emergency brake as I parked and exited the car was alarming.

When I reached the porch I rung the doorbell and waited. No answer. No one looked to be home once again. The shutters were pulled and my vehicle was the only one visible. I tried the doorknob, but it was locked. A locked door in Boulder? If most of the doors had been unlocked when people weren't home, then one would assume locked doors meant nothing different.

I made my way to the rear of the house to check the sliding glass door. In junior high I walked home from school and was the kid who lost every key his parents ever made him. I learned to let myself in through our sliding glass door by lifting it off of its track. I decided to try that trick here and didn't succeed. I can recall thinking of how pathetic a burglar I was and then something suddenly came over me. Maybe it was the nervousness that accompanied my actions or maybe it was an undiagnosed case of irritable bowel syndrome, but I had to go.

I thought about returning to my car and trying to make it to a gas station, but the nearest was twenty minutes away -- out of the question. Forest extended for miles behind the homes on the street and I decided I would just have to shit in the woods. I retrieved an apartment-locator magazine from my car and dashed to the concealment of the trees and became one with nature. A towel would have been better than glossy paper, but anything was better than leaves.

There had been no time to bury my waste the designated six inches and I decided to risk my wilderness permit being revoked in favor of escaping the situation as soon as possible. I fastened my pants and retreated to my car. Hastily exiting the driveway I accelerated dangerously as I navigated the slalom-like road. Over hills and around twists I sped. Then I passed a cop. Glancing in my rear-view mirror I noticed his brake lights come into full bloom in an area of the tract where brakes were only necessary if you were busting a "U". He was turning around for me and with only two ways out of the canyon I was screwed. Who cared that my ass was itching? I'd likely be going to jail. (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!)

Prison Oddities: A Reflection

Anyone who has spent ANY time behind bars can attest to at least one odd story or another pertaining to their stay. There is a "What the fuck?" factor to every jail. Just keep your eyes open and you will find some detail that has you either scratching your head or laughing emphatically.

One of these "What the fuck?" moments came while spending a month in segregation for a "tobacco-related incident". The cells were bright red and had open barred faces which provided the occupant with a wonderfully pock-marked view of concrete nothingness. The slitted windows toward the ceiling of the three-story human warehouse mocked those of us confined to 23-hour lock-down with thin rays of piercing sunshine. None of us would be outdoors breathing clean air for a while, and the airborne detritus illuminated by the always fading daylight was a sickening reminder.

Very little was provided for reading in these circumstances. You could get a Bible or Book of Koran from Prison Ministries if that was your thing. You could also fill out a "kite" to the librarian requesting books of your choice to read. I'm not sure where that expression was derived from, but that was the name they had for the form. This would ultimately result in a two-week wait for requested materials to be gathered and delivered. Inmates don't like to wait and this results in reading materials being passed from one cell to another. I like to call it literary hot-potato, except that there is more than one potato and they are all different.

You never knew what you would be handed when the guy in the cell to either side of you said, "Hey!" It could be anything from Shakespeare to Machiavelli. It was usually just porn though, which always deserved a look. You usually started questioning what people had been doing with the magazine before it made it to your cell by about page 2. Then once you had turned from page 2 to the next page, page 16, you'd get your breath back. How considerate of everyone to not whack off with a community magazine in their possession! My fellow inmates had been stealing the pages one by one as the magazine made its rounds through the cell-house. Rip a page out for yourself and pass it on! It was a porn democracy. Sometimes though, you'd get the magazine and so many pages would be missing that even the thumbnail adds for Asian call girls and such would be missing

I often wondered what everyone was doing with these pages and clippings. I mean, I knew what they were doing with them, but did they keep them and archive them or what? This question was answered shortly into my stay when an inmate on my tier had his cell searched. I stood quickly and held my mirror through the bars to get a look-see. Outside of the man's cell, amongst all of his scattered belongings the corrections officers were going through, was a huge collage of porn. I can remember laughing at first and wondering if the pictures were secured in place with toothpaste or his unborn children. You could no doubt judge a man's stay in segregation by his porn accumulation. At that moment I was thankful I wasn't going to be in prison, much less segregation, long enough to go through that much adhesive. (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 m