Describing a DMT Trip

DMT is like loading the universe into a cannon, aiming it at your brain, and firing. Such is the otherworldly, essentially celestial fourth dimension it brings into play. Mere seconds after inhaling the vapor, earthly reality is gone and one’s field of vision becomes a kaleidoscope of colors and fractals which are a porthole to the real destination. Next is the bulk of the journey, which is remarkably intense for the first five minutes or so, followed by the user slowly returning to a non-psychedelic state.

I’ve found my fifty-some journeys to always be different as far as the visions and scenery go, while remaining fundamentally similar. Floating (or sometimes rocketing) through a high definition pastel-colored MC Escher drawing seems a common theme, along with brightly lit and bizarre cityscapes and carnival rides. Visuals of comely females are also standard, which I assume is my bachelor lifestyle subconscious talking. I’m usually fully aware during the process, even speaking (both out loud in my chair and in the dream state) to these and other human figures, but they prove elusive, their faces vanishing when I attempt to discern them.

The experience is very dream-like, yet I also sense my earthly surroundings. I know I’m seated in a chair with my eyes closed and music on, and I’m tripping my balls off. Along those lines, I’ve learned the trick is to surrender to the flow, i.e. relax despite being on a white-knuckle ride. Indeed, many times I’ve recognized that my whole body is tense from the “blast-off” stage, and actively relax, prompting the visuals I’m seeing to change — colors, scenes, etc. (A sonic equivalent may be the transition from “She’s So Heavy” to “Here Comes the Sun” on Abbey Road.)

Specific scenarios I recall include a baby on a pedestal in a sunny Greek Island Mediterranean scene. More remarkable were “snow globes,” held by attractive ladies. Inside the globe of one woman were impressive rave-like flashing colors, about which I commented favorably. This prompted a second hottie to emerge and say: “You like her globe? Check out my globe!” Sure enough, this globe was markedly more impressive. A particularly blatant nod from my subconscious came toward the end of a trip in a Las Vegas hotel room, when various casino icons appeared, i.e. a roulette wheel and gaming tables.

Other than the aforementioned tension during the blast off, a DMT-triggered reality is almost always a happy and pleasant place. I’m typically engulfed in a childlike wonder, as if in the happiest, most interesting dream (not even) imaginable. Many travelers report encounters with benevolent elves or other “beings,” although I’ve only experience the human-like. Once I was zipping along and overheard someone in the fourth dimension with me remark: “There goes another visitor, glad I don’t have to go back,” or something along those lines, probably in response to my look of wonderment and the fact he actually lives there. Which brings me to the “like death” part of a DMT odyssey. . .

Given the experience is so other-worldly, I believe these trips are visitation of the afterlife, or perhaps even of a waiting area (for lack of a better term) for a spirit’s next earthly vessel. Reports that DMT trips are fueled by the significant release of serotonin, as during birth and death, seem to support this theory. It’s a glimpse into where we came from and where we go. Whatever the case, I digress.

Seven or eight minutes after launch, the experience winds down, slowly and calmly. The first time I emerged from my revelation I could not stop laughing at the absurdity of it all. The fact someone figured out how to access this portion of my brain, and that not even one percent of human beings will ever experience it, even though it’s right there in their heads. I felt like one of the luckiest people in world history. And I also couldn’t stop thanking and hugging the dude who turned me on to it.

Fifteen minutes after inhaling the vapors I was dizzy but fully in charge of my faculties. A quarter hour after that I was back to perfectly normal (for me anyway, which may be not very). This powerful psychedelic is certainly not for everybody − specifically the high strung or those with anxiety issues − but taking this ride should be a bucket list item for you if you’re chill and naturally curious. Just remember to RELAX.

Twitter: @WitStream

Clothes House Pole-eece, (A Prison Story)

[This is an excerpt from Lookout for Shorts (Prison Memoir of a Drug War Casualty), an often comical and also cautionary chronicle of a slacker’s misspent life and comeuppance. The following took place in 2012 at a North Carolina minimum security prison. All names have been changed.]

While life at the prison processing camp relieved me of most of life’s pesky tasks, like work, cooking, and cleaning, the hassle of laundry remained. Twice a week I groggily trudged to an early morning line to exchange dirty clothing for clean, teeth chattering and exposed skin smarting from the wind chill for added punishment.

Worse, the process interrupted post-breakfast sleep time, so I was cranky before mindless fellow felons disturbed me again. I handed in three pairs of boxers at the exchange window, but in my sleepiness I didn't notice I received none in my return stack of clothing. I explained this to the CO on duty, who was a colossal asshole.  He laughed derisively: “Tough shit, get back in line.”

