“I worked myself up from nothing to a state of extreme poverty.”

Monkey Business (1931)

For those of you taking time out from the current zeitgeist after voting wherein our lazy hazy days of summer are like a case of PTSD in The New America — we can relax, as we look around at the zero sum game of politics versus mental health. But take a few pages out of the fun of prison life with me. Here, from my delightful sojourn of nearly five years with the Best of the Best, I went from daily fears to admiring the happiness of others — especially after having been prosecuted by a corrupt DA (who has just been released from prison himself). Relax. The Town of Southampton has been prosecuting immigrants, liberals and journalists for years. But having been a 70 year old white guy in a cesspool of mental illness in a NY State prison conjures up wonderful memories of what life is like on the inside. Fears of being picked up off the street and sent to Guantanamo or CECOT diminish when you realize that now we’re all in the same boat. Don’t be concerned — it’s not that bad inside. In fact, it might feel familiar!

Here’s an excerpt from my time inside as I was preparing for Parole and being coached by a biker who was getting out.

Copyright: Confessions from the Gulag.

______________________________________________________________________________

July 21st, 2015

One week to Merit Board, 21 days for Mike to go home and 49 days for my bunkie. Time moved ever so slowly. I sat and repeated lines, practicing what I’d say if certain things were brought up at the Board. I needed to have immediate answers with regard to every aspect of my “crime” and what had happened.

No hesitation, eyes looking directly at the camera and video screen with the panel, hands flat on the table in front of me, and sitting up straight. And, of course, charmingly — or, at least personably, as the attorney recommended. I was advised to speak up and not be nervous while showing remorse and emotion to support my contention that I was deeply, deeply ashamed of what I had done.

Especially, what I’d done to those banks!

“So, were you the Mastermind?” said Mike, who was, for today, one of the Commissioners cross-examining me while standing in the doorway of the Rec room.

“I was one of the players who was a facilitator, a manager of the scheme. I brought  people who had good credit to buy property. I provided employment information, verified income and colluded with others in perpetrating this fraud.”

“So,” said Mike with a smile, “were you the Mastermind?”

“I was one of several people among mostly lawyers and a former Assistant District Attorney, who did legal work for the Kennedy’s — including a Legislator, and a title attorney who handled Suffolk County work for Steve Levy, the County Executive. My primary attorney’s own client, Mike Belesis, was a builder and he introduced me to a mortgage broker who worked directly with his own appraiser. I brought people who wanted to purchase property.”

“Well, were you or were you not the Mastermind?” 

“Oh, sure, I told everyone, including the attorneys, the A.D.A., a broker, a builder, and his appraiser, all what to do. Everything was my fault. I was the Mastermind.”

We took a break and talked about the fact that Mike was going home in 21 days. One of the questions HE had been asked in his own Parole interview had to do with the obvious connections to a biker gang. Up and down both of his arms and across his chest and on his neck, were tattoos depicting various, clearly identifiable connections to the gang. His hands too, when he made a fist just above his knuckles were also tattooed.

“I’m done with that life,” he said, “but it’s not gonna be easy.”

“Why?”

“It’s like the Mob. Hard to get out. They think you’re gonna be a rat and talk about what wen’ on.”

“Yeah, but that’s history.”

“Some things aren’t,” he said, with a straight  face.

“I see. Okay, don’t tell me any more, Say no more, say no more.’”

Some crimes have no statute of  limitations.

“Yeah, an’ with that RICO shit goin’ on now. Lissen even the President of the whole organization cut a deal with the Feds.” 

“Really?” I said.

“Yeah, it was a big thing. Guy’s gotta be in his early 60’s an’ he makes a deal and sings like a bird. The Feds musta’ had ‘im fa onea those 25 or 30 year deals. So, he cut a deal. Only, he STILL got 15 years with the deal.” 

“Jesus.”

“Yeah, so now he’s in Federal  prison, he’s a rat, he’s got 15 years to do and the gang wan’s ‘im, the Mexicans wan’ ‘im, an’ so do the other bikers in prison wan’ ‘im. He’ s neva  gonna make it.”

The Latin gangs, the Trinitarios, Latin kings, Bloods, Crips, Mexican Mafia, MS-13 — some of whom were my new close friends and associates — didn’t give a shit. But the White bangers, whom I also knew, did.

They did not like Rats.

”Justice is the greatest concern of man on earth.”

— Daniel Webster

Read these few lines and keep in mind that this is the concept that New York City and the agencies hide behind if you have the bad fortune of being hurt on a defective sidewalk, dangerous street, hit by a car, or otherwise damaged. Agencies like Con Edison routinely hide behind a legal concept and too bad for you if you’re hurt.

Here’s the brief outline of what Prior Notice is about:

“In New York, the prior written notice requirement often applies to claims involving injuries or damages caused by defective streets, sidewalks, or other public property. The specific notice requirements can vary depending on the local laws of the municipality or public entity involved. Generally, the notice must:

1. Be in writing.
2. Describe the location and nature of the defect or hazardous condition.
3. Be served on the appropriate public entity within a specified time frame, which is usually a short period, such as 30 or 90 days from the date of the incident.
4. Comply with any additional requirements set forth in the local laws or regulations of the public entity.”

