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.

Follow the author on Twitter: @WitStream

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.

Follow the author on Twitter: @WitStream1 

Pulled Over in Memphis on Acid

 

(This is an excerpt from “Lookout For Shorts: A Prison Memoir,” available wherever books are sold.)

I faced a long drive back to my Atlanta home after three weeks doing stand-up comedy — and partying heavily every night — in Colorado Springs and Albuquerque in 2005. To save money on the way back, I stayed with a friend in Oklahoma one night, but still had twelve hours of driving to go after golfing with him all day. No amount of coffee could stave off my exhaustion.

I did, however, possess a dose of LSD to serve as extra-strength NoDoz. Not only could an acid trip keep me awake, but I could also put it to professional use. I could save any “profound” psychedelic ramblings on my voice recorder. Perhaps I’d figure out the meaning of life − or at least a good comedy bit − for future use.

I dropped the acid to drive through the night.

Driving on LSD is not an activity I recommend, but I do so just fine. Driving is like walking to me. I did it professionally for over a decade, as a courier in Atlanta. I’d also tripped more than one hundred times over thirty years, so I know my limitations under the influence. Contrary to popular belief acid hallucinations don’t involve, say, a unicorn suddenly materializing in the road. Objects may morph oddly when stared at, but not enough to disrupt driving on a freeway that involves no oncoming traffic.

A couple of hours into the drive I ingested enough LSD for stimulation, but not so much to distort reality. To me, it was like a really amusing five cups of coffee. Soon, my psychedelic reverie made a mundane ride vivid and exciting.

I cruised through Arkansas, a colorful sunset over the farmlands of the Mississippi Delta in the rearview. The Talking Heads or Blind Melon on the stereo transported me further. I marveled at the heap of metal that carried me, careening along at seventy-five miles an hour while in air-conditioned comfort. The tech gadgets and their charger wires next to me: camera, phone, mini-disc recorder, iPod, fascinated me. Traffic was light, and so was I.

All was good until I came upon a dizzying amount of freeway construction, like a sinister video game come to life. Shifting lanes and uneven pavement. Bright orange barrels and concrete barricades inches away. Bullying tractor-trailers. Senior motorists panicking while going forty miles per hour. My recorded running commentary during this interval was hardly philosophical or profound; I was cussing like a tattoo artist. “What the fuuuuuck!!!”

Thankfully, I soon surrendered to the flow and enjoyed myself again. The video game became fun. I efficiently navigated the construction zone, speaking play-by-play of my driving maneuvers into a microphone. . .

“A typical driver would be flipping out, but I’m possibly the best driver in the world. I am completely unfazed,” I boasted. A bit later I exclaimed: “Whoa, blue lights! . . Just kidding, they’re in front of me.”

About thirty seconds later different blue lights appeared, directly behind me. Words failed me as practical thoughts intruded. The next noticeable sounds besides traffic noise were roadside rumble strips moaning as I pulled over. The recorder kept rolling.

I remained cool, like Dock Ellis throwing an acid-fueled no-hitter. I scrambled to dig my license out of my golf shorts in the back seat and prepared to present it to the cop casually. “I got this,” I said to myself. The weed sitting on the passenger seat said otherwise.

Yes, amid the aforementioned mass of wires and gadgets next to me sat less than a gram of shitty marijuana, in plastic from a cigarette pack. A fan in New Mexico gave it to me during a drunken evening, but I’d forgotten. Had it been of decent quality I would’ve stashed it appropriately. The weed sat in purgatory: not good enough to hide well, but not bad enough to throw away. Either way, in 2005 Tennessee it was illegal.

My license and proof of insurance were in hand as a cop approached on either side. At the last second, I spotted the herb on the seat and threw a towel in its general area, luckily not covering the rolling recorder. I presented my ID to a strapping young cop built like a linebacker . . .

Lead Cop (LC): “Sir, we’ve stopped you for speeding in a construction zone.”

“I see.”

“Where are you coming from, sir?”

“Memphis.”

“You’re in Memphis,” he replied, seeming to chuckle.

“I mean, Albuquerque . . . I’m a stand-up comic.”

“A comic? Do you have a CD or anything?”

“No, but here’s one of a lady I worked with this week.”

I handed him a CD case. The cover photo featured comic Jessie Campbell shooting pool with a cigarette in her mouth. A great character witness. With a smile, the officer asked me to step to the rear of my car.