Ten minutes later I was at the front of the line again, merely trying to get the boxers and return to my warm bed. Then suddenly, the same dickhead CO halted the operation, for no apparent reason. After a couple minutes passed I asked a clothes dispensing inmate WTF, and he quietly explained the cop halted the line because it was too loud. Trying to be helpful, I turned around and yelled to no one in particular: "Yo, quiet down or the line won't move!"

Unfortunately this only increased the volume, particularly among a contingent of mostly dreadlocked African-Americans, who loudly complained. They apparently thought I singled them out, which I suppose was true since they were the cause of the ruckus. Honestly, I didn’t care who was talking, I wanted to get my fucking clothes and escape the frigid dawn.

The CO stood smirking and amused, unconcerned with the line moving again. He enjoyed fucking with the inmates. A couple more minutes passed, but the invasive, obnoxious chatter had yet to cease. So I turned around again, this time yelling directly at the offending crew: "Yo, if you don't shut up, the line isn't going to move!"

Not surprisingly, this shortsighted move only created tension. The disruptors started screaming at me, as if I was the problem. They called me the "pole-eece" and disparaged my race while other pale faces stood slack-jawed, like I’d punched the CO or something. The guard then stepped up and happily ejected the shit-talkers from the line, pointed them out. “You, you . . . you, you, and you. Get lost. Better luck next week.”

This meant five or six of them didn’t get fresh clothes, and they were slightly perturbed about it. They threatened to see me in the yard later and wandered off to contemplate wearing dirty clothes for a few days, but certainly not thinking this was their own fault. In the meantime the line started again and I finally scored the boxers I missed the first time. I might as well have asked if they had any shirts with a bullseye on the back while I was at it.

Cloudy morning mind aside, my annoyance at the clothes line hassle soon gave way to worry about retribution from dudes wearing dirty threads. I returned to my barracks, greeted by glares from a couple guys who were kicked out of the line. I reached my bunk, quickly joined by my buddy Kaz, a middle-aged guy with many prison years behind him. He laughed in my face.

"Man!" he managed. "You don't fucking do that!"

"I didn't mean to do anything. I thought I was helping!" I protested.

"No, man," Kaz explained. "All you did was tell those brothers to shut up. They knew what was up with the line, they just didn't give a shit. You gotta learn their bullshit is part of prison, don’t try to fight it."

"Great! So now I’m getting shanked?” I asked, with real worry.

"Maybe, maybe not," Kaz reassured. "I'd watch my back for a couple days if I were you. Do you have any friends bigger and younger than me?" He thought this was hilarious.

Right about then the heavily-tattooed main troublemaker from the line stormed in, pissed off and long dreadlocks flailing. (He was also notable for doing flips while walking along in the yard, just for the hell of it. We had actually pleasantly interacted around the basketball court previously, but he didn’t seem to care at the moment.) I moved to stand up from my bunk, but he stopped me short.

"Don't stand up like you gonna do somethin'!" he barked. I settled right back down and listened to him rant. I wanted no trouble with this guy, mostly because I’d get a write-up for fighting go straight to medium security to start my bid. Also, I like my teeth and don’t like scars. And sadly, no Scorpio Eyes bluff was forthcoming, either, as I lacked the balls to employ my county jail training. Besides, even if I got through “Dreadlock,” I'd have five others after me anyway. Diplomacy was the only real solution.

 I offered that I meant no disrespect to anyone, let alone wanted any motherfuckers kicked out of line. I also explained this was my first time down (in prison), and as such I knew not what I did. I expressed profound regret, and asked for forgiveness. Dreadlock was initially unpersuaded, but simmered down after some well-timed personal endorsements.

None too soon, “Trip” and “Q.C,” African-American neighbors of mine, stopped by and vouched for me. Trip casually professed: "Yo, he straight. He don't know shit, but he aight." I blushed with pride at the hardy validation.

Kaz, who shared an adjacent barracks with Dreadlock, offered words to the same effect: "Yeah, he's just a dumbass. He doesn't know any better, but he don't mean no harm.” I resisted an urge to defend my intellect, as diffusing the tension seemed more important.

Dreadlock calmed noticeably, although he vented a bit further and then tabled his demands for amends for my offense. He wanted some of the clean clothes I had, and a honey bun or equivalent snack from the canteen to be named later. This was fine with me, as I was physically unscathed, and avoid medium custody in my immediate future, at least from this incident. Dreadlock and I didn’t exactly bump fists as he left, but a bullet dodged sufficed for me.

