NYC Memory

New Blog

2010-05-13T19:00:00.000-04:00

I decided to port over all the articles to my own domain, so check it out (looks better too I think lol)
http://blog.alexheyd.com

Typical Bootcamp Day

2010-01-04T18:49:00.001-05:00

Every morning at 5:00am, the military horn blew its top off. God it took me forever to get used to waking up that way. We'd all jump out of bed to stand at attention at the foot of our bunkbeds, cold tiles on bare feet waking us up even faster. Some did the peepee dance as discreetly as possible (I know I did more than a few times), while waiting for the officer on duty to count us. Every federal prison and facility was subject to the same count times across the country. And under NO circumstances should you miss a count. None.

These couple of minutes were crucial to determining how the rest of the day went. Each CO (Corrections Officer) had vastly different personalities. There was the playful but aggressive, steroid-taking officer with the mentality of a 12 year old (his bark was definitely worse than his bite), the unpredicatable but highly intelligent (but crazy!) Mr. Loy (however many think, and I agree, that he put on an act), the good-natured, but very tempermental Mr. Steese, who could have been smart had he not grown up in the middle of the woods, and the short and sadistic Shark, who had a serious Napoleon complex.

There were others, but these were the most colorful officers. If the Shark woke us up, we were fucked. Everyone, and I mean EVERYONE, dreaded when he was on duty. He once crawled underneath an empty bunk before 5:00am to spy on us, and see who got out of bed before the horn sounded. Apparently that wasn't allowed, and the guy got hell for it.

After we're counted, we have a few minutes to wash up, make our beds (which had to be made hospital style... ugh...) and get ready for our morning PT (Physical Training) and this varied from officer to officer, or from day to day. Ranging from calisthenics, aerobics, endurance training, and running, working out on an empty stomach when your last meal was about 22 hours prior wasn't easy. Quite a few people threw up while running on an empty stomach, especially if they overdressed in the winter time.

That lasted about a half hour. We changed, lined up, marched to the cafeteria (food was served to us from the Camp, the lowest possible security federal prison besides boot camp), and once there, one team after the other goes in to eat, while the others stand outside waiting. The only time we waited indoors was when it was pouring, otherwise, we learned how to doze off standing and to talk without moving your lips. No yawning, no looking/moving around, no scratching yourself, no talking, no sleeping. But I've managed to hold conversations that way and play mental chess just to kill time.

Meals lasted around 40ish minutes, meanwhile we only had 5 minutes to eat. And we had to finish everything on our tray unless you're slick enough to throw it away in the trash without any COs seeing.

Bootleg Fruit Loops (I was told these would make me shit different colors, and I obviously thought they were joking... unfortunately they were not), Lucky Charms and Cheerio's made up most of our breakfasts, we also had french toast or waffles once in awhile. The milk was real at least, but we were restricted to one cup a person.

Now remember how there's nothing you can do while waiting to eat or waiting for others to finish? This is even worse when beans were on the menu, because people had no shame in farting randomly. And trust me, a bunch of guys from all over the country put together, there were some really foul smelling stomachs out there.

Then we marched back, and our day officially begins. Between mandatory classes (drug education, resume building, etc.), voluntary classes (smoking cessation, food safety, etc.) which people took to get out of work, and work, all of us go to our designated stations.

Most of the work there sucked. Mainly all labor work, from working the farm, mopping the units, laundry. I was designated to Topside, one of the best jobs. It was basically clothing issue, and the CO in charge of it was Mr. Steese, and from the day I first joined, he had requested to have me work there. Later, he told me it was because he could see I wasn't a bad kid, and wanted to save me from all the bullshit the others had to go through. And that's how he recruited everyone in Topside.

We basically didn't do shit all day lol. Once in a awhile inmates came to swap out their clothes or canteens for one reason or another. And when a new team comes in, we're in charge of distributing all of the stuff they need for their 6 months of torture. The rest of the time? We built a ghetto chessboard made from cardboard, buttons, pieces of paper and tape.

But the most important part was our ability to get brand new clothes whenever we wanted. Everyone of us working there had our stash hidden somewhere of the newest things we want in our sizes. Hey, even in jail people wanna look good! Also a cleanliness thing though. On top of that, since we were free for most of the day, we ironed our clothes and shined our boots, leaving us more of our personal time at the end of the day.

Then it was lunch time. Same routine. After lunch we had about a couple hours before we had PT again, work/class, then dinner around 6:00pm. Work/class once again, then 8:00pm is the start of our personal time. During this time we shower, write letters, and take care of our affairs for the next day.

Lights out at 9:00pm, then rinse and repeat. Six and a half months of this crap. We were all designated time slots to make our one 15 minute phone call a week. This is different from regular jail, where you have a max of 300 minutes a month, 15 minutes each, but you can call again an hour later. One 15 minute call a week was rough. Real rough.

The entire bootcamp was split into four teams: Alpha, Bravo, Charlie, Delta. I was in Delta. And what sucks is, especially during the beginning months (they did this less as we got closer to leaving), when one person fucked up, the entire team paid for it. I've done countless pushups and other ab exercises without even knowing why, not to mention a ridiculous amount of extra miles that I normally wouldn't have had to run.

"DELTA TEAM, DROP!" was something we heard quite often. I was on a team of fucking idiots by the way.

Other random rules? You couldn't step on any black tile. When not in our sleeping areas, you can't walk past a CO without stopping and sounding off, "Sir, Inmate [NAME] request permission to carry on, sir, I can make it, I can take it, nothing can stop me sir!"

And if the CO just stood there and ignored you, you just keep standing there until either he tells you to carry on, or he walks past you.

If a CO drops you for pushups or something, before you get back up even though you're done with whatever number he said, we had to say, "Sir, Inmate [NAME] request permission to recover sir. Thank you for conditioning my mind and body, please feel free to do so at anytime, sir!" Now sometimes if they were assholes they'd say, "Anytime? Okay, do another fifty."

No looking into the CO's eyes. No hands in pockets. Boots are to be shined, shirts with three creases in the back, no snacks, no gum, no drawings or anything personal outside of a particular personal envelope.

Typical day in boot camp. Thank god it's way behind me =)

Uh... what?

2009-12-22T15:43:00.002-05:00

I'm not exactly sure how I ended up there, but I did. I was at this bar in the Lower East Side, called BOB, a small venue, rather coffin like since it just extends straight down to the bar, and had booths lining the sides. That was it.

Oh I remember how I ended up there, it was a friend's going away party (she had actually already left by this point I think). Anyhow, Alanna and Shannon were there with me, Alanna was up and about, Shannon and I sitting on the booth, catching up.

Then this Asian girl (more like lady...) in a jeans jacket, walks up waving. Figuring she was someone's friend, we both waved back.

"Is someone sitting there?" she asked, pointing to some space between Shannon and I. We both looked at each other thinking it was weird she'd ask for the seat in between us, considering it didn't seem like she knew either one of us.

"No, go ahead," I replied, motioning to the empty spot.

So she puts her coat there.

"You don't remember me?" she says into my ear.

"Remember you?" I asked, completely confused. "I don't think I know you."

Up close, I could see the layers of makeup, which led me to notice that there was something odd about her clothes but I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

"I'm supposed to meet you."

I was completely lost. I had no idea who the hell she was, but yet she kept insisting. The look on my face must have been revealing, because her friend that I hadn't noticed until now, stepped up.

"You were here last week right?"

This was my second time at BOB. The first time being close to a year prior.

"Uhh, no, not at all, you have the wrong person."

"Are you sure?" they both looked just as confused as I did now.

"Umm yeah I'm pretty sure I'd know if I were here last week."

They looked at each other, said something then turned back to me.

"You look just like him, are you really sure?"

Oh my god, I'd fucking know if I were here last week or not.

"Yeah I'm sure."

Nodding reluctantly, they finally walked away.

"Who was that?" Shannon asked.

And when I said I had no idea, we started laughing and talking about what just happened. The crazy part is, Jeans Jacket came back to ask me again, if I was sure I wasn't this guy she was supposed to meet, and kept insisting that I looked just like him. She leaves again.

At some point during the night, I go out for a smoke. On my way back in, Jeans Jacket stops me (again!), and asks me what ethnicity I am.

"Oh I'm Taiwanese too!" she said excitedly, then pointing at both herself and me, "You, me, brother, sister."

"What?"

I was starting to get irritated. She actually repeated herself, meanwhile my "what" was of incredulity.

"Look, I don't have a sister."

"You don't want me as sister?"

"Uh no."

Then her invisible sidekick interjects.

"Are you here alone?"

Knowing what she meant, I played dumb.

"Nah, I'm here with my friends."

I pointed to my group, then just started walking away.

About an hour had passed by now. Who were these people? I guess it wouldn't have been such a big deal if she weren't 40ish, trying to act and dress like she were 20, and looking like she fell into a tub of makeup foundation.

So I'm sitting and talking to my friends, having a good time, started joking that Jeans Jacket was a prostitute and her invisible sidekick was her pimp. It wasn't actually too far fetched considering the vibe they were giving off.

Jeans Jacket started dancing around our area, inching closer and closer. My friends started semi-jokingly forming a wall around me to keep her out lol, Danielle dancing right up against her and bumping her away.

But her pimp still comes a-fucking-gain!

"Why aren't you dancing?"

I had enough.

"Look, I don't know you, or your friend, I don't care to talk to you, I'm not who you think I am, so just stop talking to me."

I actually had to tell her that twice because the first time she didn't hear or understand. But she was respectful and walked away. Jeans Jacket comes by a few minutes later, and her sidekick rushes up behind her, grabs her arm, points to me and shakes her head.

They disappeared again, came back but didn't say anything. Jeans Jacket just did some wave motion with her hand, pointed at me, then herself, then some other hand signs that I clearly didn't understand, because I just stared at her blankly. My jaw might have been hanging open actually. Then she turned around and left.

Was she just nuts? My friends and I just looked at each other frowning, completely confused as to what that whole little episode was. But it was a relief that she was finally gone. She was bothering me for a total of 2.5 hours!

To this day I still don't know if she was a prostitute or not. I forgot what it was, but there were a few little things that happened that night that led me to lean more towards that conclusion. It's either that, or she really did meet someone there the week before and they were supposed to meet again. I'm not sure what the whole sister/brother thing was though, but I'm pretty sure that's gotta be the worst pickup line ever lol.

What We Lose

2009-12-16T16:05:00.000-05:00

I just read something on a friend's blog, and it was about faith. Not faith in religion, or even faith in yourself, but rather, faith in other people.

Pondering my own faith in others or humanity as a whole never crossed my mind before. Why? I guess I thought becoming cynical and losing that faith was part of growing up. As a kid and teenager I was very idealistic, very trusting, and I believed in the intrinsic good in people, honestly believing that they would, ultimately, do what's right.

As I "matured," or more accurately, "aged," I lost it. Cynical and blase, I'm now under the impression that the majority of people will do what it takes to advance their own position in life, with little regard to others around them. Humanity has always been its own worst enemy, doomed to commit suicide.

After a couple betrayals it's hard to trust people. I guess I'm fortunate that I was naturally more trusting than others, and as such my experiences have tapered that down to a healthier level, and I'm still able to trust.

But of the millions of people out there who cannot, who are or feel alone and isolated, what are they to do? Everyone's so caught up in their own little worlds, rushing about to make ends meet, to feed their stomach, to sleep under a roof, we all lost the appreciation of the little things in life, and we've lost sight of the bigger picture. What is that bigger picture? I have no idea, I'm just as caught up in my own self-created world.

When I think of having faith in others/humanity again, it makes me tingly inside, like it's a childish idealistic dream, like utopias, chased but never caught. But what if that's not necessarily the case? What if what's warped is not the dream, but reality? What if we really do lose a little more of ourselves with each passing year, but yet, we call it becoming wiser, being more realistic?

Whichever the case, we die and are reborn every day of our lives. If this is what my life shaped me to be, then so be it, I can only truly learn from my past experiences. We all want to stay true to ourselves, yet we never fail to compromise our beliefs, our stance, our being. If you can't beat em, join em, right? =/

How many of us grow up actually living our dreams? How much do we give up? What did you have to lose, to not be shunned by this god-forsaken society?

But I will NOT lose in the end. Sacrifices are sometimes necessary in order to attain your goals, just don't let them be in vain. The day I stop wondering, the day I stop pondering, the day I stop questioning, is the day I truly die. Until then, hopefully we can all find a way.