Think about that. Con Ed shows up and starts jackhammering the street at midnight, leaves a hole in the street open, the crosswalk is now blocked with debris and materials and you fall on your ass — or your face. Guess whose fault it is. Yours.

All of us downtown have been there. Cars and trucks routinely hit us while Traffic cops wave them on even though you have the right of way as a pedestrian. Cars hit us but we weren’t able to pull out our phones and get the plate number — NYPD does nothing. It’s a HIt & Run for chrisakes! Too bad, buddy. In one of the funniest vists to the 1st Precinct I was told that the Detectives would not be abe to help me since they only work on murders. It hadn’t gotten that far when I was crossing the street in SoHo so I Ieft the precinct station. No doubt my landlord had a few murders in his history but the cops probably wouldn’t even start investigating that — what chance did I have?

Okay, so let’s take Con Edison. They pull up with subcontractor trucks, dig up the streets, take over a neighborhood, and destroy safe access, crosswalks, or anything else in their path. You can’t question them about what they’re doing and you know they don’t give a shit about you or your inconvenience. If you’re in a car you’ve got metal around you, if you’re a pedestrian — in conditions that change daily — Prior Notice is a joke so you don’t even bother. But, let’s say that you suffer from OCD and walk around with a camera photographing every crack, chip, hole, blockage, pit, crevice or impediment on your street in your neighborhod. Daily.

So you get hurt and go to court, having passed the mediator (a guy who decides if your lawsuit is allowed to go to trial) and the question on the witness stand is, “Well, sir, you’ve walked around taking photos of all of these dangerous spots for 6 months. How coincidental is it that you just happened to have photographed the spot where you fell?”

Let’s take a street downtown where Trinity Real Estate owns billions in real estate. And pays no taxes, mind you, since King George deeded the property to Trinity Church back in the 1600s. But Trinity has a cast of thousands and is very rich — and very powerful. Con Edison does what they are told. And, they’re putting up another building on Grand Street. Con Edison has been digging, jackhammering, paving, then digging up the street again, preparing for the new building that’s going up on Varick/Grand/Canal. Photographing the damage and danger in this location would be a full time job — so no one has.

Ergo, no Prior Notice.

None of the seniors, disabled, pedestrians, residents will likely see a dime for having the privilege of caring for their broken legs, wrists, ribs, heads — causing pain, dementia and loss of income.

I was lucky. It only took 3 years for me to find out that I hadn’t taken photos for Prior Notice. It didn’t matter that Con Edison’s lawyer chased down my ambulance driver in his attempt to perjure my explanation of what happened — even though two people saw it happen..

This has now led several Downtown people to consider bringing a class-action lawsuit against Con Edison — since our politicians only work for reelection — who basically do not give a shit about their slipshod, almost criminal behavior emphasized by the disinterest of the DOT in protecting our lives.

Yours Truly thanks to Con Edison and help from DOT

“Normally, both your asses would be dead as fucking fried chicken, but you happened to pull this shit while I’m in a transitional period so I don’t wanna kill you, I wanna help you.”

                 — Pulp Fiction (1994)

________________________________________________________________________________

Occasionally, politics makes me nostalgic for a different kind of stupidity, the prison kind. At least you knew why the people you talked to were there — they didn’t have money to pay off or know someone to issue them a pardon. Here’s a slice of what I learned — by not having money which I theoretically stole but couldn’t afford to pay anybody off with.

________________________________________________________________________________

June 15th, 2015

Actually, today was my release date. IF I had gotten Merit Board. And, IF I’d had Merit Board when it was originally scheduled. 

Everything worked here to keep you from leaving.

Of course, I wasn’t leaving. I still had no idea when I’d be leaving.

As far as I was concerned, that would be never. Nothing ever worked. No positive eventuality EVER came through. I was living in a human Roach Motel. Except some of the roaches seemed to be able to leave.

Like Gia.

I met him in the infirmary where I was seeing the doctor who would be giving me my latest round of bad news. My blood pressure was up to 190/100 again. And, the suspicious neuropathy in my legs, according to the doctor, was passed off as due to “running too much.” 

I suspected that the Agent Orange seepage from Fort Drum and the effluent from the local mines were contaminating the water we drank as well.

“Spsnnsspp, goin home,” he said.

“What?” I said. Gia’s wormy hairdo still annoyed me, like his attitude. He was sitting on one of the benches as that fat abusive slob, CO Plowman was leaning back and looking around for someone to shoot down.

“Spsnnsspp, home,” Gia said again and I still couldn’t make out what he was saying and did not want Plowman to have an excuse for writing a ticket.

“No,” he said to Gia.

“No?” looking at me with a disapproving look. 

“What?” I said as he shook his head.

“Goin’ home.”

“No,” I said, “I’m just here to see the doctor.”

“I’m goin’ home, tomorra,” he said, annoyed that I didn’t understand him.

“Oh, that’s fucking beautiful,” I thought to myself. A fucking gun charge and this shithead, who could curdle ice cream in a freezer with his charm, was leaving. Tomorrow. 

I should be happy, right?

“Gotta go,” I said, not wanting to give Gia the courtesy of a benevolent gesture. He should drop dead — as a stand-up in the Catskills might have said it.

