“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!

“Power is the ultimate aphrodisiac.”

— Henry Kissinger

You all know what’s going on. We all know what’s going on. There’s no mystery about the fact that we’ve inherited a deeply neurotic individual who was terrified by an abusive father. Now its our turn. One writer described our situation as living in a form of intentional Chaos. Daily shocks, offenses to our sense of right and wrong, — lack of any empathy for those unable to care for themselves — as was our ability as (formerly) the greatest nation on earth. No more. And the Republicans have willingly swallowed the Koolaid as they give free reign to racism, misogyny, dishonesty and unTruth. Actually, it’s quite amazing. And, they have the balls to claim religiosity — that they’re religious. Any Christian I know from growing up would puke on these people. They are completely full of shit. The so-called pastors are con artists, grifters, and phonies collecting cash like our Head Clown and Oligarch.

Now we not only are concerned for the weak, disabled, damaged, and abused among us — but, like the shitheads from the East German Stasi, we must be concerned with being disappeared, turned in by neighbors for being critical of our leaders — and, we have to genuflect in the presence of Clowns! Don’t kid yourself, it IS that bad.

If you’re stupid.

Forget about the “Signalgate” fiasco. What could anyone have expected from that bunch of losers. We all knew how that shit was going to go from Day 1. From the selection of these losers to the training at Clown School you had to be brain dead not to know that giving away the store was all that we ever could have expected. My uncle was CIA and he took his job seriously. Now, he would have suggested just walking up to his KGB adversaries, simply asking them what they wanted to know — why all the secrecy and games!

Mark Rudd was a protester at Columbia — you know the school where students held sit-ins and took over the school in the sixties to protest the Vietnam War — a senseless, useless, exercise in futility that killed 2 million civilians, 1.1 million North Vietnamese soldiers, 250,000 South Vietnamese and 58,000 U.S. soldiers. This time around the protesters are hiding. it’s hard to tell whether we have a generation of cowards or whether the Coup has already occurred.

Apparently , the fear of losng grant money trumps Freedom of Speech and Columbia is now mortally wounded. I’d once been a doctoral student there but now I can’t imagine going near the place. In fact, as an example of circuitous cowardice the President of the school made a deal to cower to the Administration of Clowns and Oligarchs and then dropped out a week later. As Groucho said, “I wouldn’t want to belong to a club that would have me as a member.” Can you imagine applying for a job and tempting an employer with your “B.A., M.A. or even J.D. from Columbia University?”

“Holy shit, get that fucking asshole out of here. That’s one of those Clown schools where only the new and improved Law firms that take orders from the Administration and whose lawyers can enter Federal Buildings and refuse to defend Free Speech activists, protestors or Democrats — have graduated.”

“Oh, yeah, and rhe School of Journalism teaches you how bend over for Republicans.”

By the way, the Republicans have found a solution to the lack of workers after the deportations manage to eliminate manpower, as has been the case in the U.S. for generations. DeSantis figured it all out.

We’re going to put our kids to work by lowering the legal age — nothing like a ten year old working hard in the factory before doing homework.

“The only reason you should be in college is to destroy it.”

— Abbie Hoffman

Columbia University recently agreed to save itself by becoming a new symbol of cooperation with the government. The $400 million dollars which was withheld by the Trump Administration in order to dictate the operation of the school in hiring police to arrest protestors and make other changes was the death knell of independent higher education and intellectual freedom. The University of Pennsylvania witnessed the same and more will come since these universities caved in to save their jobs and continue to exist. No longer will the likes of Abbie Hoffman and protestors like Mark Rudd occupy Columbia’s buildings as in Nixon’s 1960’s and make demands upon their Administration for social change — or upon anyone else, for that matter. This, in order to continue receiving money so that the university will be able to continue to teach the party line or take over more land and receive money for “getting with the program.” Whatever that may be. You might want to question the statement our Dear Leader made at inauguration when he said:

“After years and years of illegal and unconstitutional federal efforts to restrict free expression, I also will sign an executive order to immediately stop all government censorship and bring back free speech to America. Never again will the immense power of the state be weaponized to persecute political opponents.”

Follow this by Tuberville’s statement who said: “When it comes to protesters, we gotta make sure we treat all of them the same: send them to jail.”

Columbia’s problem now seems clear. Especially, after they caved in.

A new anti-intellectualism is now the future.

Let’s look at Columbia and other large Universities, like NYU — where alumni donations and large gifts pay the freight. For those of you with any experience with these schools, keep in mind that they are large entities that have adverse relationships with the often poor or disadvantaged (or powerless) residents in the locations where they exist. The community surrounding Columbia is essentially poor and residents do not have the resources to fight the behemouth in order to exist peacefully in Columbia’s shadow. The student body now is mainly elites and wealthy whose families could care less about the community surrounding the manicured grounds of the school (or international non-profit student shills with no love for America). The days of sit-ins and protests by American middle-class students from the boroughs are long over and are now mostly passive quislings — and no independent thought or investigative journalism will be allowed to advance. Columbia Journalism School, for example, is a bad joke, with no hope of effecting political change, not to mention students’ ability to find a media job in the Trump era unless there are, again, elitist connectios. Varsity Blues was not an anomoly. At least not as it affects the direction of American political thought. So, let’s close Columbia. Let’s give the community back its land and send the research labs, journalism students, social workers and students studying social policy change back to their families — unless they find themselves on a flight to Guantanamo as the Administration would prefer it.

Independent thought, innovation, American Enterprise and Humanism is now over. The political Right, the Republicans and the militias will keep everyone else in line. Everything is cool.

The Solution?

Everyone should now drop out of American Universities and Colleges and join the anti-intellectual, anti-oligarch, anti-Elite, Pro-Democracy movement — and focus all of our energies, money, time and intelligence on supporting our RESPONSIVE representatives, activists, political parties and institutions which foster good government and a sane American policy which our forefathers espoused as American Ideals.