Meanwhile, the Second Cop (SC) grabbed the poorly concealed weed through the passenger window and handed it to the one asking the questions. They returned to their vehicle to run my plates and strategize. I succumbed to amusing thoughts such as how freeways work, not worry much. The cops reemerged ten minutes later. Or fifty. Acid trips warp time.

LC dangled the paltry package of pot in front of me. “Now, I’m not going to arrest you for this, but you need to tell me right now if you have anything else in this car.”

“I got nothing to hide, search it if you want,” I said. This was true. Since I’d eaten my acid, I didn’t even possess an empty beer can of shady cargo.

“No guns, drugs, anything like that?” asked SC, suspiciously.

“No officer, go ahead and check.”

I must’ve looked like I harbored more drugs, and possibly a lot. My twelve-year-old Lexus GS 300 had blacked-out windows and out-of-state tags. I presented my license with a shaky hand and didn’t seem to know what city I was in. Sketchy as hell.

They escorted me to the back of a K-9 equipped 4-by-4 SUV. Clad in a golf shirt, sandals, and funky light blue swim trunks − hardly dressed for a treacherous Memphis jail should I go there. As they placed me in the vehicle I asked the cops if they wanted my keys, but neither heard me. The hot mic in the seat picked up the following exchange as they began searching my car.

LC: “Did you get his keys?”

“Uh, no. Don’t have the keys.”

“Get the keys from that motherfucker.”

After retrieving the keys from this motherfucker, they left me alone to absorb a strange new world. I noticed how hard I was tripping, three hours after ingesting a relatively small dose of five-year-old LSD. Although I fully recognized reality, vivid visuals delighted me, enhanced by flashing blue lights in the dusk. Just behind me loomed a cage containing a sizable dog.

“Hi, puppy! Whatcha doin’?”

This earned me two ear-splitting barks and a vicious snarl. Only thin bars of the doggie cage save my aorta from being trapped in a dog jaw. Tough crowd.

I don’t advocate animal abuse, but I admit I heckled the canine cop in return for it being a dick. “Bet you wish you could bite me, don’t you, pig?“ What was he going to do, arrest me?

Meanwhile, the human cops dismantled my car interior and rummaged through my belongings as I amused myself. They looked under my trunk liner and behind door panels. I addressed the K9 unit again. “They are airing my dirty laundry. Literally!” He responded with another snarl.

I didn’t take the dog as a bad omen, however. LC had sent off good vibes, so I felt at peace. He didn’t appear to know I was tripping, and I was confident my wits would keep me in the clear.

The pair of police trudged back to me and their vehicle twenty minutes later. Or an hour. They muttered to each other for a minute, then LC asked: “OK Mr. Phillips, are you a famous comic?”

“No, but after this story, I might be!” I admitted. I then described my mission to record myself and how they pulled me over moments after I declared how great a driver I was. They found this amusing.

“Where did you get this pot?” LC asked.

“A girl I met in Albuquerque gave it to me. I about threw it anyway because it sucks.”

“Yeah, this looks like Mexican weed,” LC professed. ”I guess you call it ‘dank?’”

I quickly corrected him: “No sir, that’s schwag; the good stuff is dank.” I realized I shared industry lingo with the enemy and blurted: “Shit, I just spilled pot smoker inside info.”

“Yeah, I think you did. Show me the handshake too.”

We all laughed. Clearly, no arrest was coming, so I turned really talkative. I told the cops how my schwag source was a hot chick in Albuquerque that got me high in her car after a show. I expected to hook-up with her, but some random guy warned me she fucked every army guy in town. And she turned me down, anyway.

Following more small talk (LC) Officer Brady Valentine, West Tennessee Judicial Violent Crime & Drug Task Force Special Agent released me from my temporary cell on wheels. We moved in front of the vehicle, and he waved my weed as he spoke.

“Now I’m going to dump this out right here. Just do me a favor and tell your friends not all cops are dicks.”

He produced his card and added: “And give us a call next time you have a show in town.”

“Oh, wow!” I blurted. “Thank you, officer, and have a great night!”

“You’re welcome. And slow it down.”

His final remark reminded me of why I got pulled over in the first place, seemingly a day earlier. I didn’t even get a speeding ticket. Life was good.

The danger now dodged, a practical matter emerged: I had to piss worse than ever. It’s typical to forget to urinate while on a psychedelic trip anyway, and my dramatic run-in made this even easier. Each slight bump in the road poked my groin like an ice pick.

The next freeway exit delivered me at three enormous back lit crucifixes, close to a huge church. If ever there was a time to find religion, this was it. The closest I came was thanking Jesus once I relieved my doubled-over pain at a convenience store urinal. I peed for an eternity.