"Perhaps, if we stop to listen, and wonder, and accept, that faith can one day be restored." -Eva

Eminem - Beautiful

2009-12-16T14:53:00.009-05:00

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lgT1AidzRWM

I liked the song the first time I heard it but I started really feeling this when I actually paid attention to the lyrics lol, just sharing... one of the beauties of music is allowing people to see that no matter how different our lives may be, there are experiences that can be shared and related to, no matter who you are, where you came from, or where you're going

Lately I've been hard to reach
I've been too long on my own
Everybody has a private world
Where they can be alone
Are you calling me, are you trying to get through
Are you reaching out for me, I'm reaching out for you

I'm just so fuckin' depressed
I just can't seem to get out this slump
If I could just get over this hump
But I need something to pull me out this dump
I took my bruises, took my lumps
Fell down and I got right back up
But I need that spark to get psyched back up
In order for me to pick the mic back up
I don't know how or, why or when,
I ended up in this position I'm in
I'm starting to feel distant again
So I decided just to pick this pen
Up and try to make an attempt to vent
But I just can't admit
Or come to grips, with the fact that
I may be done with rap
I need a new outlet
And I know some shits so hard to swallow
But I just can't sit back and wallow
In my own sorrow
But I know one fact
I'll be one tough act to follow
One tough act to follow
I'll be one tough act to follow
Here today, gone tomorrow
But you'd have to walk a thousand miles

[Chorus]
In my shoes, just to see
What it's like, to be me
I'll be you, let's trade shoes
Just to see what It'd be like to
Feel your pain, you feel mine
Go inside each others mind
Just to see what we find
Look at shit through each others eyes

But don't let 'em say you ain't beautiful
They can all get fucked, just stay true to you
Don't let 'em say you ain't beautiful
They can all get fucked, just stay true to you

I think I'm starting to lose my sense of humor
Everything's so tense and gloom
I almost feel like I gotta check the temperature in the room
Just as soon as I walk in
It's like all eyes on me
So I try to avoid any eye contact
Cause if I do that then it opens a door for conversation
Like I want that...
I'm not looking for extra attention
I just want to be just like you
Blend in with the rest of the room
Maybe just point me to the closest restroom
I don't need no fucking man servant
Tryna follow me around, and wipe my ass
Laugh at every single joke I crack
And half of em ain't even funny like
Haa! Marshall, you're so funny man, you should be a comedian, god damn
Unfortunately I am, I just hide behind the tears of a clown
So why don't you all sit down
Listen to the tale I'm about to tell
Hell, we don't gotta trade our shoes
And you don't gotta walk no thousand miles

[Chorus]
In my shoes, just to see
What it's like, to be me
I'll be you, let's trade shoes
Just to see what it'll be like to
Feel your pain, you feel mine
Go inside each others mind
Just to see what we find
Look at shit through each others eyes

But don't let 'em say you ain't beautiful
They can all get fucked, just stay true to you so
Don't let 'em say you ain't beautiful
They can all get fucked, just stay true to you

Nobody asked for life to deal us
With these bullshit hands we're dealt
We gotta take these cards ourselves
And flip em, don't expect no help
Now I could have either just
Sat on my ass and pissed and moaned
Or take this situation in which I'm placed in
And get up and get my own
I was never the type of kid
To wait by the door and pack his bags
Or sat on the porch and hoped and prayed
For a dad to show up who never did
I just wanted to fit in
In every single place
Every school I went
I dreamed of being that cool kid
Even if it meant acting stupid
Aunt Edna always told me
Keep making that face it'll get stuck like that
Meanwhile I'm just standing there
Holding my tongue trying to talk like this
Till I stuck my tongue on that frozen stop sign poll at 8 years old
I learned my lesson then cause I wasn't tryin to impress my friends no more
But I already told you my whole life story
Not just based on my description
Cause where you see it from where you're sitting
It's probably 110% different
I guess we would have to walk a mile
In each others shoes, at least
What size you wear?
I wear tens
Let's see if you can fit your feet

[Chorus]
In my shoes, just to see
What it's like, to be me
All be you, let's trade shoes
Just to see what It'd be like to
Feel your pain, you feel mine
Go inside each others mind
Just to see what we find
Look at shit through each others eyes

But don't let 'em say you ain't beautiful
They can all get fucked. Just stay true to you so
Don't let 'em say you ain't beautiful
They can all get fucked. Just stay true to you

Lately I've been hard to reach
I've been too long on my own
Everybody has a private world
Where they can be alone...
Are you calling me, are you trying to get through
Are you reaching out for me, I'm reaching out for you

Yea... To my babies. Stay strong. Dad will be home soon
And to the rest of the world, god gave you the shoes
That fit you, so put em on and wear em
And be yourself man, be proud of who you are
Even if it sounds corny,
Don't ever let no one tell you, you ain't beautiful

Most Frequently Asked Question

2009-12-11T15:53:00.002-05:00

One question almost everyone asks me is, "What's jail like?"

Well, it's nothing like what you see on TV. Not where I was at anyway. Sure there's gay guys or guys that turned gay in there, but in low security and camps (camps have the lowest security, there's not even a fence surrounding the complex), rape isn't a common thing.

So what is jail like? Fucking boring. Day in and day out, you have nothing to look forward to. Only thing that keeps inmates going are letters, and our fifteen minute phone calls.

When I first got sent to the low security prison in Allenwood, PA, the first thing that came to mind was that it looked like a college campus. Except for the multiple fences, guard towers, and razorwire lol. But besides that, the grass was nicely manicured, there were four units with a few hundred inmates in each.

Despite the appearances though, there were some major differences with life on the outside.

The way phone calls work there is, you get fifteen minutes at a time, every hour. Each call, if it's long distance (which all of mine were), costs a little over $3. Do the math, goddamn I missed my cell phone.

Commissary is our own little private store. How lucky. You can spend a total of $220 a month max. Every inmate has an account that people in the real world deposit money into.

What's interesting is that mackerels (in plastic packages) cost $1.05, and these macks were used as currency amongst the inmates. Or anything of value. Bartering was the norm. For the less fortunate inmates who didn't have money in their commissary account, they found money in other ways, by doing chores for people, gambling, drawing, etc. And they got paid generally with macks.

You can also buy a glorified ink cartridge at commissary for use as a pen. It was literally an ink cartridge with some rubber around it, which made it flexible. Do you know how fucking hard it is to write with that shit?? So what a lot of inmates did was take a shaver, break off the razor part, then the remainding handle has some space on the back where you can lodge the "pen" in and use that. A huge improvement, but after hours of writing, the calluses I ended up with were huge as well.

The TV room was an area I avoided. It's a room with about 7-8 TV sets, and you use your Walkman to tune in to the proper one to listen. Chairs were available to place wherever you wanted to sit. Now, the catch is, I was told that some people, having been there for many years, have their designated "seats." And they would come up to you and tell you to move. It's a lose-lose situation. You fight (whether you win the fight or not), you get sent to the hole (solitary) and your security level goes up and off to the medium you go. You change seats and you're a bitch. So I just didn't watch a lot of TV.

The entire prison complex is on lockdown all day long. It opens up for ten minutes every hour for inmates to move between buildings. But you can only be in certain areas if you have a pass, or you'll be considered out of bounds. This took a little bit to get used to, because if you missed it, you were stuck wherever you were for another hour.

We slept in 9x9 cubes, shared by three people. All of my belongings fit in a 4ft tall dresser, the most fashionable clothing we had was what we could buy from commissary. Sweat pants, sweatshirt, and surprisingly, Nike Air Force Ones (or New Balance sneakers) lol. I bought a pair to wear out, that I still have lol.

Microwaves were used to cook. And man, people can get creative. Spaghetti with macks, cheese and some seasoning thrown into the microwave, that shit was actually pretty damn good. Okay I admit, relatively good.

Speaking of food, I've been told from various sources who worked kitchen detail, that the meat they served us was usually expired. By years. Whenever I changed facilities, my stomach had to readjust and I couldn't hold my food for a couple weeks until it did. The same happened when I came back to NYC, eating good, clean food lol.

Some inmates went on dates with Fifi. Who's Fifi you ask? No, not another inmate, but it's some MacGuyver type of shit. They would take a towel, roll it up in a cylinder shape, take a surgical glove and shove it into one of the sides, and secure the glove on the outside by flipping it over. Some baby oil, and voila, you have a night with Fifi. Or however many minutes they took lol.

It's very race oriented. My first day there, every asian person I saw told me that if I needed anything to let them know. Extra clothes, newer stuff, anything that they would have spares of since they're already settled in.

Gambling is illegal, so most card games are played for pushups. There is a gambling ring in there anyway, employing other inmates who could fight as its collectors.

Every inmate had to work. Most of the work there is bullshit, except for one job which pays $70 a month, and that was community work that I'm pretty sure the prison got paid for. My job (which consisted of cleaning the recreation area at the end of each shift) paid a little over $5 a month. Yeah. A month.

For the most part, shit is just boring though. Wake up, go work, eat lunch, workout, work, eat dinner, write letters, hopefully read letters, make some calls, talk to a couple people, cook something in a microwave, talk or draw or write some more, read, play cards... that's about it. If we get bored enough we sometimes make up games too lol.

That's it in a nutshell. Oh yeah some guy went by the name of Precious. He walked, talked, and had all the mannerisms of a ghetto hoodrat lol.

Much better than MDC Brooklyn, boot camp, or solitary, but it still sucked. Oh well, nothing beats being free lol =)

Nothing To Be Proud Of

2009-11-30T13:57:00.001-05:00

I went to happy hour with my boss at the time, Neil, a British guy who could drink Guiness like nobody's business. So on an empty stomach, I had about six or seven pints of beer under an hour.

Why was I drinking so fast? Well, for one, I was pacing with Neil. And for two, I had to go meet up with my girlfriend at the time, Kim, to watch Ratatouille. We were fighting the night before, I don't remember what it was about, but she was still pissed and insisted that I don't be late.

So, I hopped into a cab in the West Village, and headed up to Kip's Bay for the movie. Besides the constant jerking of the cab, everything was fine until we got to my destination. We got to the corner where I told the cabbie to drop me off, I took out a $20 bill (I have no idea how much the fare was, but it couldn't have been anywhere near 20 bucks), and then it happened.

I threw up all over the cab. And on the right leg of my jeans. Ugh.

I didn't even ask for change, got out, sat on a porch and held my head in my hands, trying to sober up.

The cab driver got out to follow me and kept on bitching, saying he wouldn't be able to get another fare. I think I mentioned something along the lines that I just gave him a twenty, but he just ignored that.

His blabbering just made my head hurt more, so I took out another $20 bill.

"Here. Take this, get the fuck away from me and shut the fuck up."

He quickly pocketed it, but the asshole didn't stop. He threatened to call the cops.

That did it. I was still on probation at the time, but I hated when people threatened to call the cops on me, especially if I didn't do anything illegal. I mean, c'mon, since when is throwing up in public illegal?

"Call the cops?" I asked. "What the fuck are you gonna call the cops for? Huh? Okay fine, call the fucking cops, give me back my money."

I approached him but he backed away, of course not giving up the money.

"Look, look! Cops right there!" he shouted, pointing to a traffic police car.

I don't think he expected me to actually hail the cops down, but unluckily (or maybe luckily) they didn't notice and kept on driving.

But that convinced the cabbie that I really didn't care if he got the cops involved, and he ran to his cab and drove off.

What a prick.

Anyhow, I called Kim, and she already sounded pissed.

"Well, I'm not late, I'm here but I can't watch the movie with you."

"WHAT? Why not?"

Uh oh.

She was with her friend Lin and her boyfriend at the time, Vic.

"Well..."

And I proceeded to explain the story that I just told you up until now.

"... so I really need to go home and change, my jeans just reek. It's fucking nasty," I finished.

Kim wasn't having it. I guess she really wanted to watch Ratatouille lol. We continued arguing in person, Vic and Lin were just waiting around, we told them to watch the movie without us, but they missed it. Then they found another movie they could watch. They missed that one too.

So apparently we were arguing outside of the theater for awhile. I'm not exactly sure how the fight was resolved, but Vic said he'd drive us home to Rego Park, Queeens.

He had some wet naps in his car, I cleaned up, got in, and no more than a few blocks later, the stench was unbearable.

"Oh my god I can't take this shit anymore," I said and took everything out of my pockets.

"What the hell are you doing?" Kim asked, looking at me like I completely lost my mind.

I ended up throwing my jeans out the car window. What the fuck was I thinking? Well... I wasn't really, to be honest, but hey, it got rid of the smell of vomit, right?

I didn't really plan this too far ahead though. Vic couldn't find parking any closer than two blocks away (technically I guess he could have just dropped me off in front of my building first), but I ended up walking those two blocks in boxers and boots lol.

Thankfully I didn't know anyone in that neighborhood.

Moral of the story? Don't be a dumbass >.<

P.S - I just remembered, sometime during that car ride home I bit Lin's hand or arm pretty hard for some reason... I think she dared me to? Or told me I could? Yeah I kinda have a biting fetish lol

Is Blood Really Thicker than Water?

2009-11-18T16:33:00.001-05:00

It was 1998, I was sixteen, in Strasbourg, France, and a year prior I had gotten in trouble for smoking weed. I moved to France when I was seven, and by 1998, my entire life was based there.

On the last day of school we all said our goodbyes and that we'd see each other in September like we did every year. I attended an international school, so most of us went back to visit our homeland during summer breaks.

And I visited my mom in NYC every year. The night before my flight, I was quite sober and searched my entire room for some extra weed or hash, but even before I started looking, I already knew I was out.

It had been a rough couple weeks financially to begin with. Either way, during my search I found a small plastic baggie in my wallet with some stems and seeds. Remembering that there were dogs occasionally at airports, I took it out and left it in my room.

My theory in hiding it was that maybe if it were fairly in the open, it might not be detected because it was so obvious. So I just threw it in a basket which had a bunch of other miscellaneous stuff in it.

Hopped on the plane, flew across the Atlantic, got to NYC, and (mind you, this is how I remember it, after talking to my mom, it seems it wasn't quite as abrupt as I describe) almost as soon as I walked into the door, my mom said:

"Alex we have to talk."

Sheesh, I miss you too, Mom, I thought.

(sidenote: it's weird how my interpretation of this memory is quite distorted, but this is what led me to believe that although there is an absolute truth, there's also a relative one, and although this scenario didn't play out the way I remember, since that's how I remember it, that is in essence, my truth)

Apparently my grandmother had called, claiming she found a bag of weed in my room and two joints all rolled up, ready to be smoked.