And JOIN THEM — now!

To straighten out, support and fight for our independent, humane, anti-exclusionary Democracy. Forget about buying a new car, getting into a name college, “investing” in a vacation, buying new furniture, or even expanding your wardrobe. Buy food and cook, do your own cleaning, watch your own kids — and Stop spending a dime on anything but your political, Democratic rights of Free Speech, Civil Rights and fight like hell to keep them.

Get off your ass and join the effort! Support our Democracy and Civil Rights!

“The Illegal we do immediately, the unconstitutional takes a little longer.”

— Henry Kissinger

Corruption is a funny thing.

In Manhattan, what is most obvious is the fact that no City agency performs as they are supposed to. The Building Department, for example, will show up if there’s a bribe. Landlords know this and count on it. While I could not even get an inspector on the phone, my landlord had no trouble at all hosting one and arranging to have a violation placed on my apartment — so that he could drag me into court costing me hundreds of thousands of dollars in legal fees. Using the Building Department and the courts to evict me and my family.

HPD, the agency that reviews and supposedly enforces housing laws, is a joke. They routinely sic their robot phone system on tenants who make complaints to call back — instead of showing up to issue violations. Violations are ignored by landlords because they are meaningless. Of course, those inspectors that do arrive, if they speak English, have already warned the landlords they are coming. I’ve witnessed payoffs. You’d think that contacting the police would be enough of a warning, right?

Well, after my last hit and run on Canal Street, the Wild West of downtown traffic locales, (in spite of the DOT, congestion pricing, the Community Board and useless BIDS) the police would be right on it. But, according to the clerk at the NYPD station, Detectives now only handle murders, not traffic accidents. My police report went nowhere — but I did get a bill from the hospital for the ambulance.

I made a complaint at the Fair Housing office about my apartment. They asked how much I was paying in rent and immediately lost interest. The fact that my building had no legally required ADA amenities and that the building purportedly was stolen in a criminal fog several years ago and that the entire family of the previous owner and several superintendents had mysteriously died seemed to be of no interest.

On Long Island, especially in Westhampton Beach, the new corruption Mecca of the Hamptons, things do work better. Especially, if you pay. If you’re a developer and know how to move things along. But, the Post office personnel are friendly and helpful, the bagels and owners at Goldberg’s are great, and CVS is efficient. However, the Village government is hostile, anti-business, and corrupt — unless you have green intentions. The former Mayor was clueless, incompetent, and disinterested — the current Mayor is a real estate broker — and the Trustees and ZBA all have their hands out — but deny it. That’s why there is a Village Attorney like Pasca, someone who routinely defames anyone who doesn’t play well or has not performed. Take a trip, look around, and wonder at all of the condos going up.

Yes, you’re right!

It’s the new Hamptons Mecca — where things DO work as in Manhattan — if you pay the price.

“Capitalism is the legitimate racket of the ruling class.“
— Al Capone

It’s always a pleasure to understand what the ramifications are after a new law is institiuted. Or, for that matter, after there is a new mandate (or interest in) an old law. For example, take the recent zeal in ridding America of immigrants, legal or not, from those pristine beaches, beautiful lawns, and grandiose mansions which require a great deal of labor — in the Hamptons.

Unfortunately, there seems to be some difficulty in finding workers these days. One wonders why those hard working Black and Spanish people who (according to the NY Times and Newsday) formerly and currently live in the woods as well as rental houses or houses they’ve bought but don’t want to leave — even for food.

What we have now is a whole other level of paranoia.

The new Catch-22 is that Southampton and East Hampton have laws on the books instituted in 2008 which require landlords obtain a rental permit for any property rented to others. Under Home Rule the politicians and Code Enforcement Police can either be indifferent or draconian towards property owners who rent to immigrants. While the original intent was to identify who was living in rental houses so it did not appear to be racist or retaliative (in order to punish certain landlords) — it certainly played out that way. But, then things quieted down for the simple reason that local folks needed workers. The fact that I was prosecuted and imprisoned was due to the fact that I was exposing corruption as well. You know, Freedom of Speech and Freedom of the Press and all of that anachronistic stuff. Simply renting to immigrants now only exposes property owners to legal extortion in the Hamptons.

But now the shit has hit the fan since the war on immigrants has started for real.

Immigrants have again becme a favorite subject. Followed by the American version of Stasi.

ICE is doing a great job. And, as a result, workers don’t want to leave their houses OR the woods. And, local homeowners have been busy ratting out their neighbors. Regardless of whether they have permits and are legallly permitted to inhabit (or rent) a house — snitches, rats, whistleblowers, collaborators — are turning in their neighbors for renting to Blacks or Immigrants who don’t have papers. Or, even if they do.

So, as the Zelensky-Trump-Vance imbroglio plays out and the New World Order is divided up into America, China, and Russia– we now have an idea about how the Germans felt when Stasi-trained citizens began turning in their neighbors. That’s what is now beginning to happen in the Hamptons. Those who rent to the hiding workers are being turned in to the police for referral to ICE.

Of course, by paying $5 million they could get fast-tracked to citizenship.

“You can’t always get what you want but if you try sometimes, I think you’ll find, you get what you need.”

— Rolling Stones

Misconceptions about what prison life is like abound among those who teach, profess, train, advise, consult or even anticipate being “inside”. It’s not what you think it’s like. Politicians bravely talk about their fearless approach to being locked up; criminals brag about being able to easily do time “standing on their heads;” even journalists who pontificate about their own brave approach to their work — not to mention all of the educators who train people in mental health and criminal justice — who themselves have never stepped foot in a jail or prison cell. Here’s a snapshot of one of the more infamous prisons in New York State where I spent nearly 5 years writing after paying heavily for Freedom of Speech. Compliments of the criminal justice system in the Hamptons — where Southampton and East Hampton are continuing to scare the shit out of Latinos and Blacks.