Trip later explained that Dreadlock confronting me displayed respect, otherwise I would've taken a sucker punch, a shanking, or a beatdown when I least expected it − no discussion involved. Others, however, weren’t sure the danger had passed so easily.

The whole barracks were aware of the drama by this time, and a couple of crusty veterans pulled me aside and laid out my new reality. Despite Dreadlock making peace, I was now perceived as a potential snitch, seen as doing the police's job by trying to silence the clothes line. They told me to watch my back on the yard and avoid hanging solo like usual, because anyone could be after me. It was also suggested that I shut the fuck up and follow what the experienced cons did. And also: shut the fuck up.

As a newly marked man, I was increasingly distressed as the next hours passed. My goal to get through prison unscathed was in jeopardy, and I wasn’t even a month into my sentence. I was more out of my element than Al Gore at a Chris Brown concert.

The long walk to the chow hall and back marked my first daunting episode as a target I needed a security phalanx. So I placed myself right in the middle of a group of friendlies for the trek. This did not go unnoticed, of course, and I endured cracks like: "You hot, bro. Stay the fuck away from me!" I assumed they were kidding, but all bets were off in this strange new world.

Besides a few leers − possibly imagined − the first trip was uneventful. My next hurdle was the afternoon yard session, towards which time truly flew with intense dread. I could have simply waited it out on my bunk, but looked like a pussy in the process. I was surprised I actually cared about my reputation among ne’er-do-wells I’d soon likely never see again, but such is human nature. I also preferred to face the music and learn my outcome so I could relax again. I’m a big fan of relaxing.

My plan was to go out and shoot baskets as usual. The court was in a wide open area, and the single CO on the yard always in sight of it. The prominent space also might help me to see it coming, since I was unsure who exactly wanted a piece of me. I headed out directly after the yard opened and basically shot nervous air balls by myself, but not for long. Soon Dreadlock arrived, along with his huge sidekick and a couple of others who I recognized from the line.

At first they pretended I wasn't there, including not returning the ball to me after I made a shot, which indicates major disrespect on a basketball court.  Things soon literally came to a head as I sought a rebound under the basket: a thrown ball hit me square in the back of my noggin. I staggered away dazed, but stayed on my feet. I instinctively covered my head to defend against a barrage, but instead heard laughter and jeers. "Yo, don't hit the pole-eece!"

This was nice. If they were laughing instead of jumping me I wouldn’t die.

My bearings slowly returned and I wobbled up to Dreadlock’s sidekick, intending to talk it out while taking care not to sound too white. "Yo, I wasn't trying to get anybody kicked out of line, and I ain't no snitch"

Sidekick merely looked towards his boys as if he didn’t hear, but still listened.

"This is my first time down . I didn't know what was up. I didn't mean no disrespect, " I said, head throbbing .

This got my adversary verbal.

"Man, that's some of that bullshit! You tryin' tell a nigga to 'shut up?’ What the fuck you call it?”

"Man, I thought I was helping get the line moving, that's all."

This comment brought two more dudes close and yelling at me, which beat the hell out of swinging at me. They let me have it.

"It ain't your job to fuck with the line, that's the pole-eece, snitch-bitch!" was one of the lines I recall, along with proposals of physical harm. “And you don’t tell a man to shut up!”

This was good. However crudely, we were working it out and headed toward smoking the peace pipe. More importantly, I didn’t endure further physical pain in the process. "Let it all out!" I felt like saying. "This is productive. I'm sensing some real growth here!"

After another minute of them bitching and throwing insults, Dreadlock again spoke of reparations.

"Whatchoo gonna buy us, Pole-eece?"

I resisted the urge to reiterate that I was in fact not the police. Instead, I chose to be happy to soon be leaving a place where my new nickname was "Pole-eece." I offered to get them each a honey bun as soon as my money hit my canteen account, as Dreadlock had earlier proposed.

"You mean a hun-bun and a drank?" Sidekick helpfully suggested.

"Yeah, that's fine. Listen, like I said, I didn't mean to fuck anything up." I replied. "Are we straight now?

"I ain't eating no hun-bun yet, so fuck no we ain't straight!" someone offered, to much laughter.

While it was clear no handshakes were coming, the crisis had passed. Most importantly, it blew over without me absorbing blows other than to my dignity. I headed back to my bunk with relief, looking for some aspirin and a well-earned, post-stress nap. I had faced down my first prison crisis and come out okay. I never bought those fuckers shit, either, as I shipped out the next morning before money posted to my account. I think I'm far away enough now to safely say: Suck it, bitches!