I balked.

"No, she's lying, I don't have that in my room!" Blah blah blah.

"Well, Alex," my mom replied with resignation. "I just can't take your word anymore because you've lied so many times."

Fair enough.

"Okay, so you want to know the truth? The whole truth?"

"Yes."

I'm still ashamed that despite my claim to tell the whole truth, I still lied. But it was a rather small one (then why lie at all, right?). So I told her I smoked every other day, instead of every day. I also told her that I cut classes on a regular basis. I didn't mention that I sold hash because I was cut off from an allowance. Omission lies don't count right? ;]

"But, I know for a fact that they didn't find that in my room because..."

"... you would have smoked it," my mom finished for me.

I nodded.

The next time my mom spoke to my grandmother, she asked if they were sure that it was weed.

"How am I supposed to know?" my grandmother replied indignant.

"Just burn it, it'll smell differently than cigarettes."

"Oh, we already threw it away."

So now it was my word against theirs. Obviously mine wasn't worth much.

Then at the next plot development, they finally found the small baggie with the stems and seeds. And how surprising, they tested that instead, and of course it came back positive.

Bottom line? I was to stay in NYC. Torn away from nine years of my life, all of my friends, all that I know, the town that I lived in, my home.

Their reasoning (paraphrasing)? Alex and his friends in France are a bad influence on each other. Alex has a drug problem and because of that, we think we should separate him from his friends. There are alternative schools we were looking into in France, but they all fell through, as such, we think it's best he move to NYC.

Wait. Hold on. What? I have a drug problem, so the solution is to send me to New York City, of all places? Ri-fucking-diculous.

They're not stupid, so I dismissed that as being the real reason why I was sent back to NYC. I think it's a combination of my getting in trouble and being too much to handle, my grandmother's desire to move back to Cali (impossible any time soon if I were to stay in France and go to college there), and the fact that I failed sophomore year and had to stay back.

But is framing me really the adult way to approach this? Yeah sure, telling me "Go back and live with your mom, we don't wanna deal with you anymore," is going to hurt, but I'll understand to a certain degree, and I'd be able to get over it.

But my own blood lies to my mother about what they found in my room is just low. Aren't adults supposed to set an example?

I never got to say bye to my friends. From that day till today, some of my friends from France I haven't seen again, others I've seen once or twice in eleven years.

And since my "move" back to the States was unplanned, finding a school last minute over the summer was damn near impossible. Every school required teacher recommendations and a bunch of documents. It was summer break already. All the teachers in France were long gone.

We finally found a school in Ithaca, NY, about five hours away from the City. On brochure it sounded amazing. It was right next to Cornell University, it had an accelerated program, it looked like a complete paradise for dorks and geeks.

Going up there I really thought I was going to reform my ways, even quit smoking cigarettes. Boy was I wrong. And boy, was that brochure misleading.

But that's for another post. So when people invariably say that blood is thicker than water, I politely disagree.

Days As a Pool Hall Junkie

2009-11-17T17:10:00.000-05:00

When Lisa and I first met, we shot a lot of pool. We started by going to Soho Billiards on a regular basis, but it was kind of pricey, especially considering that she was still a high school student and I was working dead end jobs.

So we eventually migrated to Broadway Billiards, on 21st Street and... well, Broadway. It was a basement location (I say was because I recently passed by to find it closed, but hopefully just for renovation), a little on the ghetto side, but the regulars were friendly, and the price couldn't be beat.

Four bucks an hour per person on weekdays, five on weekends. And the owners, a Korean family, were our little dwarves. We had Grumpy, Happy and Sleepy. Sleepy was Mr. Choi, he sometimes asked us to shoot with him so he could get some "exercise" lol but that was only at 5:00am. Happy was the lady, always smiling, and Grumpy was her exact opposite.

Lisa and I got to know the regulars there, some helped us with our pool like the cab driver Issac, a couple would play against us like a couple filipinos, some we barely spoke to but still knew each other like the 273ish year old skeleton Nick.

We spent hours upon hours there, taking occasional breaks from the pool table to play Megatouch, reclaiming our usual high scores and attempting to steal new ones. We had our routine going, two peas in a pod, enjoying the same little pleasures in life. Together.

And we also met a wide variety of people during our time spent in pool halls. The old black couple, Charlie and his wife (I don't remember her name) who played Monster Madness on the Megatouch machines together. They must have been at least 60, and Lisa used to wonder if we'd be like that, at their age.

But as much as we enjoyed shooting pool together, there were some moments when we got into fights because of it. We came to a point where we took pool more seriously than your casual player, and if we performed poorly, we would get upset, mainly at ourselves. But no one's perfect and it did happen when we took it out on each other.

But those moments were more rare than not and we usually enjoyed ourselves to the fullest. We eventually got our own cue sticks, watched billiards on TV, bought books... It was our thing.

As often as we could, we took advantage of the Amsterdam Power Play (back then Amsterdam was still on the Upper East and West Side), 11:00am to 6:00pm $22 all you can play.

We graduated from Eight Ball to Nine Ball together; we watched Pool Hall Junkies pre-screening, only to go straight to a pool hall and try to imitate certain shots we saw in the movie; we immersed ourselves into this hobby together at the same pace.

At the San Genero fair, there was a pool game, three balls are racked, and after you break, you have one cue to run the three balls. $2 a game for a small prize, $5 a game for the big prize.

Starting off at $2, we tried a couple times unsuccessfully. The cues were crooked, the table was slightly slanted, the cloth was bumpy, all to be expected from a game at a fair (obviously not fair!).

Then I got the feel for it. I won five stuffed animals for Lisa, was about to play again when they told me I couldn't play unless I paid $5 per game instead, for a big prize. Lisa looked around but couldn't find anything she liked, so we left.

Lol well I guess it's only fair to mention that I spent a ridiculous amount of money at another fair for a Fireman and Statue of Libery Tweeties (probably much more than I would have paid at the Warner Bros. store, for worse quality too lol). But I do have to admit, winning these made Lisa a lot happier than buying them.

Sorry, I'm just rambling. Due to recent happenings most of my thoughts regarding Lisa tend to be more negative than not, and hence my memories steer me towards the fights that we had. So I wanted to take a detour and think of all the good times I spent with her.

Funny how memory is selective, because in the past, I always mainly thought of the good times with her. Now I have to consciously do it.

But without a doubt, some of my fondest memories of Lisa, are when she had my back, regardless if I'm right or wrong. When shit is about to pop off the street, whether it's a flower delivery guy, bums, semi-famous street photographers, she backed me up without hesitation which had a reassuring quality to it.

Hm I can't think of a way to end this post so it'll be abrupt. Lol.

Temporary Split Personality

2009-11-17T13:21:00.000-05:00

I don't exactly remember how this day started. To be honest, it probably doesn't matter in the slightest, it's not like anything important happened during those times anyway. Or anything different for that matter from a day-to-day basis.

Wake up, get high, hang out, get high, go out, sometimes eat (usually not), get higher, sleep (usually not), rinse and repeat.

And peppered throughout this stream of meaningless highs, this day managed to stand out from the rest. Why? Because I had the genius idea of taking four different drugs at the same time. Actually, I'm not even sure if this was a conscious idea that formed in my head, or if it kind of... just happened.

The latter sounds a lot more probable. Anyhow, between coke, K, ecstasy and weed, two were uppers and two were downers.

My body was never more confused. When the uppers kicked in, I was bouncing off the walls, wanting to go out, talking at the speed of light, jittery like a crackhead... and literally 30ish seconds later, the downers kicked in, I would crash to the ground or the nearest couch, an inch away from being comatose. I wouldn't be surprised if someone told me I drooled.

And another few seconds or a minute later, I'm running around like a chicken with its head cut off. This kept up for awhile, I'm not sure how long in terms of actual time, but I know I had these spastic mood swings several times.

Needless to say, I was in no condition to step out the door, and luckily my friends were aware of that and didn't instigate.

By the time I was sober enough to stay in one high state, I was drained. Empty. In retrospect, I found it to be an interesting experience, but would I recommend it or do it again? Hell no lol.

But I guess that's the closest I'll ever come to having split personality or some light form of schizophrenia. I'm pretty sure I would have been considered legally insane by a medical professional that night.

And thinking back, why would I have done that to myself? Did I really think it'd be a good idea? Did I think it wouldn't have too bad of an effect on me? I can't quite figure out if I was consciously being destructive, subconsciously thought I was invincible, or if I really just didn't give a fuck as long as I would get high.

I find it hard to reminisce. It almost feels like I lack the analytical skills required to do so, but that's not true because I do have that skillset when it comes to other areas of life. A self-defense mechanism to prevent myself from uncovering the truth about myself? Denial has served me well (and poorly I must add), but a in small doses, it can go a long way.

Afterall, hope is but denial with a facelift.

Introduction to the Intensive Confinement Center

2009-11-11T16:39:00.002-05:00

The day had finally come. After 18 months of pretrial supervision (which consisted of weekly drug tests and telephone check-ins, and being restricted to the five boroughs of NYC), after 18 months being with Lisa, after 18 months of fear wondering how much time I would actually do (and more importantly, where), the day had come for me to report to the Intensive Confinement Center, aka boot camp.

The name Intensive Confinement Center (ICC) sounds a lot worse though, doesn't it? Sounds like some 24/7 isolation lol but it's basically boot camp.

Lisa and I were to take a train down to Harrisburg, PA and there would be a car service waiting to drive us to Lewisburg, PA, an hour away.

I would be gone for six months, longest stretch that Lisa and I would be separated for. Ever since we met, we saw each other every day, and we both knew this was going to be a difficult adjustment.

Our last night together, Lisa was in tears. I'm not one to cry much, and I tried to stay strong enough for the both of us, to be her rock that she could lean on.

From the moment I met Lisa, I told her I was going to jail. I also told her I didn't expect her to wait for me. At the time I was facing up to five years, and she adamantly refused to break up, even when facing five years. I understood that she didn't realize how long five years were, so I let it go.

So looking at six months, given her conviction that she would have even waited five years (she claimed she had no doubt in her mind lol), she reiterated she would wait these six months as well.

We kissed and cuddled, wiping away her tears, soothing her with comforting words, it was both the happiest and saddest moment possible. We didn't sleep much. I also didn't have anything to pack. Weirdly, even the last night of freedom, it didn't quite hit home that I was going to be locked up. Probably because I had no way of relating to what I was about to experience. It was probably plain ol' denial.

We agreed to write to each other every single day, and when mail doesn't go out on weekends or holidays, we would keep writing and just combine them into one. If I were to list all the mushy stuff we did and agreed to continue doing despite our separation, you'd probably gag on your monitor just to stop reading, so I'll spare you a few Bounty sheets.

Dawn came, but unlike most fictions, dawn doesn't always bring comfort. This was the dawn I never wanted to see. Given that this was our last day together for six months, I would have thought we'd be more talkative, to make the most of it, but in retrospect it's obviously unrealistic.

Both the train and car ride were fairly silent. We spoke here and there but our hearts just weren't into it. Too preoccupied, we just hugged some more and Lisa cuddled into my arms.

We got to Lewisburg, a prison complex consisting of three facilities: ICC, the camp, and the penitentiary. The penitentiary is obviously a supermax, the camp is the lowest possible security level you can have (except for the ICC), and they don't even have a fence keeping the inmates in.

But any walk-off is considered armed escape with a five year sentence. Not many dared to.

Our car parked in front of the ICC, and Lisa burst into tears.

"Excuse me," I asked the driver. "Do you mind waiting a few minutes?"

"No problem. Take your time, I'm in no rush."

I thought I heard sympathy in his voice. "Thanks."

We got out to smoke a last cigarette together and say bye.

Three pulls in, I hear:

"Hey! HEY! Where do you think you are? Put that out and get in here!"

It was a Correctional Officer.

"I'm not scheduled to report before another 45 minutes," I replied politely.

"I don't care, you're here, you're in, there's no standing around here."

Goddammit. I had a problem with authority, and this was already a bad start. If I had known, I wouldn't have told the driver to park here so I'd have some more time with Lisa.

"But..."

"Get in here now!"

Flicking away my cigarette, I took one long last look at Lisa's tear-strewn face, hugged her, and my heart dropped to my stomach. This was it. This was really it. What the fuck.

With a sigh, I reluctantly let her go and finally shed a couple tears.

"I love you bebe."

"I love you too bebe."

And we both "tingled." Don't ask.

I turned around and walked into the Intensive Confinement Center.

First things first. They shaved my head. Wait, no. First things first, they yelled at me. Then they shaved my head. Then they yelled at me some more. And then other inmates whispered to me:

"Don't step on the black tiles."

"Why not?"

"Just don't."

Ugh, this was going to be a long six months...

Twists of Fate?

2009-11-09T17:54:00.000-05:00

So it was my boy Sean's 21st birthday, but times were rough so the "celebration" basically consisted of the two of us. We went to Walker's, near my mom's place, he ordered a few drinks for the both of us, surprisingly they didn't seem to really care that I was never carded.

I had one of the nastiest drinks that night. A rusty nail, which was four different dark liquors, and a splash of coke. Disgusting.

Anyhow, that isn't the point of the story. We ended up getting kind of drunk, wandered about, almost got into a stupid fight (by now you should have figured that Sean tended to do that a lot when he drank), but the night ended without anything too crazy happening.

Actually, on a side note, while drunk, we also wanted some weed but since we were out, we started asking every single person on the street if they had any for sale. Stupid I know.