I never returned to Memphis to perform stand-up and hang out with the benevolent Officer Valentine. My recording of his pull-over, however, opened the door to an on-air position on a top Atlanta morning radio show, The Regular Guys.

Valentine moved on to other ventures too. Specifically, he got prison time for taking part in a steroid distribution ring, which probably operated even as he won Tennessee Narcotics Officer of the Year in 2007. I hope his replacement on the police force isn’t a dick.

[A podcast recap, complete with the audio mentioned in this piece, is now available. Apple Podcasts: https://tinyurl.com/yyhx6egq
Spotify: https://tinyurl.com/y3apqv4d

Just Desserts (A Consequence Of A Misspent Life And Addiction.)

I did not take life seriously in my first forty-three years. I screwed off, worked the angles, and did just enough to get by while still making it to the next party. I was a “slacker” who took perverse pride in seeing how little effort I could expend and still end up a success. Stand-up comic, morning radio contributor, internet broadcaster, “half-asser.” Something had to give.

In fall, 2009 my Mother was diagnosed with lung cancer and had a two month bout with it before passing on. We were very close, and I did not deal with this period well. There was always a surplus of painkillers, a lot of which went to medicate me, and I became addicted.

I subsequently lived in a pill haze—-even further beyond my means—- and ran up a significant credit card debt. Unfortunately, instead of getting a second job, reigning in my expenses, and kicking the pills, I took an easier route: dealing drugs.

It started with pot, mailed to me from California, a pound or less, for distribution locally and also at “jam band” concerts here and there. This was quite profitable, and allowed me to travel and live it up while supporting my addiction.

Running in the circles I did, it was inevitable that other opportunities arose, and indeed they did. I eventually found MDMA (a/k/a/”molly”) by the ounce, which upped the legal ante considerably. The profit margins were impossible for me to turn down, however, and I started living something resembling the high life.

So I was in business —sustaining my habit, just killing my credit card debt, and staying in nice hotels. Like any responsible drug dealer, I also had an exit strategy; a set figure of saved money at which point I would stop and go legitimate. The Wright brothers had longer flights than my plan. 

My downfall came from being a nice guy. To further rationalize, I was being a sweetheart while vending the two recreational drugs that bring a lot joy while doing minimal harm: weed and ecstasy. I never considered selling ugly stuff like heroin, cocaine, or Oxycontin. This is not to whine, just things I told myself that kept me from feeling like a horrible person.

A Reunion

I was in Atlanta the first weekend of April doing some “business” around the Fox Theater, where the latest incarnation of the Grateful Dead was playing. I ran into my old friend Joseph Warren Jones , from my days seeing Phish concerts back in the nineties. 

I hadn’t seen him in over a decade. He was also an addict—less functioning, as it turned out—and had the down-on-his-luck story to match. He professed that he was recovering and simply needed a helping hand, so why not?

To this point I had always kept my business close to the vest, within a circle of trusted friends. I had a good instinct for this and maintained things quite well. In this case, however, I let my guard down and trusted someone who I thought I knew well. Ultimately I didn’t know him at all.

Joe needed some money to get over some “hump,” so I offered to have him join me in North Carolina the following weekend, April 8th, 2011, to work a Widespread Panic concert run. Besides selling drugs to begin with, this was literally the dumbest thing I’ve ever done in my life.

When I was vending drugs at these “traveling circus” type of shows, I spent my time discreetly in a “friendly” place, theoretically light on police presence. Gathering spots like a pizza place, or in hotels, where it’s easy to detect groups arriving for the concerts.

“You’re in room 318, the elevators are just around the corner there, and the guy wearing the Phish hat has a full selection of mind-expanding chemicals for the weekend. Enjoy your stay at the Asheville Renaissance!”

This method is clean and relatively risk-free, but I failed to instruct Joe to employ it. While he was a veteran at this, I still should have confirmed it with him during out three-hour drive. Instead, we got caught up listening to some killer Phish shows from ’10 instead. Blame it on a simple twist of fate.

So instead of higher-end hotels, Joe went off to work the area around the concert venue, soliciting “hip” passersby. I enjoyed a typical pre-show sales session at a pizza joint a friend of mine managed. After a while, however, something seemed off because I hadn’t heard from Joe and he was not responding to calls or texts. For some reason this omen didn’t send me into shutdown mode; I just kept going like everything was cool.