“Y’know ya gotta wear ya greens and bring only what ya can carry. F’ya people’r pickin’ ya up they gotta be here by 6:20 tomorra or we gotta putya onna bus. Got it?” said  Plowman to Gia.

Fucking guy. I hated his ass at that moment. Both of them, in fact. My patience and positive attitude was disintegrating.

A hundred thousand spent in legal fees and I was no closer to going home and this shithead with a fucking gun charge was going to waltz out of here tomorrow morning. What was wrong with this picture?

Brad came up to me just before I went out jogging. The doctor had given me another pill to take. 

I’d gotten the lower number down on my blood pressure and was now working on the higher number. It occurred to me that this way, I’d only have a half stroke.

In the part of my brain where I’d brilliantly decided which article to write exposing the corrupt politicians in the Hamptons. I had no clue as to what the neuropathy and numbness was about. 

Neither did the doctor.

“Can you answer a question for me? You work in the Law Library don’t you?”

Brad was a kid who was 22, about 5’7″ tall, slim, a face that looked like he was still in high school. He had a pink complexion with rosy cheeks. He looked like a kid that didn’t even know how to curse. And, he looked afraid. He looked like he didn’t belong here. Because, he didn’t. I understood that because I didn’t belong here either. I was a journalist who was only guilty of stupidity and extreme naivete. 

I didn’t have the $67.5 million in stockholder cash to pay off the Feds as Angelo Mozillo had — and who was then suddenly only guilty of a CIVIL matter instead of the CRIMINAL matter that had been entertained before the fine was paid. My crime was in taking $82 million dollars that didn’t exist. 

“Maybe,” I said. “What’s the question?”

“I hadda 5 to 6 and I did 4 but before I finished they re-sentenced me to a 3 to 9.”

I had no idea what he was talking about. 

“You had a 5 to 6?”

“No, I’m sorry, I had a 6 to 5. Six months with 5 year probation. Then, after only 4 months they re-sentenced me to a 3 to 9.” 

“Really?” I said. “How the hell did that  happen?”

“I had a Public Defender. I should have gotten a 1 to 3, maybe, but my mother was sick and  we ran out of money.”

“What was the crime? Having no money?”

“Oh, well, I had an accident. Pretty bad one.” 

“How bad?”

“Bad. People got hurt. There was a lot of damage.” 

“Hurt? How bad?”

“Dead.”

“Oh, I see. So, what’d you get charged with?”

“Well, I was legally drunk. I blew a point oh-eight. You know, like the legal limit?”

“I see. Well, who got hurt Or, sorry, dead?”

“This friend of mine. She was with me in the front seat.”

 “What happened to her?”

“Well, I forgot to make a right turn and I went into a ravine and she kept going.”

I looked at him. “What do you mean ‘she kept going.'”

He had this look on his face like he’d put his hand in the cookie jar and it had gotten eaten by something lurking at the bottom of the jar.

“Well, she wasn’t wearing a seat belt and she just, you know, kept going. Through the windshield, y’know like, forward, into the ravine after the car stopped.”

“I don’t like seatbelts either,” I offered.

“Then, there were a couple others in the car too. The girl behind me got pretty fucked up so they charged me with assault on her.”

“Assault? What did you do to her?”

“Well, when they want to make you responsible for another person’s physical damage they can charge you with assault. She wasn’t wearing a seatbelt either.”

I understood that. 

Like, I hadn’t stolen any money but in order to make me responsible for money I didn’t steal the D.A. turned NOT Stealing money into Grand Larceny, a sleight of hand legal trick used when they wanted to get you.

“So you got charged with vehicular homicide AND assault because of the crash – because you were legally drunk?”

“Yeah, that’s  pretty much it.”

“Well, you could do a 440 motion and try to overturn the conviction. What’s the max you could’ve gotten for this?”

“Fifteen years for the death alone. They could even try to make it manslaughter and that’d be 15 to  25.”

“Look, I don’t think you should screw around with a 440 because if you did get a new trial or got it overturned, they could come after you with the 15 to 25. That would NOT be good.”

“I know. Someone was tellin’ me that pedophiles, sex charges and DWIs, especially with a death, get no breaks in the courts.”

“You’re right. And, you can add arson to that. But they only give breaks to people who’ve made payoffs to the prosecutors or the D.A. or to politicians who are connected.

Cuba came and said hello to Brad. He pulled me aside. 

“He tell you about his charge?”

“Yeah,” I said.

“Talk ta him,” he smiled. “He wants ta learn aboud Real Estate.”

Copyright 2025 Confessions from the Gulag

“The secret of life is honesty and fair dealing. If you can fake that, you’ve got it made.”
― Groucho Marx

After several decades in the same apartment I decided to take stock of what I had accomplished — or not.

My landlord, two dentists who purloined hundreds of millions of dollars worth of Manhattan real estate from family friends — Jews living in Queens and who, through a Rabbi’s introduction, permitted these thieves to first manage their property then own it and were forced to stand by and watch them proceed, almost immediately, to nearly first destroy then milk the property. I, too, had to stand by an watch and experience this while paying rent!