Review of Don DeLillo's "Underworld"

If you have decided to dip into some Don DeLillo, you may want to start with White Noise for a more succinct sample of his prose, and to save seemingly six months of your life. I wish I had done so multiple times in the course of lurching through the seemingly endless Underworld – a whopping 826 pages that feels like double that. I came upon DeLillo via David Foster Wallace’s list of favorite authors, and turns out the two are similar in both good and bad ways.

As with Infinite Jest, this book has no driving plot line to keep the reader’s interest and the pages turning. Promising plotlines are established early on, only to be utterly abandoned, barely referred to again, and then only in a clumsy effort to tie the book together at the end. Occasional − perhaps even frequent − passages of brilliant writing can be found, and there are many wonderful phrases coined and descriptions made, “Crisp little men aswagger with assets,” and “The lure, the enticement of a life defined by its remoteness from the daily drudge of world complaint,” chief among them.

My quarrel with Underworld is its dozens of stories that start and fizzle, some in under a mere page. Some may consider this style brilliantly unique, but I find it lazy, as if the author couldn’t be bothered to, or was incapable of, putting together a story that fit together. This choppiness is frustrating, especially when references are made to an easily forgotten character or incident swarmed under two or three hundred pages earlier, virtually impossible to find again for a refresher. There are indeed thoughtful ruminations about the working class, gritty city life, and a (poorly explained) big picture, but they are delivered in a distracting fashion.  

I forged ahead anyway, occasionally enchanted by an interesting observation or brilliant passage of prose, but divorced from the idea that any of the multiple story threads would ever connect. I did, however, expect the final fifth of this seemingly endless tome to present some sort of payoff. That perhaps the best writing would be delivered on the back end – a reward for slogging through the rest of the head-scratching format.

Instead, with the book waning, there are passages like: “Did she eat anything?” “I made a little soup.” “Did she eat it?” Ate some, spilled some . . .” All seemingly apropos of nothing, because the ailing elderly person referred to was never truly introduced, so I had no reason to care about her plight. And again, none of this was in service to any discernible or compelling plot line. The only reason to turn a page was to finally, mercifully make it end and be able to say I didn’t skim to get there.

David Foster Wallace cited DeLillo as a major influence, but I wonder if it was the other way around in this instance, since Infitnite Jest was published two years before Underworld. It sure seems like DeLillo read the former and realized storylines are overrated and nothing has to fit together in the end after all. It’s all in the journey – the overly verbose, pointless detail-ridden journey. This is not to say great writing can’t be found here, but what exists could fit into a book the size of White Noise. If you must mark DeLillo off of your must-read author list, you may want to begin and end with Noise instead of this bloated, overly “clever” behemoth.

 I can’t say I necessarily regret reading this book, but I suspect the three I could’ve knocked off of my reading list in the same time frame would’ve been far more fun and entertaining.

Review of Jonathan Franzen's Purity

Purity should be praised as highly readable and inviting, yet not spoon fed or dumbed down. It’s also nice that unlike most Great American Novelists, there is no undercurrent of angst that permeates Franzen’s writing, and therefore few tiresome, superfluous sidetracks to the story. It is a smart read without feeling like a school assignment.

As usual, the author shows an uncanny talent for writing about a woman’s feelings and thought processes, as if he has access to their minds. Also delightful is Franzen’s subtle descriptions of how a crazy person thinks, especially women in relationships. Indeed, he doesn’t candy coat or go politically correct when describing the male-female power paradigm, either. In a pussified world where the inherent differences between the sexes would be deemed non-existent, this is a relief. (Check out a random female-authored review of Purity and feel the cat dander flying in the face of Franzen’s honesty on the topic.)

Also appreciated is the lack of gaping plot holes or just downright silly omissions or oversights that remove the reader from the story, (“Wait, if that happened, then this happening doesn’t make sense.”) In other words, the reader rarely gets Baldacci’d. In fact, Purity harbors only two or three examples of this transgression, which isn’t much for (a slightly excessive) five hundred sixty-three pages.

One is when an intern and her (attached) boss share a get-to-know-you evening coffee, and both ignore texts from their mentor/significant other in the process. Since the meeting absolutely can’t resemble a date in any fashion, this would never happen. Also, a character begins to fall for a woman even though she harbors a venereal disease, but the guy seems entirely unconcerned about the detail, and it’s never mentioned again. And as always seems to be the case with any writer, a character finds a potential partner is enormously wealthy, but is so (unrealistically) virtuous that the fact fails to prominently affect their pros and cons list.