________________________________________________________________________________

“Don Dada,” said DeMoney, 

“Jesus,” I said, “not again.”

“It’s the Don of all Dons,” he laughed, his belly hanging without his shirt on after his shower, standing by his cube locker and eating.

“Tell you what DeMoney, when we get out of here you can buy me a drink.”   

“Absolutely,” he said, his corpulent body hanging over the sides of his State issue green pants.

“Parole’s good. That’s on 40th street, right?”

“The place is a few blocks from Parole. But we’re gonna meet an’ have a ‘Casa la Dragon!”

“What?”

“We gonna’ have a shot a ‘Casa la Dragon’. Two hunnert a shot. A bottle cost ten thousand.” 

He was a high-flying drug dealer, in his mind. I called him Chapo, after his hero Chapo Guzman.

“Holy shit. What is that?” 

“It’s Tequila. The Best.”

“Whatever you say. As long as I’m out of here, I don’t give a shit what I’m drinking.”

I went back to my book, Concrete Blonde, another Michael Connelly classic, with Detective Harry Bosch; the depressed, heavy-drinking, heavy-smoking, creation of a guy who apparently knew cops and their foibles. It made me think that with a few running details writers like Lee Child and his character Jack Reacher had managed to create a lucrative franchise. All they had to do was keep a running tab on the names of the girls and the incidents, like Harry Potter — and they became millionaires.

How would the exploits of Don Dada play out in SoHo and the Hamptons?

But, there were no corrupt politicians in their books. 

Mine would be ABOUT corrupt politicians. Cervantes would be my ideal. 

The Reveries of Don Dada, slaying corrupt politicians in the Hamptons and uncovering the money trail in SoHo. They’d install a windmill in the prison for him to tilt.

Or, would Sing-Sing be more likely?

Sing-Sing was like part of my genetic tree. Old Uncle Tommy Rice, who’d been picked up in the twenties for driving a getaway car, spent time in Sing-Sing after a stint at Dannemora, known as Clinton Correctional Facility. He’d done 13 years there. Apparently, his bid was followed up by that of a series of mobsters, like Lucky Luciano, who was deported back to Italy.

There were inmates in this prison that looked back wistfully upon their time spent in Sing-Sing. Charlie, the black former cop often said that he’d go back there in a heartbeat. And, if only half of the stories were true, it was no surprise.

Recently, Donald Trump, who formerly was a real estate developer had offered to buy the prison. While there were some who believed that he should spend time there, along with many of the bankers who created the mortgage-led economic meltdown of 2007-2008, his particular connections were part of an investor-led offer to buy the prison and create condominiums. For certain wealthy adventurers there was a certain allure for owning and living in a former prison, if only briefly. 

The French had developed holiday travel packages that arranged weekends in former jails, replete with bars.

“I’d  go back there in a minute,” said Charlie, the 50 year old black Law Library clerk who’d been ‘in the system’ for almost 30 years for killing his wife and dumping her body in the East River. 

It was hard to get confirmation on certain details and negotiating with a killer was tricky. Charlie spoke as he peered over my shoulder in the Law Library while I typed.

“Why?” I asked. We were in a Medium which was supposed to be an easier bid.

“S’better, tha’s all.” he said tersely. 

“Better how?”

“You can get anythin’ you want,” he said, smiling.

It sounded like a line from ‘Alice’s Restaurant.’ 

“What do you mean?”

“I’m tellin’ ya. Place is wide open.”

CO Sampson, an outgoing and relatively normal cop that had been on duty the night before at the Law Library had drawn them a picture of Sing-Sing that one might doubt. 

“The place is old,” he said. 

His relatively small gut, only 50 pounds of excess, made him appear to be in shape. He’d been one of the cops who’d taken me out of the line with the help of one of his buddies, Officer Lalone. Harry had been the victim of a surprise “Piss Test” that threatened him with the Box if he failed. 

“But, what’s it like?” I asked.

“I worked in D Block. Has about a hundred cells with two guys in a cell and 5 tiers. So, you come into a room that’s about the size of a football field with rows of cells on five levels.”

“Like home?”

“Yeah, it’s high and long an’ the top two tiers have metal cages so ya can’t throw anybody off the top,” he laughed.

“Safety first,” I offered.

“Yeah, whatever,” he  laughed. “An’ it’s a place that takes gettin’ used to – I’ll tellya that.”

“What’s the population like?” 

“Everything. You name it.”

“I hear stories about what life is like there.”

“Probly all true,” he said. “You got women, drugs, cash.” 

“Women?”

“Oh, hell yeah. Listen, you got women COs sellin’ sex right outina open there.”

“WHAT?”

He laughed. “The women COs can either wear pants or they can wear skirts. That’s sort of an advertisement.”

“Are you kidding?”

“Yeah,” he said, “the other COs just look the otha way. So, the ones that wear skirts, they back up to a cell, lift the back of their skirt and it’s party time. There’s always some guy lookin’ for a piece. You can always get it there if you can afford it.”

“What if you can’t afford it?”

“Yeah, well, one time I was on duty and this guy’s got his dick out an actin’ like he was advertising himself, y’know, he’s got a dick about nine inches long stickin’ out from inside his cell and I see him an’ I’m comin’ along, take out my baton and smack down hard on it. Gave him a good hit. I heard him groaning all night. He never did that again.

“Bad for business, I guess?”

I asked Charlie about Sing-Sing.

“Was it really so out there and obviously available. I mean, the sex?”

“Yeah,” he said, briefly, as was his manner. 

“So, what was the going rate?”

“Y’know, maybe $25 for a blowjob, from $50 to $200 for a fuck. Depends. You had everything. Black, white, wearin’ a skirt or, sometimes the women would wear pants that had a hole inna back. She just backed up to the cell. Or, sometimes they had a cell that they used for the bigger bucks.”