First, these dentists evicted or harassed out every one of the roughly 50 rent-stabilized tenants in the building when they took over. Luxury Decontrol permitted landlords to increase rents as high as they wanted once a tenant of record, who had renewal rights, left. It didn’t matter how or why. This facilitated converting the apartments to market rate. This incentivized Mitch & Murray (Glengarry Glen Ross characters) who, while allowing my building to deteriorate, used the courts and were assisted by friendly (bribed) HPD and Buildings Department personnel using a tried and true process. Remember, if you are a tenant being forced into court you must pay a lawyer and also continue to pay rent. Even if you win your case in court you still pay a lawyer AND rent. So, most tenants wound up being evicted or accepting a settlement to leave because they also owed their lawyer.

Second, Mitch & Murray were looking at pure income. Their kids all went to the best schools — and, why not? The tenants paid for them and the dentists had no mortgage. When you steal a building, especially one with no mortgage, rent is pure profit. But, as we all know greed knows no limits. And, think about how arrogant owning millions of dollars worth of Manhattan real estate free and clear can make you. So, while not paying people who did certain work on the building, they used all of the income for themselves. Both of them had houses on Long Island and had materials first shipped to my building. Then they transferred it all to their homes while using workers (Green card slaves from Poland mostly) to create fabulous homes. This is what Helmsley got prison for.

All of this was at the expense of living conditions which we, the legitimate tenants who had been rented apartments by the former owner, an Italian by the name of Calleo who failed in his attempt to turn the buiding into a condo, had to endure. We had people living in illegal apartments (now legalized by the tenants under the Loft Law), numerous illegal occupancies, and a sex-trafficking operation disguised as a model agency. Mitch reportedly used those under-aged services himself before he died suspiciously leaving it all to Murray. No one in their employ will talk about it.

The Courts were warned, NYPD was warned, HPD was warned, the Buildings Department was warned (but still aided the landlord in conducting illrgal evictions) and the Community Board was apprised and solicited but ignored the entreaties and outrageous fraud. (A former Chair of Community Board #2 laughed at me when I told him of the abuse.)

Nothing has worked and after decades of abusing, harassing and intimidating tenants the same cabal run by Mitch & Murray, people who have assisted them in this swindle, and workers who have been underpaid and abused themselves — have continued this enterprise and prospered.

In my case, in addition to the abuse, harassment and persecution (legal and religious), this cabal of criminals has even reached out to the recently incarcerated D.A. Thomas Spota on Long Island (a recent star of the Netflix documentary ‘Gone Girls’) and Assistant Stavrides in an attempt to punish me and my family me for making complaints and suing them for damages.

Criminal landlords should be prosecuted and imprisoned. Not simply fined for operating a criminal enterprise. You may be next!

“i always look for the fool in the deal. If you don’t find one, it’s you.“

— Mark Cuban

Perhaps, the powers that be — those who actually care about Downtown and SoHo, now recognize that our current elected politicians don’t give a shit about us. But read the report and decide for yourself.

___________________________________________________________________

SoHo/NoHo Rezoning Fails to Deliver: More Housing Destroyed Than Created

– Taking Stock at the One-Third Mark

Our allies at Village Preservation have issued a new report analyzing the impact so far of the December 2021 SoHo/NoHo/Chinatown upzoning. 

Why now? We’re one-third through the 10-year study period for which the City analyzed and predicted the impacts that the rezoning would have. Village Preservation researched how closely reality matches the City’s grandiose promises about the rezoning. The picture isn’t pretty.

The study found:

– Not a single unit of the promised affordable housing has materialized, compared to the 127 to 191 units that the City claimed would be created.

– Not a single unit of any housing has been built, debunking the City’s promises that 610 units would be constructed.

– However, large commercial development is planned where the City claimed housing would be built: namely, a 22-story building, headquarters for Chobani yogurt, is rising on the southwest corner of Bowery and East 4^th Street. 

– Developers have used the many loopholes in the rezoning to create super-luxury housing that includes zero affordable housing, for example, 43 Bleecker Street. 

– Developers have removed existing affordable rent-regulated housing to clear the way for new luxury development allowed under the rezoning. The City insisted this would never occur. We disagreed. 

  For example, 142 Greene Street — a 5-story, 25,000 square-foot building which formerly housed five artist lofts — is undergoing extensive renovation to convert the massive building to house a single family. This project epitomizes how the rezoning has destroyed more affordable housing than it has created. 

– A lawsuit by NYU challenging one provision in the rezoning will, if successful, make matters even worse, by opening up even larger loopholes to enable development without including any housing, affordable or otherwise. 

Read the full report here.

PLEASE FORWARD THIS EMAIL TO FRIENDS AND NEIGHBORS.

Sincerely,

Sean Sweeney

“The truth will set you free, but first it will piss you off.”
― Joe Klaas

Unfortunately, I’ve been writing about the traffic downtown and the danger to pedestrians, mothers with baby carriages, the disabled, seniors, trying to cross the street — for 25 years. The only consistency about the conditions has been that everyone lies. I remember arguing with the members of the Traffic and Transportation Committee at Community Board #2 about DOT, writing letters to Tom Duane, Deborah Glick, and other politicians. No response.