Later I was in the concert venue, now really wondering what the hell happened. Did this guy skip town or something, burning me for the money? Finally, I got a text from Joe, asking where the stash was so he could re-up, and claiming to have girls back at the room who wanted to party.

Somehow even this didn’t alert me, because Joe knew where the stash was. Also, when you have enough molly to fire up a cheerleading squad, the dance team, and the majorettes, women looking to party just kind of materialize. And what about the fucking concert? I sure didn’t recall Joe being this stupid.

I was starting to catch a good buzz by this point, so even though Joe made no sense, I was just glad to hear from him. What I didn’t know was the cops were texting on his phone, getting me to incriminate myself and trying to lure me back to the hotel. I went on to enjoy the show, not realizing I had been sold out by my friend.

I could whine about how he broke the rules of “the game”—-which he did—-but the bottom line is it’s all on me. I should not have put myself in this situation to begin with, under any circumstances. All I can do is think it happened for a good reason.

After the show I decided to grab some barbecue at a street stand and go back to the room. (Fine Joe, are you happy now?) There was an odd silence in the room before I swiped the card, and learned why the hard way.

The Music Stops

I opened the door and four cops grabbed me, screaming that I was under arrest. Before I knew it, I was shoved face down on the bed, and my wrists were not-so-gently cuffed behind my back.

Although my wrists were yelping in pain, I recall counting my blessings at that moment. If I must be pummeled into submission by burly law enforcement, after all, a pillow top mattress was a pretty good place to suffer the indignity.

The other thing I’ll never forget about that moment is my main emotion was of relief. Of all the things. The stress from the life I was living was gone. Regardless of whether my new circumstances would prove to be any better, at least they would be defined and honest.

As my Mom might say: if I wasn’t going to stop myself, the universe would do it for me. Also, at least I was arrested “early” in my career, before I was really big time, and subject to a much more severe punishment. More importantly, at that moment anyway, I didn’t spill my barbecue.

The scene was hectic only for a moment, until it was clear that I wasn’t going to resist or otherwise be a problem. The four local cops were dismissed by the plain clothes NC Alcohol Law Enforcement officer running the bust, then it was just three of us, including his flunky sidekick.

I must admit I was happy to hear apologies and thanks to the uniformed cops for waiting “all night” for my arrival. Perhaps I saved a few of my concert-going brethren from getting busted in the process.

My arresting officer was a nice guy, and I suppose he felt likewise, because he showed some leniency. After first refusing to let me eat my barbecue I kept asking, and he finally relented. While I had to remain loosely cuffed, I could still reach the chow, which I devoured. I also managed to get him to pull a bottle of water out of my cooler for me.

“Hey, thanks again from letting me eat. And listen, is there any chance you’d grab me one of those waters over there?”

e looked at my incredulously, saying: “Now you’re really pushing it!,” as he stepped over to fish out the bottle.

A few minutes later the cop lost his patience, probably because I was simply finding new ways to say “I want my attorney,” and giving him nothing resembling a confession. He and his sidekick whisked me out the door before I completely finished my food. “We’ve been here for six hours.” he explained. “We need our own fucking food.”

After my hands were cuffed behind me again, I noticed the cops failed to find all of the molly I had on me when they frisked me. On the way to the station it was just me and the plain clothes in an SUV, me riding shotgun. Despite being cuffed, I was able to fish out multiple packets of powder from my back pockets and stuff them into the seat crack, undetected.

It turned out off-loading that nearly four grams of the powder didn’t matter in the long run, but it helped me feel like I accomplished something, but only for a while. The cops that frisked me at the jail also skipped my back pockets, so I could’ve taken the damned things right back out the door with me when I got sprung.

Jail And All Its Charms

So into the clink I went — -and into the modern hell of trying to remember a phone number, thanks to cell phones. The cops take them immediately, and they don’t read off numbers for you, either. The pressure was on, for sure. I had two numbers for my lawyer memorized, but he didn’t answer either time, and he couldn’t call back because the jail numbers were blocked.

The cops were impatient and adversarial, and I had to practically beg for one more try. I was flustered, and the countdown was on prior to moving to a space with possibly no phones. I was mixing up friend’s numbers that were similar and recalling old home numbers for people, but none of them worked.

Obviously this was extremely frustrating, but it was also borderline terrifying. What if I could never get in touch with anyone, and how long until someone figured out where I was? And what about my car and all of my stuff in my hotel room? As if being on the back end of a ecstasy trip wasn’t disorienting enough…

Besides simply wanting to get sprung quickly, there was $6,5000 in cash, stashed in my car. At the time I didn’t know the cops never bothered searching the vehicle, let alone impounding it. Perhaps they felt they had enough to nail me to the wall already. Or they were simply lazy and looking forward to a dozen Krispy Kremes.