And speaking of minor, yet annoying flaws, there are at least three passages where a word (or phrase) is repeated twice within three sentences, (hypothesis, disclosive) violating what is pretty much creative writing rule number one. Even worse, one of these is the cliché “down in flames.”  One can only wonder if Franzen’s ego is so large that he thinks he has license to distract the reader in such fashion, just because he can.

But in the end the flaws in Purity are minor, and the journey into Franzen’s fertile imagination was well worth the page turning time. I don’t care how cheesy the author photo is (why not have a sweater tied around your neck while you’re at it, Jon?)

The Old Lock in a Sock Trick

The following is an excerpt from Lookout for Shorts (Prison Memoir of a Drug War Casualty). It is a cautionary and often humorous chronicle of a slacker’s misspent life and comeuppance. This  episode took place in 2012 at a North Carolina minimum security prison.

Anyway, my attitude about joining a new community of cons had evolved by this point. My first three walks into the lion's den were pretty scary, not knowing what to expect and trying to fit in. This time I didn't give a shit−I knew most people don't care about my deal because they had their own shit to worry about. I also intended to keep a low profile to reduce interruptions and keep people from bumming stuff. Perhaps I was already a hardened criminal just over three months into my sentence. In fact, I was almost unfazed by a rather violent conflict, mere steps from my bed.

As I was on my bunk reading and minding my own business an argument broke out, apparently over a poker debt. "Meek Guy” was screwed out of some winnings by "Alpha Guy,” who seemed bored with M.G.'s beef, so he dissed and dismissed the motherfucker. I returned to my book after the two split, assuming the dispute was settled.

In fact, the quarrel wasn’t over at all − not by a swinging sock. About ten minutes later came a concentrated explosion three feet away from me, followed by fallout and dust like a bomb went off. No-so-Meek Guy after all had returned with a remedy for A.G. − a sock with a lock in the toe, and he was swinging it to crack a nigga’s dome. A slight problem emerged for M.G. in the process, however: the seam in the sock gave out as it was whipped around, (nice work, sock-making inmates). The lock shot into the air as if from a cannon, right into a bank of fluorescent lights nearest my bed.

My book (Erica Jong’s Fear of Flying) indeed went flying as I reflexively covered my face from the fallout and wondered what the fuck happened. Sadly, in the commotion I missed the look on M.G.'s face when he realized he no longer wielded a potent weapon, but held a limp sock instead. By the time I looked over there A.G. had home slice in a headlock and was repeatedly ramming it into his bed frame. Several gentlemen finally managed to pry him away as he yelled and screamed to the unconscious lump: "You wanna try me, punk-ass bitch?"

The question was rhetorical, of course, because M.G. was out cold, crumpled in the middle of the walkway. By this time some snitch-bitch had alerted the guards, of course, and soon four were on the scene looking for answers. Remarkably, no one seemed to have noticed any commotion at all, let alone an assault. A.G. had long since slid elsewhere, and all the cops knew was they had what was possibly a corpse in the middle of the floor and powdery shards of fluorescent light fallout everywhere. (I can attest that shit doesn’t come out of a blanket easily.)

The Bedpost Beatdown consequences arrived over the subsequent days, as guys spilled the beans in private so no one would know who was singin'. (I was briefly questioned, but my anonymity on the camp allowed me to claim I was out in the yard at the time.) A.G. ended up in cuffs, sent over to the hole and parts unknown after that, and M.G. landed at the prison hospital in Raleigh with a fractured skull. No word on whether the card debt was settled, but my life at my new home sure was less laid back than my old one.

Twitter: @WitStream

Prison Writing Contest Fail

The following is an excerpt from Lookout for Shorts (Prison Memoir of a Drug War Casualty). It is a cautionary and often humorous chronicle of a slacker’s misspent life and comeuppance. These episodes took place in 2012 at a North Carolina minimum security prison.

It was with great pride that I submitted my labors of love to the awkward prison programs director, the aforementioned Olive Oyl. She seemed surprised to be accepting a writing contest entry, and considering the apparent IQ of the camp population I couldn’t blame her. Then again, perhaps the other inmates knew something that I didn’t that kept submissions to a minimum. Whatever the case, since the statewide contest had a per-camp entry limit, I had cleared the first hurdle. My brilliance would be seen.