“Was there actual cash used there?”

“Oh, yeah, you can get anythin’ you want there. And you, an older white guy, you coulda had anythin’ you wanted there and nobody’d eva botha you.”

“Hmmm,” I said.

“An’ any kinda drugs you want. Absolutely anythin’.”

Sampson also described the visiting policy, which was the same in all Max facilities. Visiting was allowed  every day, as opposed to in Mediums where visiting was only permitted on weekends. This made no sense. If an inmate were less of a threat, shouldn’t he and his family have MORE privileges?

“They call it FRP, the Family Reunion Plan,” he said, leaning back in his chair during the evening Mod of the Law Library. Only one guy was using the computer to research his case but he was also getting an earful.

“What’s that?”

“Trailers, basically,” he laughed. “The Max facilities provide trailers that the inmate and his family can stay in for the weekend. Sometimes it works out.”

“What do you mean, sometimes?”

He laughed. “Well, I was only on the job for a few months when I had duty watching the trailer. One guy had coupla kids up but it was his sister-in-law, supposedly, visiting. I mean, what do I care, but some of the visits were hairy.”

“Why?”

“Well, like one night I’m on duty and allofa sudden, this guy an’ his ‘sister-in-law’ are obviously high on somethin’ and they come out of the trailer stark naked and runnin’ around pinching each other and she’s flickin’ his dick and I’m tryin’ to figure out what you’re supposed ta do.”

I laughed. “So what did you do?”

“I din’ know WHAT to do, I called my supervisor an’ we tol’ him to get back into the trailer. Nobody wanted to make a big thing about it and rack up all kinds of overtime to be makin’ out reports an’ all that shit. We jus’ let it go. But, I’ll tell ya’ it was fuckin’ weird. And, lemme tell you they were VERY fucking high. Very fucked up on some shit. Likely heroin.” 

“Nice family reunion. Bet the kids enjoyed it too.”

Sing-Sing started to sound like a movie set. 

“And there was cash all over the place,” said Sampson.

“You mean, like green?”

“Oh, yeah, the place ran on cash. There were hundreds, thousands out an’ available at all times. It was layin’ out in the open in the cells sometimes. You want dope, sex, food, you name it. But, you hadda have cash. And, they were serious guys. Remember, some of them were not EVER getting out. This was their life. You didn’t fuck with it. Even cops. They’d kill you if you fucked with ‘em. What’d they have to lose?”

“Amazing.”

“And, lemme tell you, when I first arrived there, the place was like a Mall. You had one of the Sergeants outside in the parking lot operating a check-cashing service. Y’know a lot of us were from upstate and had no bank account. So, the guy had a van parked in the lot and you could cash your check with him.” 

“He sold lots a shit outta the van and took a piece of each check that he cashed. We were happy to do it, too.”

“I’m tellin’ ya. I’d go back there in a heartbeat,” added Charlie.

All I wanted to do was get out. Not move to a better place. Not have some female cop backed up to my cell for sex. There WAS no better place than home as far as I was concerned.

Copyright 2024 Gulag

“Let me tell you the truth. The truth is what is, and what should be is a fantasy. A terrible, terrible lie that someone gave to the people long ago.”

— Lenny Bruce

While Marie was misquoted, my associate was not. He’d killed a couple of guys and had no compunction about doing so again. He would kill again if the situation called for it just like COs if recalcitrant inmates pushed them. Justice was often immedate and not necessarily just. Whether you were an addict, a drug dealer, a pedophile, a thief or a murderer– or innocent — either before or after being imprisoned, decisions were swift and final.

The politiics was not democratic. Ron did my laundry, told off-color jokes, and had my back. Unlike my Hamptons lawyer who was in bed with the criminal D.A. Until the whole corrupt structure came down.

As they all eventually do.

As it will for the current crop of bullies fucking with our Democracy.

________________________________________________________________________________________

“The weather had been gloomy for a couple of days by the time I had a chance to talk to Ron, the laundry porter. I’d talked to him in the past but now that Mike had left and was fully installed doing everyone’s wash, we talked from time to time.

As we stood in the Rec room, thunder and lightning had started again and the rain was now torrential. I envisioned Jack Torrance talking to Delbert Grady in The Shining.

Ron had had a checkered past and had made the rounds of several of the Max facilities. Since the early nineties when he first went in to now there has been a significant transformation in the prison system. He’d been in Elmira, Attica, Southport, Wyoming and a few others, before he came to the current Medium. He was 22 when he first came in for a double homicide and was now 47 years old. While he’d likely go to his first Board in a year, it was probable that he would not be released for another 10 years.

“The first time I went to the Box it was over a piece of cake,” he laughed. He had piercing blue eyes, bald head, 5 or 6 days beard growth and was usually in very good muscular  condition. He had that Mr. Clean look.

“A  piece of cake?” I laughed.

“Yeah, I was on line in Mess Hall and they gave a black guy before me a big piece and the guy behind me a big piece.  They gave me a tiny one inch square. I was pissed. So, I says, ‘I’ll be back tomorrow.”‘ 

“And?”

“So I went back to the Mess Hall the next day, jumped over the counter and stabbed both guys about 10 times each,” Ron laughed.

“I see,” I said, grimacing. 

“Yeah,” he said, “well, y’know I was young.” 

“Uh-huh.”

“They put me in the Box for almost 3 years for that.” 

“Did they live?”

“Oh, yeah,” he said, with a slightly sarcastic smile, “I mean, I wasn’t tryin’ to kill them, y’know. I just wanted  to make a  point.”

“The point being?” I asked, feeling slightly ridiculous.

“Well,” he looked a little confused. “Y’know, that they should give me my cake.”

“Well, that makes sense,” I reasoned. 