We parted ways, and I started walking home. It was about a fifteen block walk, headphones on, minding my own business, when some guy on the street seemed to be talking to me.

I took off an earphone.

"You got kicked out too?" he asked.

He had a fitted hat on, a leather jacket, kind of stocky, Hispanic in his late 20s.

"Kicked out? Nah. From where?"

"From Roxy, they just kicked me out for some bullshit."

Some more small talk, and I'm not exactly sure how the subject was brought up, but it came up.

"You smoke?" he asked.

"Trees? Yeah, you got?"

I couldn't believe my luck, after resorting to asking random people, I bump into someone who actually smokes, on my way home.

We ended up smoking on my rooftop, he sold me a dub, and then gave me two pills.

"Here, take these, it's on me."

"Nah I'm good, I don't drop," I said, and started handing them back.

"Then give them to your friends or something. It's yours."

Rarely one to argue against something free, I pocketed them. I didn't actually take pills during this time yet, and I did give them to a friend.

But this is how I met Will, my future dealer from Forest Hills, the one I got the two jars of K from the night before 9/11 (http://nycmemory.blogspot.com/2009/10/unexpected-end_15.html), who also started fronting me pills for me to start selling.

Completely random. Is this the working of fate? Oddly enough, I also met my co-defendant randomly on the street as well. It's very weird to think that something as simple as me having crossed the street when walking home, or not having been outside of that bar that one night I met Jules (my co-defendant), would have literally changed the entire course of my life.

Granted, most likely if it didn't happen through them, it would have happened in many other ways, but we still can't deny a slight change in situation in both of those nights would have had a long-lasting and serious impact on my life.

Don't get me wrong, I'm not regretting. I find it hard to regret many things in my past, regardless if I was wrong or not, not because I'm remorseless, but rather, in the end I'm still happy with myself and who I've become. And obviously, changing anything in my past would inadvertently change the core of who I am today, my values, my experiences, my thoughts, my opinions, my morals.

And those, I will trade for nothing in the world. Because this is the life that I chose to live.

Metropolitan Detention Center - Supermax

2009-11-09T12:54:00.001-05:00

MDC Brooklyn. Metropolitan Detention Center. The name brought fear and dread to all inmates' hearts. Corrections Officers hate it too actually. According to one of the doctors in Allenwood, PA, MDC Brooklyn always fucks shit up, loses shit, sends them wrong medical readings and information.

Imagine what it's like dealing with them on the other side of the law.

So, after having served six months in boot camp and nine more months out of thirteen in the halfway house, I violated and was sent back to jail. Great.

The story of how I ended up cuffed by the marshals and dragged to MDC Brooklyn is for another post. Surprisingly, the marshals were actually really nice. They tried to make small conversation, asked why I violated, but since I still had hope to fight the accusations, I wasn't very talkative.

The worst part of jail is the commuting. Being processed into new facilities, strip searched, locked in a cell all by yourself (or maybe with a couple other people), took HOURS.

It fucking sucked.

But I'll fast-forward all that boring shit.

MDC Brooklyn. A super-max. It's a holdover facility, usually meant for people on pretrial who didn't make bail, or people in transit who haven't been assigned to a real prison yet. What this means is, there's no differentiation in security here. What this means is, murderers, rapists, molesters, white-collar crimes, drug related offenses, armed robbers, all of these people are together.

MDC consists of multiple units, two per floor I believe, and each unit has two levels of cells, totaling maybe a couple hundred inmates. There's a "handball court" with an opening at the top for fresh air, a row of shower stalls, a few tables spread out, four TVs that you tune into with Walkmans.

I met my new cell mate, some 60+ year old Mafia guy. He used to be a bookie, but he was charged with three murders.

Wow. I had never met anyone face to face who had killed another person. It was weird. Scary to think that I was sharing thirtyish square feet with him.

But what he killed me with wasn't what I expected of a mob bookie with three bodies on his jacket. I mentioned he was over 60 right? And we all know that past a certain age controlling your bowels can be challenging.

So here's the approximate breakdown of a typical day at MDC. Doors open to your cell around 6:00 AM or 7:00 AM (I'm not sure, I sure as hell wasn't up at that time). Lunch is served at 11:00 AM, dinner's at 5:30ish PM, and in between those times, they count us every few hours, locking us in our cells, this can last from 30mns to 1.5 hours. What did this depend on? No clue.

And at 11:00 PM, they locked us in our cells until morning time. A tiny cell, one bunk bed, one metal "dresser," a small table attached to the wall with an also attached stool, a sink and a toilet.

So lights are out. Door is locked. Within five minutes, my cellie is apologizing.

"Sorry bunkie, but when you gotta go, you gotta go."

What is anyone to say? He's right, if you gotta go you gotta go. And boy did he gotta go. The stench, the wet sounds, the... ew nevermind I'll ~~shit~~ shut up now.

Have you ever tried to fall asleep with that stench? Can you imagine going to bed in a public bathroom? Don't try, it's obviously not pleasant.

Anyhow, during the rest of my time there, I read (a lot), played chess (a lot), played cards (even more). I met this asian guy Mike, part of the original Flying Dragons (FD, an asian gang), he was in for thirteen murders, and was wrapping up an eleven year bid. He was the only other asian person there, and if there's one thing you do in jail is stick with your own color. Doesn't really matter who they are or what they've done, because hey, who are we kidding, we're not going to find any saints in there.

People take care of their own, and when you're put into a situation where you have nothing and no one, you revert back to very primitive ways of distinguishing your own from others, namely race.

He seemed like a nice enough guy. After eleven years in jail though he was worried about rehabilitating himself to the real world. The internet, how to pick up girls, etc, he felt completely lost, like a newborn. I didn't quite know what to tell him, I didn't know how to bring him up to speed from such a situation. Talking to him reminded me of Red and Brooks from Shawshank Redemption, who both became institutionalized.

I also think I came very close to dying (or getting the living shit beat out of me at least). This giant of a Puerto Rican guy, mentally unstable, but built like a mountain, for some reason got mad at me. I don't even remember why.

We were playing cards, Casino to be exact, and I've played with him many times before. Him and this other younger Hispanic kid. The younger one was one of those very talkative, tries to be suave kinda guy, slightly cocky, but funny and good-natured enough to be tolerated. Seems like I found one of those in every facility I went to.

The giant however was much older. Graying hair, thick glasses, 45ish, with a neck thicker than a tree trunk. I really don't remember what happened, but something pissed him off. Something I said.

"What, you wanna go? You wanna throw down?"

I stared right back into his eyes, and my mind drew a blank. What do you do when confronted with this situation in jail?

On the streets there's no question really. But in jail, it's a completely different story. There are only so many possible outcomes to this:

I fuck him up, get sent to solitary, get my security raised, and good time is deducted
He fucks me up, and I still suffer all the consequences from possibility #1
I back down and I'm branded the unit bitch until... I don't want to think that far ahead
Death for one or the other

Either way it's a lose-lose situation. Except with this guy, there was no #1 possible. I doubted I could even tickle the guy if I punched him.

"Nah man, I'm tryna go home, but if it comes down to it, I'll go," I replied.

That was my bullshit way of trying to talk my way out of it. I backed down without really backing down, basically meaning I didn't do or say jack shit. Well, I didn't do jack shit but infuriate him even more.

The younger kid luckily squashed the whole thing. He pulled him away, saying it was just a misunderstanding, that everything was cool. We actually kept on playing Casino right afterwards lol.

The guy was obviously mentally unstable. I have no idea what he was in for, neither did I want to know. I still played cards with him from there on out, but I was very cautious.

This other guy in there, this lanky white guy who did time in state prisons as well, had chunks of metal embedded in his body in various places. Now I'm talking about huge chunks of shanks that he got stabbed with, and doctors were not able to extract from him. It looked unreal. He could just pull a chunk, stretching his skin as far as it could go, and boing it'd snap right back into his arm.

Cigarettes went for $10 each, $200 a pack. People who went to court didn't even wear socks so they could slip off their shoes and pick up cigarette butts on the street with their toes.

And that was that. Six weeks here literally felt like six months. It was the worst time of the entire seven year ordeal I went through since my arrest until the day I was done with probation. MDC was by far, the most horrid experience of the entire stretch.

Letters and phone calls help you get through the days, listening to that stupid smug female recording over and over:

"This call is from a federal prison. This is a prepaid call. You will not be charged for this call. This call is from: [insert my name here]. To accept, please press five. To decline all future calls from this person, please press seven, seven."

As much as I hated hearing this recording, I also loved it. It meant that whoever I called picked up. What sucked was that I only had fifteen minutes at a time to talk.

And I would also like to thank all the people who were there for me to write to, and call, even though a lot of those people I had just met, and had very little incentive to keep correspondence with an inmate. One person in particular, I had never even met lol.

Disappointingly but not surprisingly, Lisa was the hardest to get a hold of. We were broken up by this time, but I guess I still thought she'd be more available for me to call or write. She wrote one letter during this stretch. One letter in ten months. Oh well.

But I never thought I'd be happy to hear that I was going to be sent to a prison facility. But when I heard that I was being transferred to Allenwood, PA, I was ecstatic. That meant no more MDC. I'd miss the cheap phone calls (since it was local calls, it was about 1/3 of the price from PA), but a gym, facility, better food, cubes instead of cells, everything else would be better in Allenwood.

And it was. Especially when June 2005 came along.

Eight Year "Anniversary"

2009-10-29T23:06:00.004-04:00

Just a quick post to point out that it's been eight years since my arrest. Exactly eight years ago, I was sitting in a cell, wondering what the fuck was going to happen to me.

I've come to realize that, regardless of anything, time flies, not just when you're having fun, but in retrospect.

Odd enough to say, as boring as it was, as much as it sucked not being free, time in jail still flew. Yeah on an everyday basis, midnight couldn't come fast enough, but when looking back, I was still amazed that ten months, eighteen months, thirty months had passed.

So much has happened in these past eight years. I went from being a drug addict, to a convicted felon, to working dead-end jobs, to building my career and living in the middle of Manhattan. I reconnected with, then lost for a second time an old love; I've rebuilt family bonds (with my nuclear family at least); I've gotten back in touch with my biological father after twenty plus years only to tell him to fuck off.

I've put myself in debt, been promised an inheritance, worked two jobs at seventy hours a week, wasted money, made some... I've basically been finally allowed to live in the past few years.

And it feels great.

As much as life sucks, I still think it's beautiful. As much as people are backstabbing assholes, I still give them the benefit of the doubt, although I have learned from my past mistakes. And as much as it's damn near impossible these days to build a fortune without compromising your morals, I will still try, why? Because regardless of anything, it's the ability to choose that empowers us.

And so this date has marked the beginning of a new personal era. I still see it as a blessing in disguise, because if it weren't for this arrest, I might have overdosed, been shot, or arrested for a much larger quantity, and the power of choice still wouldn't have returned to me yet.

So thanks Big Brother but no thanks >.<

Zeitgeist - Can the Truth Hurt That Much?

2009-10-28T16:25:00.002-04:00

I was recently introduced to Zeitgeist, Zeitgeist Addendum and The Venus Project. Here are the two documentaries:

Zeitgeist: The Movie
Zeitgeist Addendum

Before I start, I want to point out that I'm by no means an expert in any of the topics discussed in the documentary, I'm just sharing my two cents, using critical thinking and my opinion of what human nature amounts to.

I suggest you watch the videos first, although they're both very long (about two hours each), the summary below doesn't go into enough depth for you to fully feel the weight of their message.

Zeitgeist (ZG) is a documentary claiming to reveal the truth about the world we live in. According to them, Christianity was literally copied from pagan myths that existed centuries prior, 9/11 was an inside job, the Federal Reserve Bank of America uses a system based on debt (debt begets debt) and has been secretly pushing their own agenda (being responsible for our involvement in World War I, II and the Vietnam War amongst other things).

Zeitgeist Addendum (ZG-A, the sequel), goes into detail about how the Federal Reserve works, denounces money and profit as being the root of all evil and corruption. This leads the documentary to introduce the Venus Project, an economic system that replaces our monetary system with a resource-based economy, commonly and equally owned by all, technology will be advanced enough to eliminate the need for jobs, and by the creation of such abundance of basically everything, there will be no need for money, and hence corruption, poverty, wars, etc. will be relics of the past.

Mind you, I'm by no means a fan of the current establishment. As you may have already noticed, I spent many of my teenage years trying to specifically not have to take part of this fucked up society we live in. At that young and dangerously naive age, I was positive that money was corruptive and the root of all evil. I yearned for a world that had no monetary system, where no one had to work, and we could all enjoy life as we so chose.

I yearned for a utopia.

And so I refused to play by society's rules, got my ass handed to me for seven years, and have now been housetrained to be a well-behaved, listening pet.

But as I walked down this path I chose, and with some influence from Ayn Rand, I've come to realize that money is in no way responsible for anything in this world. Money doesn't corrupt. Money doesn't start wars. Money doesn't do anything but facilitate trade by allowing us to carry paper rather than something of value. And what's of value? Precious stones, gold, jewelry, which are all heavy and difficult to transport.

So if it isn't money that corrupts, what does? Power, pure and simple. Money buys power, but even without money, the concept of power exists. Power comes into play in any social interaction between two or more people. The dream of global equality is but a myth, hell, we're not even born with equal strength, intelligence, height, etc.