Feeling bold, I thanked Olive and invited her to offer thoughts on my masterpieces before submitting them for the contest. Besides possible free editing, friendliness was perhaps a way to set myself apart from my inmate brethren for future special treatment. As with my letter of apology to the warden at Southern when I was sent too many books at a time, I was not above sucking up. It would be good to get the benefit of the doubt if needed.

I was buoyed by a rare sense of accomplishment as I swaggered through the next couple of days. I had produced high quality material under trying circumstances, so perhaps I wasn’t such a loser after all. Hell, I was already considering frame styles for my winner’s certificates. My inflated ego, however, had less life than a clown’s balloon animal− a well-placed needle was nigh.

Two days after my contest submissions the intercom blared: “Garrett Phillips, report to the sergeant's office.” On reflex, my heart entered my throat.

If you've ever been called to a principal's office you know the dread of being summoned to a sergeant's office. Sometimes, however, it is for something benign, like to receive legal mail or a box of books someone sent. More often it's bad news, though − like disciplinary action, an unwanted bunk switch, or even a death in the family.

At this particular prison a sergeant’s office visit was usually at a walk-up window. I was surprised to see Olive there, flanked in the background by a sergeant seated at one desk, and a second uniformed desk jockey at another. The programs director was clearly agitated, and the peanut gallery behind her bemused, not sure what to make of the drama.

Proving to be a humorless twit, the lady was melting down over my writing contest entries. Sadly, she lacked Olive Oyl’s impish charm. She was also a Black Belt in Southern Baptist, and she wasn’t afraid to use it. She shoved my precious pages out the window into my face.

"You cain't be serious with these, and you should be ashaymed of yerself!" she spat, with a specific Southern accent common among semi-literate stilted wenches. "There's profanity in awl of them, and no one wonts to read about your duuumps!"

This drew guffaws from the cops behind her, so I briefly wondered if Olive was joking. It never occurred to me that someone could take a prison writing contest entry personally. I tried to point out that contest guidelines didn't prohibit profanity, but I was cut short. Bitch wasn't kidding.

"And comparin’ a bowel movement to a slot machine jackpot!" she huffed.

I wasn't sure which of these she considered offensive, the deuce dropping or the gambling machine. I would’ve asked, but Olive had closed the window on the episode − both literally and figuratively. Rattled, I buzzed back to the barracks to make the necessary revisions to my masterpieces, naively unaware that I was already doomed.

As I revised my writings − hell to heck, shit to stuff − I heard my name shouted from around the corner. There were murmurs in the air that usually indicated prison drama. Sure enough, ten minutes after our previous confrontation Olive was waiting for me at the door of the barracks, still shaking with anger. So mad, in fact, she showed up in person instead of calling me to her office on the intercom as a sane person would.  

She greeted me with only a glare, making clear this was no conciliatory visit. One would’ve thought I’d sold her dog for parts or something.

"Give me yer contest entries back," she commanded.

I retrieved them, assuming someone must have talked some sense into her. I would be in the contest after all, profanity included. As I placed the pages in Olive's trembling hands I also waved the contest guidelines memo and made a point she wasn’t hearing no-how.

"Nothing here says anything about profanity," I said, and also asked if she would like to be fucked properly for a change. (Okay, I made that last part up, but I thought it.)

Olive was in no mood to hear arguments, however, and snapped: "I doubt that's going to help yew," and stormed out the door.

I took that to mean that while she personally didn't approve of the entries, they would still be entered in the contest instead of a paper shredder. Either this or Olive’s co-workers were all: "An inmate wrote about taking a dump? You gotta get that back and let me read it!"

The assembled crowd of my brethren quickly began playfully jeering and whooping it up. "Damn, Homie! Bitch was pissed!" So much for me running under the radar at this camp.

Word of my debacle quickly got out, and I rehashed the story for seemingly every other offender who didn’t witness the scene. It was a shame I couldn’t just call a press conference. Even guards asked me for the poop, and also lent encouragement. Word was Olive was a notorious uptight bitch, and most everyone got a kick from watching her blow fuses. Guys were dying to read the stories too, of course, but I had already mailed the first drafts back to my people for safe keeping.

As I was signing autographs the following day another ominous announcement carried through the air: Garrett Phillips, report to the sergeant's office.

Olive was again at the window, slightly more composed than last time. She explained that not only were my submissions rejected, but I would be written up for obscenity and using profanity. "Obscenity?" I sputtered. "With all due respect, 'obscene' is a subjective term. While my essay may have lacked taste, it wasn’t obscene."