Soon I was moved to the next stage of booking, and a crucial number dawned on me: an Atlanta restaurant owned by my good friend Tad. Thanks to once working there, I remembered the number and, as luck would have it, Tad was a guy who would bail me out.

Now it was pushing 3:00 am, but it was a Friday night, so the place wasn’t quite closed. I knew that sometimes they picked up the phone when it rang this late, sometimes they don’t. My window to reach someone there was quickly closing, if it had not already — -time was of the essence.

I asked the booking officer if I could use the phone across the room. “After I’m done booking you in you can.”, came the mumble. Suddenly minutes seemed like hours as I pictured the restaurant manager killing the lights and locking up.

I finally got to the phone and placed the collect call. The instructions were to speak your name at the tone, so I said: “Tad’s friend Garrett,” in case someone who didn’t know me anwered. A lot of time elapsed, until finally a voice came over the line: “Garrett, it’s Lauren.” Cue the angelic chorus.

Most of the managers at this place knew me, but Lauren I know the best. She’s very tight with Tad, and would get in touch with him to bail me out, no questions asked. Knowing Tad, one of the world’s great go-getters, it wouldn’t be long until I was out.

I was then shuffled into a holding tank, a/k/a “the cooler”, which is an apt name, because by design they keep it cold as the goodbye from of a cheap hooker. As the hours wore on with my teeth chattering, t-shirt pulled over my knees, I began to wonder what the delay was for springing me—-I had no way of knowing.

I learned of a lot of dark places my mind can go at a time like this, and suicide was most certainly one of them. How disappointed would my loved ones would be? Had one of my best friends had forsaken me? Would Widespread Panic go their whole existence with the worst drummer ever?

I had assumed a bail bondsman would accept a credit card, and I’d be out in an hour or two. Unbeknownst to me, when the detainee is from out of state, with serious charges like mine, the full bail was required. All that stood between me and freedom was $33,000 and a non-refundable fee of roughly $3,700. No wonder it was taking so long.

Tad was stymied because the bail bondsman did not accept AmEx, and his other cards lacked that kind of limit. Long story short, he worked some kind of magic, and actually convinced the bondsman to spring me, basically promising the check was in the mail. Like I said: Tad is resourceful, as well as one helluva salesman.

Before the bail finally came through, however, I logged nearly a whole day in this county lockup. I was not assigned a cellmate, which was nice, but that was about the only thing that went right. Also, amazingly, the jailers placed both Joe — -my rat — -and me in the same cell block.

I’m not sure which one of us was more surprised by this when I encountered the shithead munching away at breakfast. I do know, however, who was more terrified: Joe. I was so astounded that I didn’t even run up and slap him, but then I’m not a violent guy to begin with.

He saw me, dropped his plastic spork in shock, got up and went straight back to his cell, leaving his tray sitting there. I just watched him slip away like the vermin he is, and I must admit it was oddly entertaining.

I got sprung about twenty hours after my arrest, which seemed more like twenty days. Amazingly, my hotel room was still under my name, despite the whole “multiple felonies committed here yesterday” thing. All of my non-illegal possessions were still there, too. I especially enjoyed sleeping on the pillow-top that night, wrecked life or not.

Picking Up The Pieces

The next day I bought a new phone and headed back to Atlanta for the day, trying to find a attorney referral and contemplating my situation in general. Listening to music or anything frivolous was out of the question; I was in a slow, surreal freak out the whole time. When I got home I rid my apartment of any additional evidence on the off chance the case went federal and I got raided.

At court the next day I encountered some of my former jail mates, including Joe, who stayed off in the corner, as a rat would. He would not look my way no matter what. I asked him if he had the ten bucks I lent him, because I could’ve actually used it, but of course he didn’t.

I added something like “thanks for ruining my life,” and left him to wallow in his guilt. That was the extent of our conversation. His ultimate punishment for betraying me is that he has be him the rest of his life, and I wouldn’t wish that on anyone.

I also encountered someone of hopefully higher moral standing, my well-recommended counsel Sean Deveraux. He was around fifty and came across as very sharp and likable. I had a good feeling about him, although my cash flow decidedly did not. He had to head out of town for a court appearance, however, so he passed me off to his partner for the short arraignment procedure and my subsequent debriefing.