Then, of course, someone came up with the idea of reducing traffic and ramping up income by, essentially, adding on an extra toll — not for using a bridge or tunnel — but for driving around lower Manhattan. That got a lot of politicians busy. Not that any letters got answered, mind you. But the palavering reached fever proportions. The idea was, billions would be earned for public transportation because public transportation was losing a lot of business. Of course, that was partly due to safety conditions. But, naturally, we should have fully funded subways and buses. After all, we’re not animals, right? This is a civilized city! And, it would cut down on traffic and make our streets safer for pedestrians. That plan went into effect and commuters and downtown residents were penalized in order to fund this brilliant plan to reduce congestion. The money has been rolling in! Downtown residents would now more easily be able to cross the street. Broome Street, Watts Street, Canal Street, lower 6th Avenue, Chinatown, SoHo, parts of Tribeca — would be less impacted by vehicles trying to kill those crossing the street.

That lasted for a couple of months.

What we have now is MORE traffic — plus fees for driving a car, higher taxi fees, LESS ability to use a crosswalk — and demonic gridlock — more of the time. And without traffic agents to control the chaos! Why? Because commuters have decided that they’ll absorb the fees but drive more angrily, while blaming downtown residents for their inconvenience — their only solution to a money grab that will have no effect other than to inrease DOT income. Don’t let the bullshit numbers confuse you, here’s what it’s like folks:

Crosswalks are meant for cars, not people!

“One’s dignity may be assaulted, vandalized and cruelly mocked, but it can never be taken away — unless it is surrendered.”

— Michael J. Fox

The Cowboys in D.C. are fretting over the low birth rate and are concerned that not enough suckers will be available to buy the goods they produce and fund what’s left of our dwindlng social net. While the “criminals” are forced out of town as the concept of Exile is further investigated, there’s a lot of hand-wringing over who will be left to buy goods produced by the oligarchs who need bodies to pay the freight, bodies for the armed forces, workers to replace the immigrants being deported, and compliant but decidedly stupid voters to put whomever they buy into office. Anyone who has a pulse absolutely knew what was coming, And we, in America have gotten what we deserve.

The brilliant solution supported by the current crop of DC misogynists is to offer each potential birth mother an incentive to compensate for nine months of pain with a government working on dwindling reproductive health care, ignoring incel hostility, criminalizing abortion to save a woman’s life, eliminating post-natal care, destroying the social net and eliminating subsidies for public education. Plus firing hundreds of thousands of workers deemed unnecessary while fostering a Depression to line the pockets of those who had insider trading info on the latest whims of our Leader. Can you imagine trading in an income, independence, and reliable healthcare for twenty years of social abuse and hostility while bringing up a child — for the munificent sum of Five grand? Not to mention being the target of those who admire Russia where domestic violence is no longer a crime?

As one woman wrote to me about the situation:

Why would we want to have children in this country when no one can afford groceries;

If your kid is autistic they’ll be listed on a registry;

If your kid is trans they’ll be targeted;

If your kid gets sick the medical debt will destroy you;

Your kid might get shot at school;

If the pregnancy goes wrong they’ll let you die!

One wonders how the evangelicals will package this — but God knows they’ll try. And, some may swallow the KoolAid.

“When corruption is the priority, honesty become evil.”

— Kindembo

Let’s face it folks, even before you walk out the door someone is planning on conning you. Forget the landlord. I do. I know that I live in a building where the people who own it are criminals. I’m in good company — my criminal history was widely publicized even if arranged in order to stop me from exposing corruption. But, this isn’t about that. This is about our neighborhoods being sold for tax benefits (not yours) , employment (not yours) and power purposes — certainly not yours or mine!

I was warned about the rise of the BIDs (Business Improvement Districts)) decades ago. I don’t know how they work so I’ll give you few details. People who have NOT grown up here, take control of your neighborhood, claim to improve it, and make a fortune. It’s about politics, power, control and lying to the residents. The big claim is that the neighborhood looks better. Well, let me tell you, a park-like sitting area where you can soak up as much carbon monoxide as your lungs can handle is NOT a great place ro put tables, chairs, and art objects. I’m talking about the entrance to the Holland Tunnel, where you take your life into your hands trying to avoid being hit by cars flying to New Jersey and Traffic Agents who would rather you stay away. But, it looks nice. Somebody’s got to pocket the cash for all of that design bullshit, right?

So here’s the point.

The SoHo BID, the Hudson Square BID are con games. They’re not about doing anything for the neighborhood. They hire guys who clean the streets (I thought that’s what the Department of Sanitation did?) — but say hello to one of the guys and they ignore you. Call the BID office and the answering machine also ignores you (no one calls back). More important, the cars still head for you and block the crosswalks. I’ve been hit by SUVs and Teslas alike and the police neither protect you NOR try to find out who the Hit & Run culprit was.

The street construction goes on in the BID without oversight and anyone who trips or falls due to the endless Con Edison directed street construction impediments — forget it. If you get hurt (as many residents have) Con Edison spends time using lawyers in trying to find someone to claim you’re lying as you are hauled away in an ambulance with your head bleeding — rather than try to ameliorate your injuries or be concerned about you. This happened to me. I had broken bones, bleeding from the head, and Con Ed, instead of wishing me well tried to get the ambulance driver to testify against me.

So, listen folks, don’t be conned. Many of us moved to SoHo and Hudson Square for the gritty, gothic nature of the environs. Not for shiny, colorful, Disney-like, cartoonish cityscapes or Citibikes trying to hit us. We came for Warhol and Basquiat originals.