“You were in a Max first, right?”

“Oh, yeah, It was different in the nineties, though.” 

“There were no tickets then. You hadda fight and the COs didn’t give a shit. It was wide open. And, the food was a hell of a lot better then. Steaks, fish, eggs, bacon, none of this soy shit you get now.”

“But, it was more dangerous, right?”

“Well, the guards would fight with you then and if you were a problem they’d beat the shit out of you. Listen, I was knifed in the kidney, broke all of the bones in this side of my face…” as he rubbed his hand on his left cheek, “broke my leg in 4 places, and was stabbed several times.”

“What was the broken leg about?”

“Guards were pissed off at me. I was in the Captain’s office about the Mess Hall stabbing and I threw a chair at him when he said I was goin’ to the Box for 18 months and he called his squad. They took me to the Box and broke my leg. Four guards.”

“Sounds a little harsh?”

“Well, you gotta remember, I was young and lookin’ for trouble. I mean, at this point I was 28 and facin’ at least another 20 years, so what’d I give a fuck? I’d killed two guys and I didn’t think I’d ever make it through this far, this long. I figured, I had nothin’ to lose.”

“Were you ever in any gang fights?”

“Nah, I stayed away from them. But, one guy was giving me shit one day. He was part of a gang. So, I took care of it.”

The thunder rumbled outside and there were flashes of lightning. I started to FEEL like Jack doing an interview in The Shining. There was a strong smell of ozone throughout the prison. The air was electric.

“What’d  you do?” I asked.

“Well, I went to the Yard an’ saw the guy with his friends, the other gang members. So, I attacked them.”

“You just attacked them? How many were there?”

“Oh, there were at least eight of them. All standin’ around. Had no idea what I was gonna’ do.”

“Shit.”

“Yeah, well, that wasn’t such a great idea. Went to the Box again for that.”

“Well, what happened?”

“I got about 4 or 5 of them. Y’know, cause I had surprise goin’ and fucked THEM up pretty bad. Then, ‘course, they got me ’cause there were so many of them. But nobody ever fucked with me again.”

“I’m sure. So, what happened at your hearing?”

“The Captain laughed. He thought some white guy attacking eight black gang members was funny. I only got 6 months in the Box for that one.”

“Jesus.”

“I still got problems from that, though,” he said, touching the spot on his face about an inch from his nose, under his eye and about an inch above his mouth. “When I touch this area, I feel it in my tooth.”

“So you’re not afraid of anyone?”

“Pretty  much,” he said. “There’s no one in here who can take me and if they could, that wouldn’t stop me anyway,” he said matter­-of-factly. “I’d just fuckin’ kill ‘em.”

“I mean,” he continued, “like I’d go to the Yard in Attica and a bunch of guys’d be walkin’ around. And, once I was sittin’ and watchin’ T.V. and a guy comes over an’ changes the channel. So, I get up and go an’ get a bat an’ come back and just destroyed the T.V. with the bat.  They all fuckin’ ran when I did that.”

“So, how’d you get here?”

“Ah, I was a kid. I was doin’ angel dust. I was outta my mind.”

I was felling out of my mind as well. Like having to do this time. He could understand how Ron might feel that way. But, I hadn’t killed two people. I’d just written about corruption. Who knew any more?

“What did you do before prison?” I asked.

“I was in the Army. I fought in the first Iraq war. Piece a cake. I drove an Abrams tank.” 

“Was that scary?” I asked.

“Nah, nothin’ to it. I had fun. But, then I got a scorpion bite playing volleyball.”

It reminded me of downtown politics.“

Copyright 2024 Gulag

“Under a government which imprisons any unjustly, the true place for a just man is also a prison.”

— Henry David Thoreau

We should never confuse Profiles in Courage with The Art of the Deal — although neither was written by the supposed author. But, anyone who has lived in SoHo long enough knew about the developer who had a reputation as well as a mentor — in this case Roy Cohen. He kept a running tab known as a “favor bank.” He chalked up favors and kept a Column A and a Column B. There would always come a time when one of these favors done for someone would be called in. Like Don Corleone.

Take the swift “deal” trhat Adams struck. Well, it wasn’t presented as a deal although only a fool would not assume there would be a payment — or maybe just a realisation of the cost. Justice Main dropped his prosecution willy-nilly and there was a heart felt press conference in which the Mayor was forthright, thankful and direct. He professed his innocence and discussed his future. He will be running for re-election and emphasized his accomplishments.

As a Republican.

______________________________________________________________________________________

A fun vignette from Gulag:

“Cuba, one of four guys with the same name in the dorm who’d had a gun license in Pennsylvania, but was caught up in a ‘Stop and Frisk’ police action in Harlem, was starting to get antsy and had a temper tantrum last night. I had asked him what the dress code was for a Legal Visit, since he was expecting one of his attorneys to visit.

“Regular shirt with a collar or T-shirt with a pocket, State greens, pants and sneakers,” he said, his head popping up from his bunk in his cube.

Just as Cuba said that, Mac called to me that it was regular dress and no State greens except for the pants. Martin, the CO who was on for the night called from the Bubble that he would check as well. In the midst of getting all of this input at once, he had ignored Cuba, who had been asked first. I didn’t realize this since I was just confused by several people talking to me at once, until I saw the apple pie on my bed. It was the apple pie that I’d given Cuba to share from the “Pie Sale” which was held a few times a year.

I looked around for Cuba and finally found him stationed in a toilet stall with his feet on the rim of the toilet, legs bent and resting against the wall with the stall door closed. It was the smoking “hideout.” Unless the CO was looking to bust people, no one knew there was a smoker there. In fact, it was like playing hide and seek with a 5 year old who puts his hands over his eyes so that you can’t see him.

“Cuba?” I said, when he found him. “What’s the pie doing on my bed?”