And it's this difference amongst all of us, that creates social classes, racism, hate, prejudice. By default, humans are not all equal. We should all have equal human rights, yes, but that still doesn't make two different people equal in every other respect. And because of this, it's survival of the fittest, as it's always been. The strong will bully the weak, and what is that but a power play?

The Venus Project (TVP) is actually a very interesting concept. Here's the pitch. If we can abolish the monetary system, thus overthrowing the modern day emperors by rendering their weapon of choice inefficient, if we can then invest all of our time on the advancement of technology and replace our energy sources with renewable clean energy, if we can convince the global population that money is evil and change is necessary, if we can convince that same five billion people to agree on the same solution, if we can create technology that will get rid of 90% of jobs (without killing us Matrix-style), and if we can get to a point where everything we would need is in such abundance that we can't fathom wanting anything more, then yes, we have a utopia.

That's a lot of ifs though. I can barely get a group of ten of my friends to agree on what restaurant to go to, let alone getting five billion strangers to be agreeable.

ZG-A does say at the end that the first step to achieving this is by reforming our mentality. I completely agree. I also think it's theoretically an impossibility. Even if 1% of the population doesn't agree to TVP, they'll fuck it up for everyone else. So TVP fails right there, unless they get rid of the opposition. Then, are they really any different from the corrupt coporatocracy that they're trying to depose?

On another note, let's say Jacque Fresco (TVP creator) were to be in charge right now. Well, for one that's contradictory to his vision since everyone's equal. But let's assume he can have his way. Technology isn't advanced enough to support his system, and technology--according to him--is stifled by the monetary system, meaning the abolition of money is a necessary first step before technology can progress.

I'm actually unclear as to how Fresco plans to make the transition from the monetary system to a resource-based economy, so I'll stfu now, kthx.

And I reiterate, I don't necessarily believe that money is the problem. The Federal Reserve employs a method called fractional reserve banking, and some believe that it eventually creates an unstable economy, with more debt than currency in circulation.

This system is used globally. If it is true that the system will fail at the end, maybe it's the banking system that's flawed, rather than the concept of money.

Overall, both movies present good material, very thought-provoking, but also misleading. I'm also not overly fond of their choice of methods, it felt very much like propaganda, evoking powerful emotions, ripening us for manipulation, the juxtaposition of violent images, and certain conclusions that they were "logically" led to seemed stretched, and rather than being persuasive, it almost felt forced upon us.

But who's to say that you shouldn't fight fire with fire? Corporations own the media, their propaganda is just more subtle. Their use of quotes is effective, but sometimes seems to be taken completely out of context, which has very little relevance if that's the case.

Take it all with a grain of salt. I took bits and pieces of what seemed genuine, what seemed to make sense, not sure how much it helped or not but it's kept me occupied mentally for a few hours.

Enjoy. Or don't. But above all else, think.

Requiem

2009-10-26T17:33:00.000-04:00

Remixed beat from Requiem for a Dream movie:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mmdCZLCoP94

i was, caught up in a scheme
trying to, attain my dreams
number one lessons that, nothings what it seems
traitorous snakes, hiding on my team
a vicious crew with a sick gangsta lean
waiting at the corner preying on the dope fiends
u aint got a clue so its now a mystery
torture u like the lady from King's misery
ima rewrite ur entire history
stack enough to still on u w/ my salary
some advice my enemies never took to heart
i tutor my adversaries so they keep to par
its the art of war, niggas get torn apart
by a soldier learning from battlefield scars
a world trade survivor pushed to the edge
plotting schemes in my head ready for revenge

i let, the haters get to me
i turned, to the hennessey
coz thug passions always been all my remedies
the devil sure as hell runs in the family
im a convict released on strict stipulations
first to cross my path gonna be in a situation
3 counts coz i was under suspicion
ran my game tight, so u couldnt fuck w/ these
5ks tryna front like they own the streets
i aint here for telling, pull my file i can take the heat
wiretaps had me selling x-t-c
01 is my year of conspiracy
slanging ex by the G's is how i conspired
60 large by the lines and now im retired
couple more months and my hustle woulda fired
coz doing business i aint never ever getting tired

i was, out of control
i was, ever so cold
like those pocket aces u cant fold
thats how the story went, just like christ
the classics done told if ur men or mice
till death do me part w/ the federal info
used to do lines that was white as snow
its dangerous to stay alive in the ghetto
forget all the shit u learned and what u know
never seen the atrocities of the world below
bitches running game and they jack ur dough
got caught up in a world of trouble
tryna break even in the daily struggle
paying debts and making way w/ arms and elbow
the thug philosophy carries nines and ammo
a 10 yr minimum aint no joke
already done paid for all the drugs i sold
worth more than my weight in 24 karat gold
step on my toes and i'll murder ur soul
assassinate ur character with words from this flow

Ten Twenty Nine Oh One - Part 2

2009-10-26T16:49:00.004-04:00

Part 1

They left us in our cells for awhile. If there's anything you learn in jail, it's patience. Needless to say, I couldn't count how many hours I've wasted sitting in a cell, waiting for guards to finish my paperwork and usher me along to the next step

(cell)

where they'll keep me for more innumerous hours. Your eyes just dim. Have you ever felt like you were SO bored, that you couldn't be any more bored? Yeah try that times a quadrimillion. I never knew the meaning of boredom until then.

Literally. Nothing. To. Do.

Finally they came to get us. I've always been skinny (bony?), and yeah it'd be nice to have a little more meat on my bones but hey it was never that big of a deal. Until tonight. After strip searching us, they took away our shoe laces, belts, and anything else we could hang ourselves with or attack someone else with.

Problem? The pants didn't belong to me, and were about three inches too big for me. Next problem? They cuffed me so tight it kept grinding against my wrist bone, chaffing skin and bruising.

Wincing, what else am I to do? Complain? Ha. Haha. Funny. Not really.

And never two without three (especially when it comes to more problems), hands cuffed painfully behind my back, I'm struggling to pull my pants up as they walk me out to a van. I shuffle my way there, handcuffs attached to ankle cuffs.

Now, I'm not sure how many people can relate to what I'm about to say next, but I'm pretty sure you've all experienced that dawn of realization moment, where either your eyes are opened wide and you can now see the clearly painted blue sky, or the dawn brought about a scene so gruesome that you couldn't shut your eyes hard enough to escape it.

My skies weren't blue. Lined up along a wall, about eight of us cuffed and chained, they took count. This is nothing new to us though. We've seen these scenes hundreds of times in movies, main or side character getting arrested, locked up, etc. Yeah. That's the point. In movies.

That's when my dawn

(apocalypse...)

came and I knew I fucked up. I fucked up bad. There was no lying my way out of this, there was no running, there was no escape, there were no drugs. Just stark, merciless reality. And cold metal cuffs.

The van ride was depressing. They drove us to MCC (Metropolitan Correctional Center), which is a pretrial and holdover prison in Chinatown, right by Columbus Park.

They lined us up along a wall, facing it, and called each of our names.

"Haydee!"

No answer. Haydee? A girl? I didn't see any female inmates here and either way that's just not possible.

"Haydee! Haydee!"

My name's been mispronounced a lot, but that was the worst. I finally reacted.

"What, you don't even know your own name?" one of the guards chuckled.

"If you could fucking pronounce it properly maybe I would," I replied.

Lol yeah okay, I'm just kidding. I said nothing lol.

And another cell. This one was cold though. None of us were separated, close to ten of us trying to find a warm and somewhat comfortable spot on the hard benches.

Let me fast forward a little. I think you all got the point that it's as boring as staring at the same spot on a wall hoping you can will it to move with your mind alone just so that something changes in the scenery.

The next day they separated us by groups, I was put in a two-man cell with Steve. I never quite understood why solitary was called "solitary" when it's really a two-man cell.

They clothed me after stripping me (again... I sometimes wondered if they found enjoyment in our humiliation) but everything they had was 4XL or bigger. I kid you not, my tighty-whiteys could be wrapped around me a couple times and knotted.

A bunk bed. A sink. A toilet. A sad excuse for a desk/chair combination. And lots of cockroaches. A lot of inmates sleep with earplugs, not to block out sound (there's really not too much noise once lights are out), but because roaches crawl into your earlobe while you're sleeping and lay their eggs there.

The unsuspecting host goes about their days until the eggs hatch. I forgot what exactly happened to the host (it didn't kill them) but I'm sure it wasn't pretty.

And I had no earplugs. FML.

Fortunately I never had a bug hatch in my ear since so I think it's safe to say I escaped unscathed. Unfortunately, they didn't even let me shower for four days (I never got to leave the cell), so birdbaths in the sink made due.

I think they served food around 5am, 11am, and 6pm. From 6pm to 5am, nothing. And after each meal, I felt like I didn't even eat yet.

Staring out of barred windows, I caught a glimpse of Columbus Park. My mind played tricks on me making me think I could smell Chinese food. Fuck I was starving.

A psychiatrist came by the door to talk to me.

"Do you understand me?"

"Yeah."

"Are you feeling okay?"

"Yeah."

"You're not hearing voices or... seeing hallucinations or anything?"

"Uhh... no?"

"No suicidal thoughts?"

What the fuck.

"No."

He glanced at me and his eyes said that he didn't quite believe me but he also didn't give a flying fuck because he was on the other side of that door and was getting paid regardless if I was lying or not.

That was the only interaction we had with the guards there besides getting our food.

Steve and I did what we could to pass the time. And it's sad when, the person who ratted you out, is the only person that you have right then and there. He tried to stay positive, talking about bail, mentioning that his family had some cops in it...

"I doubt I'm making bail," I said.

"Why not?"

"My mom always told me, she can deal with follies, she understands we all go through those phases, but there are two things that she won't be able to help me with: one, if I got involved with drugs, and two, the law.

This is both. She's dealt with enough of my shit, this is it, I really doubt I'm going to make bail."

Four days later, I met my lawyer. In his fifties, he seemed nice enough. Basically, I was screwed because of the written statements Steve and Jules made.

"I'm working on getting you out on bail, but the USDA must have sensed more money in your family, because she set the bail really high."

"How high?"

"$500,000."

My heart crawled through its own artery to shrivel up and die.

"What??"

I later learned that Steve and Jules' bail was about $30,000 and $24,000 respectively, and we had to post up 10% of it. My lawyer managed to negotiate mine down to $50,000.

Either way, it was a moot point, I wasn't making bail.

On the day I was to appear in court to see if I made bail, I felt like the poor kid on Christmas, watching everyone open up presents, but thinking Santa forgot about me.

I walked into the courtroom and witnessed the power of a mother's love for her child with my very own eyes. Of course she was there, a look of utter disappointment and worry etched all over her face, but she was there nonetheless.

The court proceeded, and I actually made bail.

"Okay, so you made bail, the conditions are as follow," my lawyer says. "You can't leave the city, you can't fail a drug test, miss a meeting with your pretrial officer, or get in trouble in any other fashion, if not you'll be remanded, sent straight to jail, and your parents will be liable for the full $50,000."

I nodded. "Wait but, what if I fail my first drug test, because I still have it in my system?"

"Well that won't be the case, you came out negative for everything."

I blinked a few times. Then a few more times.

"What? That's impossible."

He shrugged. "If it ain't broke, don't fix it."

I left 500 Pearl Street in an orange jumpsuit, fiending for a cigarette, but so ashamed I couldn't even look my mother in the eye.

Blood is thicker than water. Sometimes. But the unconditional love of a mother can never be replaced, and if genuine, should never be doubted. At least that's what I learned from my mother.

I hope you feel the same way about yours.

Bottle on the House

2009-10-21T13:35:00.000-04:00

I hadn't really celebrated my birthday in awhile. I came back from jail in 2005, and the first two years I was really just trying to get back on my feet. I found a couple jobs but nothing great (besides the amazing people I've met at almost each). But 2007-2008 was game changing.

I tripled my salary in a little over two years (yes I realize "tripling" isn't very descriptive, I'm sure people with no income can easily increase it by hundreds of percent lol), finally moved to (the middle of) Manhattan, and things were on the right path, still are actually. So I ended up in a digital ad agency, building websites and web apps for some of the biggest brands in the world.

So not like 27 is a special age, but 2009 was the first time I decided to actually throw myself a party, something I usually hate doing. The invitations, splitting the bill, finding a place, never tickled my fancy.

But hey, I'd been locked up for 2.5 years, why not? So I invited a combination of friends I met through work and friends from years ago. We went to Third Floor Cafe, a Korean bar on 32nd St. and 5th Ave.

Location was chosen for a couple reasons.

It was close to home so I could easily stumble back.
They knew me so I get free shit sometimes
The waitress Cecile is friendly*cough*hot*cough*

Unfortunately, the day I was celebrating my birthday (the day after), was also the last day at work for a coworker. We started drinking Sangria in the office, followed by our infamous Forty Fridays, then I made my way to Third Floor Cafe.

A couple cocktails later, more people showed up than I anticipated. We had some seating problems that were eventually resolved, then the shots started.

I remember ten to twelve shots. Problem was, my friends were mixing the type of shots they kept (easily) "forcing" down my throat.

Johnny Black, Patron, Three Wise Men... that's just what I remember.

The rest of the night was a blur. I was wasted. Not everyone could tell, since I had different groups of friends present who didn't know one another, I was doing what I could to make sure everyone was comfortable.

I still feel bad because there were a few people I don't think I even got a chance to talk to that night. Adrenaline kept me going, more shots came, and somewhere in all that there was a bottle of Patron on the house. I found out through Facebook the following day.

People came and went, leaving me money asking if it was enough. Laughing, all I could reply was:

"I have no idea."