That’s the developers and Trinity Real Estate looking for the money at the expense of children being able to cross the street unmolested or being asphixiated. But, the CROSSWALKS, motherfuckers!

Protect us — residents, seniors, the disabled and children! Don’t line your pockets at our expense!

Don’t write to the downtown politicians — they’re too busy checking on their donations.

Recent Hudson Square Installation to beautify the neighborhood. Really? One less parking spot and shrubs that blocked the paving of Varick Street — courtesy of the Hudson Square BID.

“Start every day off with a smile and get it over with.“
— W.C. Fields

During my penance for having had the gall to believe in and ‘Act Out’ a bedrock principle of Democracy, Freedom of Speech, as a journalist I took notes while experiencing ASAT (Alcohol and Substance Abuse Training program). For four years I paid the price for exposing corruption in the fabulous Hamptons where the criminal DA stole openly and prosecuted innocent opponents. I spent 6 months in a prison drug program. It was the New York State prison’s (DOCCS) answer to drug addiction and drug dealing. While immersing myself in a journalstic nightmare, I learned a lot. About just how little New York and the universities knew agout mental health treatment. Columbia, New York University, UCLA, Simmons, and most graduate programs are clueless. In fact, since none of the professors or admissions people do understand criminal justice or addiction, they’ve erected a smokescreen and instituted a licensing exam (ASWB). This useless test is intended to make sure you can’t treat drug addiction or the drug dealing mentality without paying an extra fee and taking a four hour exam before pretending to understand what it’s like in a prison drug treatment program. So, folks, here’s a sample of what it is really like.

By the way ASWB (Association of Social Work Boards) openly discriminates against the disabled.

Enjoy the program.

——————————————————————————————————–

ASAT started again, and no one had  any ideas about how to get the juices flowing without resorting to stupid shit. This time, the guy in charge of Creative Energy was Jones, also known as L.A. He wasn’t from L.A., he just liked the sound of it. He was a 6 foot tall black kid of about 25 who sold drugs, had an Afro, and was not particularly bright. He laughed a lot and was often clueless. He was in charge.

So, he got a blue rubber ball and a garbage can.

“So, we form a group fellas,” he said and the chairs started scraping as they formed a 30 man oval, one side 30 feet from the center, the narrower part about 20 feet wide. In the middle, L.A. put a blue plastic garbage can for them to use for waste in the middle.

“What a we doin’?” said Green.

“We doin’ a game bouncin’  a ball inta a can.”

“Jesus Christ,” I said to Cuba, who was sitting next to me.

Cuba just shook his head and pursed his lips. I shook my head as well. 

“Hey, I coon’ thinka anythin’ else,” said L.A. Jones.

“So, whaddawe doin’?” said Bigs, before almost nodding off again sitting in his chair. This time he almost fell off of his chair from the narcolepsy.

“We bouncin’ da ball an’ da winna gets it inna can,” said L.A. meekly, realizing that he wasn’t getting a lot of excitement with his idea.

So the “contest” began and by turns each guy bounced the ball once so that on its second bounce it would land in the garbage can — where all of the shit, food, hair, effluent, and debris had formerly been. Until Hernandez, the other Cuba, thought to put a plastic liner in it.

This went on for almost 10 minutes before, frustrated over the stupidity of it, guys just started throwing the ball at each other in the group. Roddy watched from the Bubble where she had been watching the Group, like a bunch of kids that needed supervision. But, she was too busy describing her last hangover to care about what was going on.

“Okay, so da loser gotta tell a joke,” said L.A. 

Great, I thought, another stand-up from the Catskills.

Myers was the first to miss bouncing the rubber ball and he laughed, displaying his missing front teeth and lack of any consciousness. He sat back and tried to think.

“Okay, how ’bout insteada a joke I jes’ tell a funny story?”

“Yeah,” said another, realizing that nothing about this game was really working.

“So, I go to this convenience store an’ I buy a six-pack. An’ I take onea the cans an’ drinkit inna store. Y’know?” and he starts to laugh. Nobody else is laughing. “Then, afta I finish  the can I go inta the bathroom an’ I piss inta the can I jes finished. An’ I pudit back, y’know, wid the plastic, an’ putid back onna shelf. Den some guy comes in an’ buys it.” 

Myers descends into a wild gale of laughter. He rocks in his chair and flashes his missing teeth as the others look at each other, mystified.

Myers was a cook in our Mess Hall and only he thought this was funny.

He calmed down a bit, bouncing forward and backward, head leaning way back and coming forward again with his gapped-tooth look, and says, ]

“Hey, I gotta ‘notha’ one.”

“I was workin’ inis place sellin’ stuff ana girl comes in an’ she’s fucked up an’ needs a cigarette. She looked like she was strung out.”

“Was she doin’ crack like you, Myers,” said Wayne, laughing at Myers’ lunacy, and the rest of the group joined in the laughter at that.

Roddy was still in the Bubble so no one was monitoring this exchange. “Ya mother,” said Myers.

“OOOhhh,” said Green, “so wadja do Myers?”

“So, I says ta her, ya can havea packa cigarettes ifya pull ya top up. She looked like she had good tits,” he laughed. “So I wasn’t gonna jes give it ta her fa nothin.”

“What happened Myers?”