Andrew Banzhoff, a no-nonsense guy of about forty, entered a plea of not guilty and then we repaired to a nearby penthouse office to assess my ruins. I explained to him that although I didn’t babble to the cops and incriminate myself following my arrest, they still had me dead to rights; my fingerprints were all over everything.

My attorney seemed troubled, especially when I completely ruled out giving up my suppliers to get my charges reduced or dropped. I explained that a rat was what got me there in the first place, and that wasn’t a exactly a favor worthy of paying forward.

On the plus side, Banzhoff saw a possibility the “notorious cowboy” who made the arrest entered my hotel room before getting a search warrant, to confirm Joe’s story first. The counselor explained that, while a long shot, he and Mr. Deveraux had previously beaten similar charges with this tactic.

Unfortunately, this investigation and the additional legwork would cost me another ten grand, which I simply didn’t have. I had only recently ratcheted up my business, and had yet to put away any money of consequence to finance a washer and dryer, let alone a fancy legal defense.

Even worse, the anti-drug crusading District Attorney had a real personal problem with guys like me. So much of an issue, in fact, that he often personally joins teams to bust my ilk when concerts come to town. I guess it was easy for a guy who looked like an especially dim former offensive lineman to blend in.

Since I was caught red-handed, my only realistic legal strategy was also what I needed to do anyway: get into a long-term drug treatment program. Perhaps a display of contrition and addressing my chemical issues would gain sympathy, and convince the D.A. to prosecute a lesser amount of MDMA than demands a mandatory minimum sentence.

I went to the rehab, and benefited greatly. I also voluntarily entered a halfway house for over five months, and documented going to ninety twelve-step meetings in ninety days in the process. While this helped me personally, the D.A. couldn’t have cared less—-I might as well have used that money on a Vegas bender.

I was charged with felony marijuana possession with of intent to distribute, felony possession and trafficking of MDMA, and various other redundant raps. At least my lawyer made a plea deal that consolidated eight charges into one, (scroll down on the linked page) and got a flat thirty-five months with no post-release/probation.

Starting Recovery

Despite not swaying the D.A., getting treatment for the cloud that hovered over me proved to be a great choice. My lifestyle had weighed on me both physically and spiritually for quite some time, and finally addressing my addiction was a huge help and relief.

No matter, the depression of a life in tatters and its logistical problems started settling in. Getting sent to prison is nothing if not a giant pain-in-the-ass. Luckily an old friend let me store my belongings throughout the ordeal. Also, a group of friends took an interest in my plight and set up a dreaded fund-raising site, as legal fees and rehab costs broke me. Sadly, however, the bankruptcy filing I’d always refused to consider became inevitable.

I tried to keep myself busy—-to stay distracted—-but I was broken, and with a three year prison sentence hanging over me there was nowhere to hide. Though hardly logical, I even wondered if I would have been better off just staying in jail to begin with, starting to do my time and get it over with.

I always figured I could do time if it came down to it—-I could adjust to life on the inside. What I never expected came with it, though, was the grueling time in limbo between an arrest and learning my fate. Every laugh I had was tempered, and myriad regrets and worry were always near the surface.

I let down all who have believed in me or perhaps looked up to me, and that was tough to live with. But it’s times like these that bring blessings and silver linings where one least expects them. The support I received from my friends and family was remarkable, and this lent me fortitude that helped me weather my sentence and still emerge sane.

Some have suggested it’s outrageous for me to get three years in prison for a first offense dealing drugs. While this may be true, I believe my true crime was grand theft: I never earned “the good life,” I stole it. I needed this kick in the ass from the universe, and my comeuppance was just desserts for being a slacker my whole life.

Besides the wake-up call, I was presented with a new occupation: an embedded reporter at various minimum security prisons in North Carolina. I kept copious journals documenting this peculiar world that has somehow gone under-reported until now, and it will jump start a writing career.

Prison was like sailing on a dry, gastronomic disaster of an all-inclusive cruise that was adrift, my fellow passengers males from the green room at the Jerry Springer Show. It is quite different from the place depicted on “Oz” or other hard core facilities; here the only real danger was being fascinated by humorous human behavior until your head exploded. The writing fodder was extraordinary.

The result of my first-of-its-kind anthropological study will be the sardonic Lookout for Shorts (A Drug War Casualty’s Prison Memoir.) Select draft excerpts will be posted here on Medium en route to being published in book form. Please follow its progress here and at my Twitter account. Thanks for reading!