He looked at me and grinned and shook his head, looking like George C. Tilyou grinning on the Steeplechase of the 1950’s in Coney Island. All teeth, bizarrely grinning, head shaking like a psychotic game show host.

“You pissed off or something?”

He shook his head again, up and down and then side to side, sitting with feet up on the toilet, toking on the cigarette.

“You asked me about dressing for your visit,” he said, still grinning and shaking his head, like he couldn’t get it out of  his mouth “and then you ignored me.”

I thought I was dealing with a 5 year old who was hiding his eyes. He couldn’t believe he was having this conversation in a toilet with a guy that had a gun charge and was doing 7 years. A Muslim who was a prison survivor. 

Someone whose legs were registered weapons.

“I’m sorry,” I  said, stunned by this. “I was trying to listen to three different people talking to me at the same time. I’m really sorry.”

Here was an example of real danger in prison depending upon how it was handled.

“Listen,” I said again, “I really am sorry. Please accept my apology.”

I thought it was now getting ridiculous. Who goes around apologizing profusely for a feigned hurt, especially, to a 6’4″ Muslim who was a trained recon marine, in prison? 

And, yet, here I was in a toilet, holding a piece of pie.

“Take this pie,” I almost said. But instead, said, “I’ll just put this back on your  locker. Sorry, it was my mistake.”

I left the bathroom feeling like I’d just been involved in a lovers quarrel. When what he really felt like saying to him was, “Are you fucking kidding me? I give you a pie, hand you all kinds of treats for your advice which is often wrong or totally useless, and you pull a fucking childish stunt like this? You can take this pie and shove it up your ass.”

But, of course, that would actually have been suicidal. I could have been killed for saying something like that.

I simply went back to my cube and had a slice of lemon meringue pie and started a new Sudoku puzzle.

Cuba was definitely going through something. His family had not been getting his mail. The Imam called for him several times because for 5 years he’d participated in Ramadan and this year he wasn’t. And, he was moving to the Honor Dorm. Was he unraveling? He was now in year five of his seven year bid for having an unlicensed gun in Manhattan that he’d had locked in his glove compartment. And, a Manhattan A.D.A. needed a conviction on a charge that should have been probation, had it not happened in Harlem, up against a white prosecutor.

I left for the Gym at 8:15 and marveled at the 80 degree temperature. From minus 29 degrees four months ago, it was now HOT.

As soon as I got to the Gym, Al was standing by the door. He was a porter. His 5’7″ rotund, 62 year old look was unmistakable.

“Hey Al,” he smiled when he saw me, “Fuhgeddaboudit.”

He smiled and said, “Bada-Bing is in the weight room.” I looked over and saw Mark, a/k/a City, smiling at them both.

After doing my exercises in the weight room I came out and sat with Al for a few minutes. We sat together on the bleachers and made small talk. Although he was a porter in the Gym, exercise was anathema to him.

“Yeah,” said Al. “Dis is fuggin’ stupid.” 

“I know, but what was your fire going to accomplish?”

“Imagine,” he said, “2 ta 4 for attemptid aason, whaddya kiddin’ me?”

“I know, man.”

I started my sets of 50 pushups as Al just sat on the bleachers shaking his head.

“I mean, what the fuck is ATTEMPTID ahson?” he said. “If I wuz gonna’ fuckin’ burn down a bildin’ I wouldna’ used a pint can a pain’ thinna.’ I’d get a 5 gallon can a gasoline to do it. Da dey think I’m stoopid?” 

I didn’t respond. Then he laughed, thinking of the scene in Goodfellas. 

“So, why’d they give you 2 to 4?”

“Ah,” he said, waving his arm like he was swatting a fly away. “I know I had 3 pria bids. Includin’ settin’ fire to dat car wid someone sleepin’ in it. An’ it was near this bildin’ so, y’know dey had me. I coulda’ gone ta trial but then it coulda’ been 7 years. An’ I din’ wanna do 7. I’m 62 so’s I said, okay, I’ll take da 2 ta 4.”

“Whatever,” I said, “so you going back to what you were doing when you get out?”

“Nah, I was wid the Teamsta’s. Drove a truck for ’em for 22 years.  I knew alla da guys.”

“Who?” I said.

“I knew that whole crew. Y’know Henry Hill, Jimmy the Gent, Tommy Gambino, the Lucheses. I knew ’em all. That guy DeNiro, man, he really had Jimmy Burke down perfect inna movie.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” he said, grinning. “And, Tommy was a good guy. He did 8 years. They tol’ him, ‘you give up your truckin’ business and we’ll cut ya a deal’ so’s he sol’ his business to his fren’ and did the time. Still makes his money tho’.”

“Friend of mine took me for a walk through Little Italy one time. He knew everybody too.”

“Same as Gravano, y’know the guy dat ratted out Gotti? He says, ‘I could walk through Little Italy any time I want and nobody’s gonna’ fuck wid me’ and he did. So’s he goes into Witness Pratection and got caught sellin’ drugs — after gettin’ off for NINETEEN murdas — he gets 20 years.”

“He still in Prison?”

“Yeah.” He laughed. “But, nobody was’s crazy as Joe Gallo.” 

“What do you mean?”

“You know why dey called ‘im ‘Crazy Joe Gallo’ don’t  you?”

“No,” I said. “I only knew he was part of Murder Incorporated in the 50’s.”

He laughed, “Joey used to walk through Little Italy with a lion on a leash. That’s why they called him ‘Crazy Joe.'”

“No shit?”

Bada-Bing walked over as we were talking, taking a break from the weight room.

“Hey,” Al said to Mark, “did you know why they called Joey, ‘Crazy Joe?'”

Mark looked at him and said, “No.” He looked confused. 

“Whateva,” said Al.

“So, Al, did they ever find Hoffa?” I laughed. It was now like the Judge Crater joke. Hoffa was now in that category.