This threw Olive into another surge she had probably prayed to avoid. She grabbed the offending pages and shook them for emphasis. "No one wonts to read about your duuump!" she claimed in her stupid accent.

“I’m sorry, but apparently a lot of inmates do. And after all it’s our writing contest, right?”

Alas, this was not a discussion or negotiation − I was a heathen being chastised. Olive ignored my point and continued, clearly entertaining the two cops seated behind her who failed to stifle laughter. "And this 'Stab at Rehab' story has one patient killing another! How . . . how can you think this would be okay?"

Perplexed, I pointed out: "This is a prison writing contest, not a garden club writing contest."

This line cracked up the peanut gallery behind her, but as far as Olive was concerned I could have been talking to a church pew. She simply reiterated that I would soon be summoned and formally written up. She then slammed the window closed, really putting her paltry weight into it. No "good day, sir," and no mention of my commendable paragraph structure or praise for the snappy phrases I coined.

Two days later the farce continued, as I was called to the mail room/disciplinary office for my arraignment. Dragged into the paperwork duty was an affable young correctional officer named Hastings, who failed to repress laughter as he recited and typed up my charges.

The official indictment took issue with my hunting knife reference − “dangerous weapon,” blah, blah, blah − and also contained the glorious phrase: “comparing his bowel movement to inanimate objects.” This was incorrect, of course.  I compared a human being − or at least Rush Limbaugh − to the result of my bowel movement, not the actual act. If semantics could help in my defense, perhaps I’d found a loophole.

Naively, I was far more upset about the denial of a Winner's Certificate than any possible punishment. I desperately coveted framed evidence of insurmountable writer street cred.

 As for official discipline, most guys figured I'd draw a suspended sentence, which would summarily be struck from my record if I behaved myself. Further, I figured the case wouldn’t even advance that far, because someone in my appeals process would stop laughing long enough to dismiss the charges.

The next step in my persecution for art was to meet with the warden, a portly gentleman who was as pompous and humorless as he was out of shape. His doughy index fingers pecked out my incident report as I waited to present my side of the story. About thirty seconds into my argument it was clear that logic was not important in this case, and the warden was effectively deaf. The guy was not going to side with a smart-ass like me over his director of programs, details be damned. I would appeal his decision.

My next stop was a theoretically impartial disciplinary hearing officer, employed by the state. Surely he would bring this debacle to a halt. Sadly, he proved to be yet another staid bureaucrat, who didn't even crack a grin as he read aloud: "a turd frozen and fashioned into a hunting knife.” The guy might as well have been Olive’s brother. He offered me a suspended sentence, and made it clear if I appealed further they would jack up the charges and potential punishment.

I had previously planned to appeal as far as I could, then alert the media as a last resort. I envisioned my story turning into a cause célèbre among creative minds, at least on a slow news day. After all, The Man not only took my freedom in the course of the disastrous War on Drugs, but now prisoner creativity was under the pressure. This intellectual repression could not stand, tasteless topic or otherwise. Poop humor is art, too, after all. If I didn't go to the wall for shit jokes, who would? Where would the tyranny end?

Alas, my noble plan crumbled in the face of increased punishment should I continue appeals and ultimately lose. They broke me. The dimwit prudes won. I wussed out and protected my goals of a transfer to Asheville (the ideal NC prison camp) and a work-release job. Also, it was simply sound inmate policy to not piss off the authorities, because they could fuck with me in myriad ways if they chose to. Besides, I had a copy of the comical official document detailing my charges − a poor man’s Winner's Certificate − which was almost as satisfying. Perhaps next time I’ll write about finding Jesus.

The next day I accepted a suspended sentence for the most benign violation imaginable: profanity. Despite the contest guidelines saying nothing about it, both dipshits in charge cited an official prison regulation that bans “profanity of any kind.”  No profanity in prison?! Hell, even the guards cussed all the time.

Then again, if smoking was illegal on North Carolina grounds, which were effectively built by tobacco, anything is possible. Sir Walter Raleigh had to be shaking his head ruefully in his grave.

What’s to be banned next, expression of lust toward significant others in inmate letters and phone calls? Honestly, that would probably suit Olive Oyl just fine.

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12 Step Meetings in Prison

[This is an excerpt from Lookout for Shorts (Prison Memoir of a Drug War Casualty), an often comical account of a slacker’s comeuppance*. The following took place in 2012 at a North Carolina minimum security prison. All names have been changed. *Currently seeking representation.]