The next day I was filled in by various sources. Apparently I had over twenty shots. How I wasn't rushed to the hospital I have no idea, but all I know is that I sure as hell didn't feel healthy the next day.

The bill came out to $1,600. I covered a quarter of it lol. I guess instead of saying "I have no idea," I should have said "Hell no, give me another $20!" But it's all good, I kind of expected something like this to happen beforehand, it always does with big groups. But I wanted to have a celebration, somewhat of a combination celebration of my freedom, birthday, and the positive changes that I've affected upon my life.

Partying as a teenager all drugged up was fun. But something has to be said for guiltless, hard-earned fun =) Thanks to everyone who made it, and thanks to those who couldn't but wish they could. The rest of you? Fuck off =P haha jp I <3 you all

2009 has been, on a personal level at least, a good year.

Ten Twenty Nine Oh One - Part 1

2009-10-19T13:45:00.004-04:00

To be honest, I don't remember how this night started. What I do remember is that we had to deliver 1,000 pills to Jules' friend in Manhattan. We borrowed Steve's partner's car, and drove from Brooklyn to my mom's place, I had to pick up a few things. It was a couple days before Halloween, October 29th actually.

I walked into my mom's apartment for the first time in a month, but we were in a hurry, so I was rushing about. It was around 8:00pm, and my mom was trying to get a good look at me and talking to me, especially since she hasn't seen me in a long time.

She had a concerned look on her face, I think she also felt helpless, unable to stop me from walking back out that door. The conversation was very brief.

I hopped back into the car, while calling Jules' friend. He asked us to meet him on some street in Greenwich Village. Not thinking twice about it, we drove off.

Steve and I told Jules that this was the last time we were delivering, and if his friend wanted more, he'd have to come to us in Queens. Jules nodded, saying he understood how much of a hassle it was.

"Yeah I already told him that but he kept saying he was worried we might set him up."

"What?" I asked incredulous. "Is he stupid? If anything, it'd be him setting us up, who the hell sets up the buyer instead of the dealer?"

We all laughed about it and chalked it up to inexperience. When we got to the agreed street, it was jam packed with pedestrians, cops, everyone.

"Why did he pick this street, of all places in Manhattan? Is he dumb?"

If he's dumb, I was dumber. Or just not thinking clearly after a few months of continuous highs.

We parked the car, Jules' friend got in.

"Are those the pills?" he asked, pointing to a Motorola box.

"Yeah," Steve replied. "A thousand."

"Okay, let me go get the money from my partner."

He did the same the first time I sold to him. Steve never met him before.

In the mirror I saw a car try to bust a U-turn on a one-way street. I started laughing thinking he didn't know how to drive or he might have been drunk.

Until I saw another car in front of us do the exact same thing.

"Oh shit..." I trailed off.

DEA agents jumped out of everywhere, guns drawn.

"Freeze motherfuckers! Get your hands in the air!"

Make up your damn minds. Freeze or hands up? Unsure of which command to obey, I just stayed still, which I guess I inadvertently obeyed command No. 1. I've seen too many innocent kids get shot because the cops thought they were reaching for a weapon.

It's a dream, I'ma wake up. It's a dream, I'ma wake up...

I haven't woken up since.

They pulled me out of the car, slammed me on the cold concrete, foot on my back, they patted me down for weapons, asking if I had any at the same time.

I shook my head, then remembering I carried a knife, I told them about it.

They pulled me back up. Pedestrians everywhere were taking front row seats to the free just-off-Broadway show, some laughing and pointing, some chuckling, some curious, and some actually seeming concerned. Don't ask how I recorded the emotions of a few dozen people in a matter of seconds. I just did. Or like to believe that I did.

And then the prejudice begins.

"You know Nicky Dragon?" one of them asked me.

"No."

"You look just like him. You sure you don't know him?"

I shook my head again.

"Well he was the head of Flying Dragons back in the 80s, but we took him down. We'll take you all down."

They pushed me towards a car, separating the three of us.

"You know any martial arts or anything?" someone asked me, chuckling.

"A little," I said softly.

I meant it as a joke, even though I did take karate when I was younger. What the fuck would karate do for me in this situation??

But, surprisingly, the agent didn't take it so lightly. He actually paused long enough to look at me closely, then pushed me to someone else.

"Here you take him."

What an idiot lol.

Anyhow, once in the car, they pressured me to cooperate with them over and over again.

"Cooperate with us and we'll cut you a deal."

I didn't know how to deal with these kinds of situations. So what did I do? I did what I saw on TV. You don't talk until you see your lawyer.

"I wanna see my lawyer."

"Come on kid, you're looking at five years if you don't work with us. You don't wanna do five years, trust me. You're young. You say no now, and come back crying to us later that you wanna cut a deal, we won't be giving you the same deal."

"I wanna see my lawyer."

"Look, don't do this to yourself..."

"I wanna see my laywer."

This went on for awhile. I must have told them I wanted to see my lawyer close to ten times.

We got back to their headquarters, and I was the only one in a cell. Jules and Steve were in separate rooms making signed confessions.

Fuck. Fucking assholes. Meanwhile I'm the youngest of the three. Can't you fuckers just keep your mouths shut??

I shook my head in resignation, looking around at my empty cell, first time ever being a cage. I felt bad for the animals at zoos. Steve was walked out of his interrogation room first. He glanced at me, teary eyed and apologized.

I just shrugged. Apologies weren't going to do me jack shit.

They eventually called me out of my cell, fingerprinted me (that fucking ink is IMPOSSIBLE to wash off...), made me strip naked (and trust me, you lose your dignity one strip at a time), asked me a ridiculous amount of questions, and eventually sent me back to my cell.

We were all in separate cells, more silent than a graveyard at the stroke of midnight. I would like to relate the thoughts crossing my mind at that point, but unfortunately it's impossible.

My mind was a total blank. I don't even think the gravity of what just happened had fully hit home yet.

But next time something impossibly crazy happens to you, pinch yourself harder or you might never wake up.

Amateur Fight Club

2009-10-19T03:44:00.005-04:00

It was about a year after my arrest, meaning that I had been on pretrial for a year. Weekly drugs tests, and weekly calls to report in. At least I wasn't on house arrest, even though I couldn't leave New York City.

An old friend of mine Sean from high school (boarding school upstate NY) invited Lisa and me over to his place, on the Upper West Side. Actually, it was his parents place. It was a beautiful apartment, not nouveau-riche but au contraire, it emanated that old wealth that you can only be born into.

Sean had a particular family. His (hot) older sister had moved out with her fiance, his mother was very fond of French culture (particularly their vineyards), and his father was a retired judge who was clinically diagnosed with depression.

Anyhow, I was a regular at Sean's house when I first moved back to NYC. He had a fair amount of privacy in his room so we were able to smoke to our lung's content. This night, I went there with Lisa with a bottle of Bacardi and Alize.

The three of us split the Alize, and Sean and I finished the rum. Three to four hours later, I got up for the first time to take a piss. That's when it hit me. I was pretty fucking drunk. I stumbled my way to the bathroom, still trying to not wake up Sean's parents despite my drunken state.

I finally made it to the bathroom, which was unusually long, and of course, the toilet was on the other side. For some inexplicable reason however, at the sight of the sink, I had a sudden uncontrollable urge to vomit.

And out it came. A lot of it. I don't remember what I ate that night, but from how it clogged the sink and filled it two-thirds of the way, I'm assuming I had a hearty dinner.

I tried (kind of) to unclog the sink, but I couldn't think of any way besides sticking my hand in there, so hoping Sean or Lisa would have a better idea, I left it for now. I borrowed some Listerine, then almost forgetting why I was there in the first place, I answered nature's call.

Back in the room, I heard both of them laughing.

"Yo yo yo, Alex, you gotta take a look at this," Sean said in between spurts of laughter.

"Sean, I gotta tell you something, I..."

"Yo, come check this out bro, this shit is mad funny."

"Yo Sean, you don't understand, I puked in your sink. It's clogged."

"What? Ah man don't worry man, come check this out man!"

"Nah but Sean, wait, your mom... you don't understand, you sink is completely clogged!"

"Nah nah don't worry man, come take a look man."

He never stopped laughing the whole time. Sean's bedroom walls have some posters but mainly a lot of graffiti. He used to be part of a graffiti crew back in the days. Earlier that day he had bought these new paint markers, and apparently he didn't realize drunk graffiti wasn't the most aesthetic form of art.

And to prove that point, he had tagged his name on his wall, but it was more akin to a kindergardener's scribble.

"Look at that shit!" he said emphatically, "I've never, ever, EVER tagged anything THAT fucking ugly!"

His tone of voice, body language, everything, cracked me the fuck up. You had to have been there. Obviously we all know the alcohol was the main catalyst in all that but that should be left subtly implied. I sat back down next to my girl and kept on laughing.

I was laughing so hard my sides were hurting, eyes watering, clutching my stomach and, hysterical. After awhile though, it seemed to cause a problem.

"Yo," Sean said. "Keep it down. Keep it down man my parents are gonna hear us."

But I've already hit the point of no return. You know those rare laughs that you wished you could have more often? The laughs that let you release that inner child with wild abandon. And the more he told us to shut up, the harder we laughed.

"Yo seriously man, keep it quiet man, shut up!"

And he punched me in the face. My head whipped from side to side, eyes wide with confusion. When I slowly realized what had actually happened, I burst out laughing even more because I couldn't believe that such a good friend had just punched me.

The previous scenario repeated, and Sean actually punched me again.

"Ow, damn son, chill that time that shit actually hurt."

Laughing apologetically, he said sorry and said I could hit him back.

Drunk as hell, I barely formed a fist and I ended up only half punching him.

"Nah nah that shit don't count," I said.

He agreed to let me hit him again. This time, I nailed right on the side of the nose.

"Oww damn that shit fucking smarts!'

We laughed at what just happened, rubbing our faces, wincing every now and then. Lisa and I promoted at Exit at the time, and we impulsively decided to go. Problem was, we were pretty broke (notice a trend from these days?), but promoters didn't have to pay cover until 1:00am, and we had an extra promoter's card for Sean.

Then what's the problem? It was past 12:30am. We had to make it down to Columbus Circle, which was possible but very tight. We decided to try anyway.

On the elevator ride down, I was whispering something to Lisa in her ear, and out of nowhere Sean punched me in the neck. Seriously, what the fuck lol?? I obviously punched him back.

To this day I still wonder what his doorman must have thought seeing us walking out, holding our neck and face respectively, moaning in pain.

Walking to the train station, Sean started randomly punching car windows. He was a violent drunk. A block or so later, I'm guessing it was due to pent up frustration and anger (mainly at myself), out of nowhere, I took a couple steps and kicked at a car's passenger side window.

Next thing I knew, I was knee-deep into the car, window shattered.

"Oh shit..."

I hopped out, and made sure to shake off as much glass from my pants and shoe as possible, I sped walk around the corner. Released on bail, that was by far the dumbest thing I could have done.

Around the corner of 72nd St, a family was walking by, grandparents, parents and kinds (why kids were out that late, ask the parents), but Sean randomly went to a trash can and threw it across their path, garbage and litter spilling all over the place.

Too embarrassed to even look at them, I 've always pictured the look of complete shock on their face.

Without missing a beat, Sean runs up to a Benz, and rips out the Mercedes symbol from the hood, then runs to a phone booth and smashes his hand so hard against it to shatter the glass of the advertisement.

We finally made it into the train. Sitting there and talking, Sean repeatedly taps me on the shoulder while talking, unaware that his hands were covered with blood. About to say something, I realized the futility of it all, especially considering that I already had blood all over my jacket by now.

We arrived at Columbus Circle 59th St., and I guess Sean was ready to have a little fun. Every person he saw on the train platform, he ran up to them spastically and shoved his bloody hands right in front of their faces and screamed:

"AHHH! AHHH! I GOT AIDS!!!"

Then ran off to the next poor unsuspecting victim. I was cracking up, I never seen Sean this drunk and wild.

He grabbed a piece of paper from the floor which turned out to be a post-it note with "PULL MY ADHESIVE" written on it.

Sean ran out of the subway, the post-it note by his crotch, approaching strangers and couples alike, thrusting his hips forward shouting:

"Pull my adhesive!! Pullll my adhesiveeee!!!"

All pedestrians avoided him like he was the brainchild of the plague and swine flu. Lisa and I tried to keep up, and I kept calling his name and he either didn't hear me or ignored me. I think it was the latter.

He climbed up the side of a small Mack truck, tried the door handle, and by some weird twist of coincidence, the door actually opened. Lisa and I looked at each other somewhat confused, and before we could say anything, a Jansport backpack flew out into the sidewalk.

"Sean! SEAN!"

I looked in the truck and he was no longer there, the passenger door was open, and he was already a half block down.

Lisa didn't look too happy.

"Are you mad?"

"Yeah kinda, you guys are acting like fools."

"Yeah I know, sorry bebe."

I knew we were acting like fools. But to be honest, only Sean was now. I somewhat sobered up after kicking in that window.

As we were talking, two guys walked by and I thought I heard one of them say something about Lisa. When I said I had somewhat sobered up, that was a half lie. Still drunk, but just not retarded drunk.

"What the fuck did you say?" I asked.

One of them seemed to be as drunk as I was, meanwhile the other was sober.

"What?" the drunk one spun on me.

"The fuck did you say about my girl?"

"Look, you don't want none of this. I got ten people following a couple blocks behind us, you don't want none of this."