“Who knows where they put him. Some say he was boiled in acid; some say he was buried under the Meadowlands. Whoever did it ain’t sayin’.  That’s fa sure.”

“I’ll bet,” I said.

“Whole thing’s changed. There’s no more Omerta.” 

“Yeah,” he said, “dese guys here’d rat out anybody. I know a guy who just ratted out his father. Father was 90 years old and he ratted him out. Nice, huh?”

“Shit,” I said. “What was it for?”

“Murder.” He shook his head. “Thanks, sonny.”

“Ponte had a problem too, downtown,” I said. 

“Did he?” said Al.

“The Feds took over his garbage trucks. But, he had a shitload of properties in lower Manhattan. All those two-story buildings at the foot of Canal Street. You know what that area’s called now, don’t you?”

“No,”

“Ever hear of Tribeca?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Al. “That was where DeNiro’s film festival was. Right?”

“Not only that, but he’s got a couple of restaurants and buildings near where Ponte’s restaurant is on Laight street, I think it is. It’s where a lot of wiseguys used to hang out late at night and eat and drink and bring their girlfriends. 

From what I hear it was like Goodfellas. In those days, it was right by the West Side Highway, before things got chi-chi and real estate went through the roof.”

“Fuggin’ shame, ain’t it?” he said.

“They had a good time,” I said. “Can’t you picture them all sitting around until 4 or 5 in the morning, ‘Hey, you take care a dat t’ing?’ and ‘You got ya whooa wid you, or you gonna go home?'”

“Yeah,” said Al, “Tommy Gambino usta take us out once inna while. Strip show or jes drinks. He was a good guy.”

“Yeah,” I said, “when I was a kid, they’d all hang together in front of the building where I lived in Brooklyn. All dressed in shirts, ties and suits, just bullshitting with each other, doing business. Then they all moved to Staten Island.”

“Which bridge?”

“Verrazano. You know, the entire community was dug up and a roadway was dug for access to the new bridge. All of the politicians made fortunes on the land in Staten Island because they knew where the bridge roadway was going to land. That was before Travolta and the Bee Gees discovered Bay Ridge. It was real wiseguy turf then. Anastasia and his rubout in the barber’s chair, the Senate Rackets hearings, murders on the waterfront…”

“Yeah, tings was better then,” said Al, wistfully.

Copyright 2024 Gulag

“Help!”

— Richard Nixon’s last words — spoken to his housekeeper.

The inverted morality of Jean Genet is nothing new to inmates — now called Offenders — in our prisons. Whatever strikes you as hypocritical in current politics is oddly similar to the truths I witnessed daily spouted by the criminal class — although, the difference between our current politicians and those behind bars were more often than not, interchangeable. Fascism, for example, is well-known as a compendium of half-truths, lies, and dogmatic fiction. Like the current drivel we are forced to consume on a daily basis as Americans.

— Donald Clark MacPherson

________________________________________________________________________________

“Fuggedaboudit,” said Bada-Bing, as Al called Mark, the overweight 62 year old sitting on the bleachers in the Gym.

Both Mark and Al, originally from the Bronx and Brooklyn, respectively, had found each other in prison, and now were trying to incorporate me into their little coterie of mobster aficionados primarily because he was white.

“You know, we don’ belong here. Y’know dat doncha?” Mark said to me and Al who were sitting on the bleachers about 3 feet apart. There was prison decorum. Don’t get too close. And, you never say Goodbye, or I’ll see you later, if you get up and leave. No niceties.

I looked at Mark. He’d been told this by others here, from inmates to the COs.

“Yeah, well?” I said. I had my opinion about that. While I agreed with him it wasn’t for the reason he had in mind.

“Really,” he said, “we don’ belong here. I mean, you hear about the guy dey jes let go. He was in for 20 years for murda’ an’ -­ no, I’m sorry, attemptid murda. He tried to choke his mutha. So, they let him out and he goes home, sees his mutha, and he fuckin’ chokes her to death I mean, what the fuck were they thinkin’?”

“No shit?” I said.

“Yeah,” said Mark. “Okay, so I heisted a few things,” shaking his head, “but dese guys are killers, rapists, pedophiles, an’ ‘ey’re keepin’ US here?”

“Whole system is fucked up,” said Al. “Y’know dey got me so twisted. Wanned me to do ASAT. I sez I got no drinkin’ problem, no drug problem, an’ you wan’ me to do a drug program. What’s wrong with dis pictya’?”

“I know. The system is corrupt. They just want bodies,” I said.

“An’ dat broad who runs the program, she’s a lunatic. You gotta agree wid her or they fin’ somethin’ to hold against you. Listen, fuckem’ I’m just gonna max out, go back to Long Island, pack my shit, find my girlfren’, and move to North Carolina. Fuck it.”

Mark said, “Y’know, I was thinkin’ bout Charles the otha’ day.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. 

“Well, you know, he was doin’ what I do.”

“Equipment?” I asked. 

“Yeah, like Cats, y’know?” 

“Cats?”

“Yeah. One size fits all,” he laughed. “Caterpillar equipment name.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Oh, y’know, Like, there’s no key. Mosta dem have no keys, y’know, s’contruction equipment. That’s why they fence ’em in.  Jes’ push the button and you take off. Lots a dem’re worth a couple hundred thousan’.”

“So, that’s what Charles was doing?”

“Yeah, he was doin’ business with the mob in Yonkers. Just gets into a yard, starts up a front loader or some otha’ piece and jes drives off.”

“What kind of money is that?” I asked.

“Oh, a coupla hundred’s not hard. But, y’know you only get maybe twenny pacen’ on what it’s worth. Lotta risk and decent money, but not like drugs or anythin’.”

“There’s that asshole, Law,” said Al, watching one of the COs that had a reputation for being irrational. I knew him from the Law Library. He wasn’t irrational. It was much simpler  than that. He was an inbred, North Country idiot. Plus he was vindictive and abusive. Like a lot of cops.