“She takes me ova by the bathroom an’ she jes pulls up her  top and I jes did this.” He put both hands out in front of him and made movement with both hands as if he were squeezing a couple of grapefruits on a stand. “It was cool.”

At the break after Myers told his “jokes” I spoke to Dierburger who’d been pulling  back from the group in the last couple of sessions. He really looked like an alky. Missing teeth, thinning hair, about 45, walking with a halting gait, glassy eyes. I hadn’t smelled anything on his breath but he appeared to be out of it.

“I jes foun’ out that my girlfren’s got anotha’ boyfren’. Y’know, I KNEW somethin’ wasn’ right. 

“Every time I called she wanned ta get off the phone. Y’know, ‘I gotta use the bathroom, I gotta go, I gotta get somethin’ on the stove, gotta go,’ y’know there was jes too many asscuses evey time I called. Then she finally tol’ me the otha’ day. It’s fucked up when you’re in prison. You don’t know what’s goin’ on, can’t see what’s happenin’, can’t check on what someone’s tellin’ ya.”

I shared his pain. While I had a solid relationship, many did not. And, in the Law Library I handled the Divorce Packets. It was a very popular item.

The failure of the game that L.A. had started left a big hole in the session. Guys were just sitting in a circle staring at each other. Nothing to do, no leadership, and boredom. And, Roddy was out of the room getting advice from Slaney, the Army Drill instructor – on love.

Danger picked up on this vacuum and grabbed the garbage can in the middle of the room and turned it upside down and started banging on it and the others started clapping. 

I began to feel like I was sitting around some African campfire with the natives cooking some white guy for dinner.

Green began dancing and walking around the Group and smacked a couple of guys on the head as he writhed and wiggled. Danger started rapping in a combination of Spanish and English and guys were hitting on other things. Africa, hit the shelf he was leaning on. 

Green was slapping guys in the head. Myers was slapping his legs and knees. There was gyrating and laughing and Danger’s rapping took over. 

“Mothafuckin’ Roddy gonna’ suck ma dick an’ eat ma       asshole an’ I get a Massey blowjob. 

We fuckin’  alla cops an’ we gonna gettum back. 

We gonna gid outta heah an’ gedda lotta dope…”

They were rolling and rocking and laughing. Cuba turned to me and said, “Who the fuck would believe this?” 

“No one,” I said, “how could  anyone believe that this is what goes on in prison? In a drug treatment program?”

“This is unbelievable,” said Cuba.

The beating of the drum/garbage can continued, the dancing continued, until Roddy finally decided to poke her head into the room.

“Okay,” she said, “it’s time for a Life Story. How about you Hernandez?”

Hernandez, or Cuba, taking in all of the insanity while she was out of  the room, didn’t know what to do. But, he was leaving next month and the tradition was for someone about to leave had to do his “Life Story.” 

“Jes, I doing it,” said Hernandez.

“So, I grow in Cuba,” said Hernandez, “an’ I am elefen year an’ I go to embazee of Peru, an’ eed fill an alla dee peeble ged on bots.”

“Wait,” I asked, “were you living with your family?”

“Oh, jes.” said Cuba.

“You were living with your parents?” 

“Oh, jes,” he said, confused.

“Well,” I said, “are they still there?” 

“Oh, jes,” he said, now more confused.

“Well, I don’t understand, didn’t your parents go with you?”

Henry, the drug dealer/heroin addict, was helping Hernandez with any translations necessary. So, he said to Cuba in Spanish what Harry was trying to find out. But, Henry wasn’t getting it either. Harry wanted to know why an eleven year old had to leave by himself. Why didn’t his family go with him? Were they sending him off on his own to face the unknown? But, Harry never got an answer. Apparently, this was the great boat migration by Fidel during which time he’d emptied the prisons and told everyone — “Go, but you can’t come back.”

“Zo, I go. An’ I am being in Flow-reeda an’ I fin’ place weed peeble to stay.”

“Were they gay?” said Danger. The room erupted. 

“Pardonne?” said Hernandez. Now, using a French accent to add to his fractured Spanish.

The laughing was now uncontrolled since Roddy had returned to the Bubble in the dorm room and wasn’t supervising this.

Danger laughed. “Were the people you lived with gay?”

More uncontrolled laughter. Hernandez was trying to maintain his composure and, at the same time understand what they were saying.

“I don’ unnastan’. What guy?

“You got ta Florida an’ you were in onea those camps?” 

“Oh, jes, I was wid de two frenz. Een camp fow dayz.” 

“Did you meet Tony Montana? You eat wid ‘im?”

“Oh, jes, I eed wid Tony Montana.”

The group went wild at the mention of Tony Montana, the Al Pacino character that supposedly arrived with the boat people flotilla that Fidel had allowed to leave Cuba,

“Bro, who would believe this? This is crazy,” said the Cuba next to me. 

“No shit.” he said.

“You gotta’ do a screenplay. This is right outta Cuckoo’s Nest. Lookit that chick who did what, ‘Orange is da New Black? And she was only in a year at a Club Fed. C’mon bro, people wouldn’t believe that this shit really goes on. Stupid drug dealers who can’t speak? I’m tellin’ you, this makes the Khardashians look smart.”

“So, why you here?” said Green.

“Wha?” said Hernandez-Cuba, slightly confused. Feigning, or maybe not feigning ignorance. 