In the meantime, his sober friend was trying to squash everything and keep walking, saying it was a misunderstanding.

"I don't give a fuck about you, or your ten boys, I'll kick all of your asses!" said the Bacardi and Alize.

By this time, Sean doubled back and was wondering what was going on. No sooner had he caught on, we were surrounded by ten people or so.

Ah fuck, not again...

But luckily, the ten other people were in no mood for a fight even if it would have been like winning a court case with Johnny Cochran as your lawyer.

At Exit, we missed the promoter's line. Bummed, we started to leave, and waiting to cross street, the infamous paint markers resurfaced to perform an encore of a child's scribble on the club wall. Two guys soon approached Sean, and thinking that they were thugs trying to start shit with him, I went to see what was going on.

One of them intercepted me and asked:

"He your boy?"

"Yeah he's my boy."

"So you got his back?"

"No shit I got his back."

Thinking shit was going to go down, he put his arm around my shoulder and waved a walkie-talkie in my face.

"You sure you got his back?"

Ah fuck... (for the second time tonight)

But it was too late to back out now.

"Yeah I got his back."

The other security guard was talking to Sean across the street and ended up letting him go. Walking away, Sean was furious.

"Those fucking fake ass thugs think they can fuck with me, I'll motherfucking slit their throats, who the fuck they think they are stepping up to me like that I..."

"What the fuck nigga, they were cops, security for the club. They're doing their jobs.."

"Nahh fuck that man, they were just some thugs stepping to me man, they..."

"They waved a goddamn walkie in my face, what the fuck are you talking about? Yo, every time you're mad drunk you do some dumb shit, I can't even fuck with you like this anymore."

We started arguing with one another, shoving each other but things calmed down. He slammed his hand against another public phone booth (old grudge perhaps?) but soon he sobered up.

We went to a nearby McDonalds and he washed up. In the subway station where we were going to part ways, he asked what the fuck happened that night.

I started to tell him the story I just told you, and at first he wouldn't believe that he hit me to begin with. An hour and a half later, finally done (I omitted some smaller unimportant details here), we went home.

Next day around 3:00pm, I got a call.

"Hey man, it's Sean."

"Hey..." still groggy.

"I think you told me last night already but I don't really remember, but can you refresh my memory?"

He had no idea what happened. Moral of the story? There isn't one, I just thought it was funny lol (minus my little slip of the foot)

Why You Shouldn't Air Your Dirty Laundry in Public

2009-10-15T16:58:00.006-04:00

It always interested me how humanity rebuilds societies, from the smallest scale to the largest. Post-apocalyptic settings are full of these scenarios, the backbone of novels and games galore. What becomes currency, what economic issues are encountered, what kind of groups emerge from the survivors...

And jail was no different. Pouches of mackerels were a dollar each since they cost $1.05 at commissary (our Walmart). Macks and stamps were the most common form of currency. A billionaire secretly employs a quarter of the unit, a hustler starts his own underground, after-hours K-Mart, a gambling kingpin sends out his henchmen to collect debts.

But you don't have to be a billionaire to be lazy in jail. If you have five macks to spare a week, you can get your cube cleaned and your laundry done and folded. All the inmates that are not fortunate enough to have people on the outside able or willing to send them funds work for their keep.

And because of this side job of theirs, two Jamaicans got the shit beat out of them, one of their eye popping out of the socket. All over laundry.

Six Mexicans took over the laundry room one Sunday, since they were doing a couple dozen loads. The two Jamaicans were on their day off and wanted to wash their own clothes. From what I heard, they waited for quite a while.

Sick of endlessly waiting for their turn, they took out whatever clothes were in the washer and started their own laundry load. Whether they were justified or not in doing so is up for debate, I can understand both sides.

The Mexicans weren't so understanding. They proceeded to crack them in the head with one of those really old, heavy (iron?) mop buckets, kicked off a broom handle, and stabbed the Jamaicans with the splintered end. Supposedly one of the Jamaican's eye popped out of its socket.

All of them were detained, and sent to solitary or the hospital as necessary. FBI got involved and our unit was shut down and isolated for a couple days because they thought it might have been gang related.

We never saw any of those inmates again. They all got their security level raised and were most likely going to a medium-level security prison. And the Jamaicans were most likely hospitalized for a while.

What irks me about this whole story though is, I made it a point to not get involved with all the jail politics and bullshit drama, but it still affected me regardless. One of those Mexicans was the guy I paid to do my shit!

Lol I say that in jest however. Not really that big of a deal. But jumping someone over laundry? Really? What happened to using our words? =P

Eleven Guys and a Lesbian

2009-10-15T14:36:00.003-04:00

The house I crashed at back in 2001, Sung's house, almost always had ten to fifteen people there at any given time. This one particular day, most of my friends had to go on some type of run: drug run, food run, money run, etc.

We were left with five people. Jimmy (who had a broken hand in a soft cast, needles, the whole nine), Jen, Angelina (aka Gellie), and Sung. Sung and Gellie were in his room talking, Jen, Jimmy and I were in Sung's mom's room playing Chinese Poker. His mom was away on a business trip in Korea, she was gone for a month.

Wait hold on, I have to backtrack a little. A few days prior, almost the same group was here (replace Gellie with my friend Mary, add Steve my future co-defendant), most of us were high, but still bored. Steve suggests we play strip Chinese Poker, but considering there were two girls and four guys, I was positive they were going to decline.

Mary and Jen looked at each other, whispered something then surprisingly agreed. They lost the first four hands. But as soon as anything revealing was going to come off, they wrapped themselves in thick comforters. It obviously defeated the purpose, especially considering that the shirt/top they were wearing before was more revealing than a freaking comforter!

But whatever. I wasn't going to force them to strip lol. We kept on playing. Doorbell rang, turned out to be this guy Nick, who was friends with Mary's boyfriend. He was able to discern that she was in fact naked underneath the blanket, but he ended up leaving without saying much. I forgot what it was that he wanted to begin with. Probably drugs.

Okay so enough of that flashback. I'm sitting on Sung's mom's bed, playing cards, binging on coke, sleepless for days, foodless for over 20ish hours, when I see a couple guys walk past the mom's room into the guest room.

Thinking they were friends of a friend, I got up to greet them. They came back into the doorway, accompanied by another two guys.

"Hey," one of them said.

"What's good?" I replied.

"We got a question, you know who the two guys are that played strip poker with Mary?"

I turned to look at Jimmy who just stared right back at me. My eyes glanced at his broken hand. I turned back around and saw Sung (who's not a small fella) standing behind the four guys.

Okay, four on three, even though Jimmy's hand is broken, how bad can it be?

"Yeah," I finally answered.

"Oh yeah? Who?"

"Us."

I swear the guy flashed a quick smile. He turned around and shouted towards the kitchen.

"Yo! We found them!"

About a dozen people materialized out of nowhere, surrounding me.

Ah, fuck.

I tried to talk my way out of it.

"Look, this has nothing to do with us. For one, this is between Mary and her boyfriend. For two, there was no harm done, she was wrapped in a blanket the whole time."

"It's a question of principle dude, that shit's fucked up."

I continued trying to convince them, and mid-sentence, one of them said:

"I'm sick of hearing you talk."

And punched me square in the face.

I fell to the bed and bounced right back up. I only felt the first punch, everything else was numbed by all the coke. From the corner of my eye I saw Jimmy attempt to do something but the guy next to him simply slapped his hand and I saw him fold over in pain. I didn't expect him to be able to do anything, I could barely even imagine the excruciating pain he must have been in.

As soon as I got back to my feet, four of them wailed on me. I kept bouncing back from the bed, impervious to the pain, but I didn't stand a chance.

Jimmy finally jumped on me and held my head down.

"Stay down Alex, stay down."

"Fuck that shit."

I struggled against him. If I get my ass handed to me, fine. But no way in hell I'm going to just lay here and take it like a bitch. Or so I thought.

"They pulled out a razor."

I calmed down almost immediately. These fuckers meant to cut me. I don't mind getting beat, but disfigured? Nah chills lol.

So I just laid there, curled up in a ball, pounded over and over. They tried to take my wallet, which I desperately gripped until my knuckles were drained of blood. That earned another dozen punches.

But that wasn't the worst. I felt one of their boots accidentally rest right by my crotch. I could feel the cool outside air wafting off of the suede, I could imagine the hardened boot blasting my balls to Kingdom No-More-Cum, and I prayed.

God, I know that you know that I don't believe in you, but if you're there, please, please don't let him kick.

You would think I'd be a fervent Christian crusader by now. My heart slowed its pulse when I felt the boot withdraw from the danger zone.

"Do you have any pills?"

I was just fronted fifty pills and they were in my left pocket, that I was laying on. But if I lost those pills, I would have been in some shit. I would have had to figure out a way to come up with $500 to pay it back. I had nowhere near $500.

I shook my head no, expecting they would kick my ass some more, unhappy with my answer. But instead one of them said to let me be, and they left.

I almost immediately got up. The puddle of blood on the bed was quite impressive actually. Close to two feet in diameter. I went straight to the bathroom to check my nose. Like I said, the coke numbed all the pain, and I thought they broke my nose.

Washing all the blood off my face, I fidget with my nose, and feel nothing. No, not nothing as in, numbness. I felt no pain, no brokeness, nothing. I didn't even have a black eye. I had a slightly fat lip, a couple bruises on my back, and that's it. Only conclusion? They punch like bitches.

As soon as I'm done, I snapped at Sung.

"How the fuck do you let twelve guys walk into your house like that?"

"My friend just left, I thought it was him coming back because he forgot something so I didn't check before I opened the door."

Sung talked ridiculously fast. To the point you can't understand him. I'll spare you all the "what?" and "huh?" for brevity's sake.

"And what, you can't close the door after you realized it wasn't him?"

"Well, they shoved their foot in the door and said if I didn't let them in, they'd kick the door down."

I just shook my head.

"You're a fucking idiot. Close the fucking door. If they kick that shit down, call the cops. And worse comes to worst, if they do somehow make it in, don't just let them wander around your house freely! Come tell me so I can get ready! They're obviously not here to party with us!"

I was pissed. I couldn't believe someone could be that stupid.

"And on top of that, you didn't do shit!"

"What was I supposed to do? There were so many of them!"

Now his tone became defensive.

I sighed and shook my head.

"Look, I thought we were boys. And what that means to me is, I rather get my ass whooped with you than watch you get your ass handed to you by yourself. Jimmy has a broken hand and he tried to do something. The fuck..."

The conversation ended there. Mary eventually came over, pissed as hell, apologizing, and she eventually broke up w/ the guy. Apparently he claims to have had nothing to do with it, his story goes like this. He was home, and his boys came through saying they were going to go cop some pills. He agreed, hopped in the car, and they went to Sung's house. What they meant by copping pills was, jumping my ass and robbing me.

For the rest of the night, I kept thinking I got jumped by twelve guys, until Jen said, "It was only eleven guys. The other one is a dyke." (no offense to readers, she was bisexual at the time, I'm just transliterating or whatever that word is)

Great, so I got jumped by eleven guys and a lesbian.

An Unexpected End

2009-10-15T12:35:00.003-04:00

So one day during the hazy summer of 2001, right after I dropped out of college, I was hanging out with my friend Sung in Flushing. We were completely tapped out, with only $40 between the two of us, but yearning for that next high just as much anyway.

I spent most of that day calling various people trying to get four ecstasy pills but as life often throws a curveball at us while snickering from the sidelines, everyone I knew was dry as well. We finally get a hold of this one guy Will, from Forest Hills and he tells me he doesn't have any pills but he has some Special K (no, not the cereal, ketamine, it's an animal tranquilizer used by vets).

Beggars can't be choosers (K was never my preferred drug), Sung and I, now joined by two other friends, Arturo and another Alex, trooped out to Forest Hills.

They waited at a corner while I was in the car. He gave me a jar of K for $40, then asked me if I wanted a second one.

"That's all the money I have."

And like any respectable drug dealer he replies, "Don't worry about it, I'll front you that, I know you're good for it."

Even knowing that he was doing me no favors, I was still happier than a pig in shit on a sweltering fly infested summer jungle day.

I told the others the good news and decided to go back to Main St., when Arturo realizes he has no more money on his Metrocard. As we're trying to solve this dilemma, he says, "Go on ahead I'll catch up with you guys."

"What? The bus goes on the highway. No way you'll get there anytime soon," I replied skeptically.

He insisted.

"Okay look, I'll give you ten minutes after we get there before we leave."

He agreed. Mind you, Arturo is in no way fit. A little on the chubbier side and not too physically active, he was one of the last people I'd to expect to pull this off.

We got back to Main St. and waited. Five minutes. Six. Then at either seven or eight minutes, my jaw almost dropped when I saw his out of shape ass panting down the street.

"I have to give it to you," I laughed, "you've earned your high."

We decided to go up to the LIRR platform nearby. It had those sheltered areas and was rather empty at that time.

We somehow had a CD case with us at the time (sadly, I'm pretty sure it wasn't carried around for the music), and I poured myself a line.

Ketamine in it's original form is a liquid, but when heated, it crystallizes. In the States, snorting it is the most common practice, as far as I know.

But my eyes were bigger than my stomach (or more accurately bigger than my nostrils) since I had been looking forward to this moment all day long. I was a little heavy handed and poured myself about a four inch line. Special K isn't like cocaine in terms of how much you take at a time or anything for that matter.