Twelve-step recovery meetings (AA, NA) were a big part of prison life, mostly because prison administration mandated offenders to attend if they wished to gain privilege promotions. Some showed true interest in working the steps and improving their lives, however, and found support in Southern’s AA gatherings. These were sparsely attended compared to NA – and thus far more solemn − thanks to a much slacker observance of the sign-in sheet by prison officials. Only a devoted eight or ten guys sat for AA, undistracted by dozens of disinterested inmates typically forced to attend the NA gatherings.

The civilian AA meeting leader was an ex-con called Jerry, a jovial black guy of around sixty. He had a sing-song voice and wore the perma-grin of a former mental patient, which he was. His shares usually ate up a good twenty minutes, and usually included a baby delivery story, Psalms 23, reference to the size of the lines he used to snort, and that he was certifiably crazy. Jerry was often told of being interned at a “nut house,” where he defecated on the lawn while not even drunk at the time. The guy was a hoot, at least until it became clear he repeated the same stories nearly every week.

These meetings quickly became redundant, mostly since locked up guys (including me) rarely had new using dilemmas or experiences to share. A few tidbits emerged that I'll never forget, however. One guy told of taking extremely hot showers before church to (theoretically) remove the smell of his Johnny Walker Red-soaked Saturday nights. Another observed that the inmate "gate check” − money issued to egressing offenders – amounted to forty-five dollars. "Now do you think it's a coincidence that's about what a handle of Jack Daniel's costs?" He repeated this multiple times, and he was dead serious.

The group also entered a unique debate about the gray areas of sobriety. For instance, is smoking a cigarette at a literally dizzying rate a violation? What about smoking one vigorously to trigger a bowel movement?  After all, I gained a buzz from smoking rapidly but doing so was also medicinal. And indeed, aren't most recreational drugs homeopathic and helpful until they’re abused?

Alas, conversational nuggets like these were too rare to transcend the usual tedium of meetings. I heard: "I know I've done wrong, I'm going to do right, and I’m going to work the steps," ad nauseum. Some guys may have benefited from prison AA, but I eventually sought personal growth elsewhere.

Much more worth attending were the NA meetings, even though they weren’t exactly productive 12-step studies either. But at least these watered-down versions were often wildly entertaining because the room was invariably packed. Offenders that were intent on privilege level promotions were absolutely required to attend.

Luckily these meetings were hardly by the book, otherwise resentment and drudgery would have filled the room. Instead, the NA and twelve step tenets were discussed only occasionally, and the bulk of the time was dedicated to war stories, i.e. stories from partying days. This defied traditional meeting customs, but the civilian facilitator didn’t mind. He knew the awkward silence of guys unwilling to discuss feelings and fears of recovery was no good for anyone. Boisterous story time certainly beat shoe-gazing slogs through the twelve steps, and suspicious yarns full of dubious detail and excitement kept motherfuckers entertained.

Guys told of running from the cops or literally getting away with murder. Sordid domestic violence details were revealed as if describing a trip to the store. I learned that impregnating a gainfully employed woman is a reasonable career aspiration, and outstanding new street terminology.

Dry goods is slang for drugs other than alcohol, and coin operated is a street term for a hooker. Pimp rolling describes a confident man’s gait, and “You ain't gotta lie to kick it" means bullshitting is not required to participate in a discussion. Tales were told of a tecato gusano*, a “psychic worm" Hispanics believe causes addiction and can never be sated or killed.

* Coincidentally, I also encountered the term in Infinite Jest that same evening; the only two times of my life.

Monthly Speaker Meetings were also captivating, as guys took to the lectern and told stories of their misspent lives and the demons that landed them in NA (or prison). Civilian volunteers occasionally filled this bill, but my inmate brethren were usually more entertaining. I also once took a turn, describing my sneakily destructive pattern of abuse.

Again, my bout with chemicals was less obvious than usual. For instance, my first drink of the day never came through a straw due to the shake, and I was never broke and homeless. Instead, my vulgar pleasures weakened my energies. Hard partying − and the subsequent hangovers – robbed me of motivation to lead a productive life. Anyway, I presented the NA meeting with such “recovery talk” for a while, but my audience’s glazed-over eyes soon moved me to Plan B.

I dropped war stories of my own, along with some of my more off-color stand-up material. I killed, so to speak, and a bit describing tooth-free fellatio also earned the nickname Gum Bob. Many guys related to this, since even young adults among the downscale actually have dentures*, thanks to methamphetamitic pursuits. In any event, my speaker/comedian turn made me feel great, and I wasn’t a total loser for a while.

* In fact, Poli-Grip is provided to all indigent inmates for free.

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