“I know, just stay away from him,” I said.

“Reminds me a the Probation woman, y’know who did the pre-sentencing report? She axes me if I did drugs or alcohol. I say no. So, she writes that I have a cocaine habit. I mean, what the fuck? She fuckin’ made it up. Now, that’s why they want me to do ASAT. Go figure?”

“They want $30,000 per body.”

“Jesus Christ,” said Al, “they’re such fuckin’ criminals.” 

“Yeah. So I’ve heard.”

There were few left in the Gym. The “Early Go Back” allowed  most of the 30 or so inmates to leave and now only 10 or so guys were left in the Gym. No one was jogging and there were only 4 or 5 left in the weight room. The two COs, Law and Aguirre, were leaning back, eating as usual, their bellies prominently displayed as they sat reading on their special lounge chairs in the corner of the court. There was a small piece of carpet under a table where they had the I.D. holder, used for inmates to place their cards in when they went into the weight room. 

The table with carpet under it and special lounge chairs where no one but COs could sit was the “office” which the two COs used to keep an eye on everything. Periodically, one of them would get up and walk into the bathroom to check things out — and did the same for the weight room where guys were lifting weights. 

It was a sign of macho behavior to pick up and literally toss dumbbells around weighing upwards of 100 pounds each.

“So, how many times you been in prison, Al?” I asked.

“This is my 4th bid,” he said. “An’ I ain’t comin’ back,” he laughed. “This is it, for me, I’m gettin’ too old for this shit.”

“How long each time?”

“Ah, I caught a 1 to 3, a 2 to 4, another 1 to 3, and now this, a 1 an’ a half ta 4 an’ a half. It’s bullshit. I tol’ you — I spilled some paint thinner and lit it ona groun’ an’ a cop nailed me for attempted arson. I says, ‘what’s th’big deal,’ an’ he says, ‘its less’n 20 feet from a buildin’, so I  gotta take ya in.’”

“Really?” I said, “for just a couple of feet you got prison?” 

“Yeah, ain’t that a fuckin’ shame?” he laughed.

“Well, you’ll get out of here.”

“Yeah,” he said, “better’n the guy in my dorm.” 

“What?”

“Guy in my dorm done 40 years a’ready and jus’ got hit at the Board again.”

“Holy shit,” I said.

“Yeah,” he said. “Innerestin’ guy tho’.” 

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I hear he’s a serial killer. Supposed ta have raped a girl an’ killed ‘er, den raped ‘er  mother and killed her too.” He shook his head. “How do you figure? Why’d he haf ta kill em? 

“Y’know, I mean, I can unnerstan’ rapin’ ‘em, but killin’ ’em too?”

I was listening to someone who apparently felt that it would have been okay to have raped a mother and daughter. But, this was abhorrent because it was a twofer killing. There were some standards here, I mused.

“Yeah, I guess I see your point,” I said, trying to figure out what the appropriate response was to such gruesome crimes.

“Guy used to put ads in the paper to find women.” 

“What?”

“The guy used to put ads in the newspaper and get women to ansa’. Den he’d drive ’em to otha’ places, like Florida. He’d kill ’em afta he raped ‘em.”

“You mean he’d advertise for women who wanted to drive to Florida and rape them when they got there?”

“Yeah, I guess he needed someone with a car. He raped ’em afta he got there. Didn’t wanna do it til he got the ride, y’know?”

Apparently, it was all about convenience.

“Is that the guy they call ‘Animal’?” 

“Maybe, I dunno.'”

“He’s got a lot of bodies, I hear.”

“Yeah,” smiled Al. “Good artist, though.” 

“Artist?” 

“Oh, yeah. Does beautiful drawings. I was gonna’ buy one but he wanned fifty bucks for one a dem. I’m not payin’ 50 bucks. But, who knows, could be worth somethin’ in a few years. Paints really beoo-tiful flowers.”

“I see. Maybe he’ll have a show in SoHo someday?” 

Al missed my comment and continued. “But, y’know what’s weird is the books he has in his cube.”

“What do you mean?”

Al shook his head. “Y’know that book, ‘Silence a th’ Lambs?'” 

“Yeah.”

“Well, he’s got dat and a few books about serial killers. Weird. He’s weird. I stay away from ‘im.”

“Really?” I said. “Maybe he’s just studying?”

“Yeah, he’s creepy though. An’ every once in a while some detective comes up and talks ta him. Axes ‘im if he wants ta help ‘em find any more bodies. An’ he always tells ‘em ‘I don’ know what you’re talkin’ about.’ Weird.”

“Guess he’s got a lot more bodies buried elsewhere.”

“Weird,” said Al, shaking his head. “But, you know, dey tol’ him. You ain’t never gettin’ out. Y’know?'”

“The Parole Board told him that?” 

“Tha’s what he sez.”

Mark, City, a/k/a BadaBing came over from the weight room as Al finished talking about his dorm-mate Animal.

“I dunno’, though, 40 years in ‘is place…” said Al. 

“Forty years?” asked Mark. “How about that guy Madoff? Got 150 years. Now they should do somethin’ about that. What’s the point a’givin’ someone 150 years?”

“Yeah,” said Al, “dey put ‘im in Florence where Gotti was.” 

Neither was true. But I’d learned to ignore many comments. 

“I’d heard that,” said Mark. “That’s dat Super-max in Colorado, ain’t it. Place is unnagroun’. No windows, nothin’. S’where dey put drug lords an’ terrawrists. Heard that Madoff complained an’ said, ‘What am I doin’ here wid dese people, which, I can unnerstan’ ’cause, hey, it was only money.”

“That’s what Nixon said.”

“Huh?” said Mark, staring at me strangely.

“I’m NOT a crook.”

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