“HERE, why are you here? Whadyou do?”

“Oh, here? Oh, No, No, No, no-teeng.” said Hernandez. He was shaking his head and his beard which was following his head, slightly delayed.

“You mean you’re innocent?” laughed Henry, next to him.

“Oh, that’s right, we’re all innocent here, I forgot,” followed by laughter. Everyone knew that Morgan Freeman line by heart in prison.

“No, No, No,” smiled Hernandez. “I go pass a plaze an’ peeble waz having fight. An’ dey poin’ finga.”

“You were walking past people and they pointed the finger at you?” said Green, now laughing at Hernandez’ story.

“Jes,” said Hernandez, “I go an’ guy poin’ finga to me an’ say I do sometheeng I no do anytheeng,” he said, his head back aristocratically, smiling nonetheless.

Almost everyone in the group looked at each other, and at Hernandez.

He was trying the classic bullshit tack of  “It wasn’t me, it was somebody else.”

“Oh, okay,”said Green, “so you’re innocent and this was all a mistake.”

“Yeah,” said Cuba, next to me. “He hit him with the wrong pipe. It didn’t kill the motherfucker. But – he got caught anyway. Never fuck with a Cuban Jew over money. That’s the lesson to be learned, bro’,” he laughed.

Recovery was well underway. They didn’t need Roddy’s expertise. The ASAT prison drug program was working.

Copyright 2025 Gulag

“The secret of life is honesty and fair dealing. If you can fake that, you’ve got it made.”
― Groucho Marx

So you probably think you understand what’s going on, right?

The Administration is threatening universities with the withholding of funds so that they come around and adhere to the new poliitical or social party-line which satisfies Republicans, the Heritage Foundation or our new Mentor-in-Waiting Herr DOGE (pronounced Doggie). If it were up to them, bible study would be the main course — as long as they were teaching CHRISTIAN ideology and had sold the students their bibles. In fact, Liberty University could provide our leadership, by example. But the recent thrust which has unsettled the Columbia hierarchy is what the Left has perceived as an attack upon Free Speech and Assembly, Anti-intellectuality, interference in higher education –and Extortion. Extortion? Let me tell you, from Justice to Education, Religion to Politics, nothing is either more prevalent or more succesful than plain old Extortion. Its what makes the world go around. Especially, in Washington and the good old U.S. of A.

Teach what we tell you. Don’t teach what we don’t approve of. DO NOT protest for any reason, (unless we tell you to). Hire the teachers we appove of. And, THINK, what we tell you to. Or, we’ll withhold money for you to exist! Or, maybe we’ll inflict Civil Death upon you. Or, destroy your institution. The list of the targets from Columbia to NPR and PBS is already long.

Starting to remind you of a novel you once read? Orwell anyone?

And, no, this new brand of RIGHTTHINK is not a complicated political philosophy. It is basically Extortion using the bludgeoning hammer of Money. Cash. Gelt, motherfucker. Really simple.

Wer’re dealing with Clowns and Goons now! Understand that!

The elitist parents who bought their way into legacy admissions are flummoxed. After garnering admission to Harvard, Yale, Princeton, U. Penn (Wharton), maybe not NYU since there’s a family member attending, and no doubt all of their law schools (watch out Heritage) — word is out that serious money will be held back. Naturally, they’ll all cave. How many universty Presidents really gave a shit about DEI or enjoyed the Free Speech movement when protests were involved — and can’t get the Blacks, women, internationals, Latinos or Trans students away from them fast enough like flypaper sticking to their fingers. Although the Whiffenpoof song may still be important.

The NY Post gleefully reported that students are rejecting admission offers from Columbia. Can you imagine that? Saying NO to an Ivy League admission offer? Even legacy students. Mom and Dad are telling Sonny or Barbie that maybe Columbia isn’t such a good idea right now, after all. You know, so Outre. Our guy got you in — at a hell of a cost — but maybe still with Harvard. But, wait, even with that $50 Billion dollar endowment — maybe let the 2025 people continue going there so that it doesn’t get shut down? The Law School anyway!

What the NY Post doesn’t talk about and what an intelligent person knows IF THEY TALK to their children is — the children would rather Harvard send the $50 Billion to those people who USAID left sick and hungry or dying. And, who would go to any of these schools that succumbed to Extortion and risk having your diploma reversed and taken away from you even after studying, shutting your mouth, giving up Free Speech and agreeing to not protest against the abomination of lies and political Extortion from Clowns? All to satisfy the cuurent crop of sociopaths who came to power because they’ve figured out that stupid people, racists that hate Blacks and Latinos, incels that hate women, Republicans that want power and Old white guys that don’t give a shit about anyone except themselves — and no longer have to hide it since their hero has pulled off a coup.

But, you know, folks, there are a lot of politicians who are full of shit whose diplomas come from wealthy, famous Law Schools whose J.D. degrees should be Revoked. Before those schools are driven out of business and their professors head to europe.

Before Sonny becomes a plumber and joins the Socialists and starts protesting.

NEWS FLASH — 4/2/25. 4 students chained themselves to a gate at Columbia’s St. Paul’s Chapel in protest and were removed within two hours by campus police. They violated the Rules of University Conduct. Such bravery and audacity!