Sung was next. He was also heavy handed but instead of doing it all he left some for the next person. For some reason however, neither of them were willing to snort his "leftovers." They insisted that they wanted their own lines, as if it made a difference. Thinking it was the most ridiculous thing I had ever heard (sheesh, have I ever been right when thinking that?), I finished the excess powder, even before the first had kicked in.

What ensued wasn't quite a K-Hole, which is the equivalent of a bad trip but usually involves a sensation of falling into spiraling holes. But it was a bad trip alright.

I have a tendency to become very confused and lost on K. It's a dissociative drug which I've taken to mean that it disconnects you from reality.

I suddenly had no idea where I was. I kept asking my friends over and over.

"Where are we?"

"Flushing."

"No but like where are we?"

"Uh. Queens, New York City?"

"No but, WHERE are...l

You get the point. This extrapolated to the size of the universe before long. The next segment wasn't so innocent.

My brain decided it'd be interesting to pretend that I was a junkie since birth and that I had been living on the streets my entire life. Nineteen years straight of constant drugs and homelessness is some depressing shit.

In between these bouts of total helplessness and utter despair, I overheard Sung and Arturo saying, " Oh man, Alex thinks he's going to die."

They said it enough times to convince my dysfunctional mind that they thought, that I thought I was going to die. My legs felt like jello. No, I lied, I couldn't feel my legs. I was short of breath. The walls of my mind were collapsing on me, crushing me, head spinning, where am I? Who am I?

I started thinking I was going to die. I retched a little and gagged. I tried to stand only to find that my legs were completely useless. Numb. Limp. I sat there feeling worse than I had ever felt in my entire life, drained of any positive thought. I later found out that they were talking about the other Alex. FML.

I slowly sobered up, after... honestly, I have no idea how much time had passed. But my body was still weak. The stairs down from the LIRR station were long. Real long. And not just because I just came back from a bad trip. Go see for yourself, them fuckers are LONG!

I wobbled my way down. I would have bet a grand that I was going to face-plant just by walking. Luckily made it down safely, sat down on a bench, and called a friend of mine I was hanging out with a lot at the time.

"Hey Mary, where are you?"

"Dinner in Flushing with some friends, what's up?"

I filled her in on what happened. Concerned, she came by to make sure I was okay, and I eventually went back to Sung's house.

The other Alex went home, so it was just the three of us. Sung made me some food that I barely ate although it was pretty damn good. I tried to sleep. After a few seconds of having my eyes closed, my body suddenly cramped up. My entire body. And it hurt. I moved a little and it went away. Shrugging it off, I tried to go back to sleep. And again, every muscle fiber in my body locked up and extreme, indescribable pain shot through me until I would move my body.

Then it would all go away.

"What the fuck..."

It's mind over matter I told myself. There's no way my entire body is cramping, it's unheard of. So I closed my eyes again, determined to not give in to the pain. The cramping came. I winced but didn't move. My body, more tense than the seconds before OJ's verdict, screamed at me.

Fucking idiot, move your fucking ass, NOW!

I resisted. And resisted. It wouldn't fucking go away. I waited until I couldn't take it anymore, then waited some more. I struggled uselessly. I caved and moved, then the relief of being pain-free washed over me in a breath of fresh air.

How the hell was I going to sleep? I had no idea. This night couldn't get any worse. But my body was probably abused to the point it was on the brink of exhaustion, and I slipped into sleep without even realizing it.

The next morning my phone woke me up. It said "Home." Still groggy, I answered, expecting to hear my mom. It was my step father.

"Alex, where are you?"

I was taken aback by the sudden question. During this phase of my life, home rarely called. And if they did call, it was always my mom.

"Queens."

"You just wake up?"

I rolled my eyes, already knowing where this was going. Since I had recently dropped out of college, and I was supposed to be out looking for work instead of partying like a rockstar.

"Yeah," I answered, resigned.

And what I thought to be the most unexpected thing he could say:

"Good, stay there."

Boy, I've never been more wrong about anything since. Before my mind could even formulate my short, one word question (What...?), he continues, "They blew up the World Trade."

My mind was done playing catch up, and uttered that one word. The wrong one came out.

"Who?"

Dumbest question of the century for sure.

"Uhh... Terrorists." (lol thinking back, he must have thought I was retarded)

My heart dropped to the pit of my stomach as reality bitch slapped the shit out of me. I staggered out of the bedroom, still on the phone, the TV was on, Sung and Arturo in front, and I literally thought it was a movie, until my eyes saw "CNN" in the bottom right.

"Holy shit..." I said under my breath. Then frantically, "Are you okay? What about mom and Ethan?"

Ethan's my little half brother, he was four at the time. My family lives in Tribeca, so we were a matter of blocks away from Ground Zero. My stepdad worked in the World Financial building, right next to the twin towers. My little brother went to school a few blocks away.

And know that I'm not religious, but at times like these, I sometimes wonder if I really don't have a guardian angel watching over me. My family was untouched and safe.

In the end, I couldn't go home for a couple weeks, not like I was planning to anyway. On my way back, they asked me to buy some face masks because of the asbestos, and when I got back to Tribeca, I had a glimpse of what third world countries must experience, seeing military vehicles driving down the street, everyone panicky, the fear and confusion so thick you suffocate in it.

I walked in through the door of my apartment, and at the sight of me, my mom burst into tears. We hugged fiercely and I cried too. This hit too close to home. Literally. The gravity and immediacy of the situation was overwhelming, I was barely able to comprehend how lucky I was, but we all knew just how close we came to losing what we loved most.

My stepdad's friends lived in Battery Park, and their apartment was destroyed. They had to flee, one shoe on, ashy and disheveled all the way to my mom's place. They crashed in my room. I stayed until nightfall, but the transition from one extreme to the other, from artificial highs to such a depressing low was jarring. I couldn't take it.

I called up some friends and left; I went to drown out reality with drug-induced fantasies and emotions.

A different kind of love letter

2009-10-14T16:40:00.001-04:00

A letter my mom sent me in jail.

"In general, there are two kinds of love, one that rocks your world, and the kind that soothes your heart. When we are young, we tend to believe the first to being the real deal, because we want drama (not to mention the greatest loves in literature, films and music of all times are of the first kind), because we long to feel the flutters in our hearts, because we envision the height it'll take us, and we can't wait to take that plunge... then we grow up. But still there are those who still pine for it despite their age, until the end of time. They, we call them the old fools.

The other kind is more complicated. It isn't so much the falls and the heartbreaks but the everyday aches that hurt. I think you truly love somebody when it pains you to see him/her smile. The love pain - almost a strum in your heart, it's so sweet that it hurts and brings tears of gratitude - thankful to having this person to love. When it breaks you to see him/her in a stage of struggle, so much that you'll step in and take over that fight of hardship to stop that pain - that pain of your own heart breaking and when you'd rather trade places with him/her than to see him/her hurt and suffer, because somehow it is easier to take the pain in your body than in your heart.

It is an adventure, almost a drug, to love someone... and a blessing to be loved... Unlike what most believe, the power lies in the one who loves and not in the beloved. The beloved is merely chosen - for in some small way he/she calls to his/her lover, the beneficiary so to speak, and the lover, the donor, who decides all... Because ultimately it ends when the lover decidedly stops loving...

In the end it doesn't matter how great the love, once gone, it will fade over time and will be replaced by another eventually. For all the obvious reasons but mainly it is our instinct to survive that moves us forward. I cannot fathom a love so great that the loss of which will leave a person so incomplete, that it mars him/her forever... except when that love is but a vision, her/his very own, for then no one can replace that..."

Some things never change

2009-10-14T16:33:00.003-04:00

Some background on this post is needed. I don't know my biological father. My parents divorced when I was young, and at the age of seven I went to live in France with my grandmother and her husband who became my guardian dad.

My father had been trying to find both my mom and me for 20+ years. My mom never thought it was the right time for me to reconnect with my father until 2007, so for 20 or so years, everytime my father found her number, she recognized his voice and said it was the wrong number.

So when I finally spoke to my father for the first time that I remember, things went smoothly, and we gathered that he was doing rather well for himself in China. As time went on though, he made false promises, was very disrepectful towards my mom, and found it very hard to believe that we were actually leading happy lives despite his absence.

In the end, there were multiple silences which lasted months, I sent an email saying some things never change, to which he replied that he was in an accident. He offered to send pictures of his injuries as proof, but instead he sent a black and white webcam pic, very low resolution, meanwhile his vacation pictures he sent in the same batch were all taken from a real digital camera and were clear.

He spoke to my mom one last time and indicated that he didn't understand my previous email when I politely told him to fuck off.

Here's the second and last email.

* * * * * * * *

"first, i would like to express my condolences for the deaths in your family. i do hope ur doing well

so i heard u had a few questions about the whole situation and regarding my last letter, so instead of leaving u to hear it from a third party, i rather have closure with people directly as to avoid misunderstandings

so lets start with the last email sent. i was doing my best to remain neutral and cordial, and above all to be respectful, but since it wasnt understood (although i thought it was painfully clear), i'll repeat myself in laymans terms

yes, i did say for u to find another son, because i have found a father who has raised me with respectable and good values, to whom i owe a defining portion of who i am today. he also taught me about the honor of being a man, abiding by my word. sure, we've all told lies before, i'm not claiming otherwise, but when a person is even thinking about lying and making empty promises to his son he hasn't seen in 20ish years, i think i can safely say thats in a league of its own

and ur reaction to mom when she asked for the money back? deplorable. if u cant even own up to a commitment of $3,000 (which, in ur own words, isnt $3,000,000!!), how can i expect u to commit to me as ur son? if i recall correctly, it was your idea, to pay my ex off for her furniture, it was your screen name that was asking for a loan from mom. and now u wont pay it back? i didnt need to buy the furniture to begin with. as much as i hate doing it, i can still break up my own relationships without paying the girl off. and that was ur solution? next thing i know, ur trying to pay me off too...

... or were u, with false promises of cars and six star resorts, inheritance and a lavish lifestyle...

on that same note, u couldnt even manage to visit? lol, what good is all that money u claim to have if u dont put it to use? i apologize, i should have realized! a quick weekend flight (especially if finances arent a concern) to visit ur long lost son is impossibly unbearable. i rest my case.

next. u mentioned that u want to talk about the past, because without the past, what else do u have to talk to me about? look, i thought i was doing u a favor by not holding u to the past, but hey, if u insist, sure i'll talk about it

for starters, why'd u kick me in the chest? or push me with ur foot, whatever u want to call it. in the end all it did was leave me with the memory that it was a kick, and ultimately from my perspective since i've lived all these years with that memory, doesnt that make it the truth to me? funny how the truth can be relative sometimes

and, where are my puzzles from the xmas when i was, 6, i think? or my nintendo that i left in taiwan? see, do u really want to talk about the past with me? thats my past of u. i was willing to give u a clean slate, but i guess ur an emotional masochist

(by the way, i dont actually expect answers to the above questions, i'd rather skip the bs)

ok, now what? since u got me started, i might as well finish. oh yeah. ur condescending tone to mom? the fact that u cant believe that we're happy with the lives we have? c'mon. what did u think, that we couldnt have possibly survived without u? that u would swoop down to rescue us and be our knight in shining armor? lol. no comment

also, just out of curiosity, of all the pictures u sent, why is the pic of ur scar the only one taken from a webcam? and in black & white? meanwhile every other one was a high resolution color pic? ur gonna say they were from a friends digital camera or something along those lines... with a mercedes amg 55 u dont own a real camera? lol

and give us some goddamn respect. dont talk to us or try to play mind games with us like we're fucking idiots. u do NOT know me, dont assume u do. and if ur going to lie to me, at least come up with something new, put some thought into it so its not so obvious. i just wanted to give u the benefit of the doubt

bottom line is, u screwed up. i gave u a year (ok, ok, 11 months) to back up ur words. ur failure to do so, well, thats on u. but, mom was right in saying i would see u if u showed up in nyc. its rather childish not to. but dont come here expecting a 7 year old boy. it'll just be annoying

so does this sum things up? most of this email is rhetorical, i dont need an answer. ur words, tone, attitude and lack of action so far have spoken enough for themselves."

A bootylicious babe

2009-10-14T16:00:00.002-04:00

I met Lisa on 11/07/01. I had just gotten arrested nine days prior, released on bail after four days, and needless to say, I was broke as hell. So what do you do, at 19 years old, with less than ten dollars to your name, and on your way to jail?

Go online lol. I used to go on AOL (still do occasionally), and there used to be this chat room called "nyc asians." Self explanatory enough. So I'm sitting there, minding my own business, looking through girls' profiles, and this one girl, "bo0tilishuzbabe" said in her profile that she promoted for this club, Exit.

Right before my arrest, I used to deal at that club, and from that one common ground, we started a conversation. She mentioned how she just started shooting pool and asked if I would be willing to teach her. I obviously agreed.

This all happened around 5:00am, and we met later that day around 10:00pm. We met at Sambuca's, this cafe in Chinatown, not too far from my mom's place. I'm waiting on Canal St. and Mulberry St., and across the street I see this tiny lil thing walk to the corner.

"Lisa?!" I shouted tentatively across the street.

I saw her head look around in search of the source of her name, and she finally saw me. The usual introduction ensues, we go inside Sambuca's, and since she had just finished a promoter's meeting, she was with around eight people.

We sat at a table off to the side, alone, and got to know each other. We eventually went to karaoke, and that's when I found out that this guy Johnny who was there, had been trying to hook up with Lisa for months.

Now, I'm not a big dude. I'm actually short and pretty small. So when I say Johnny was little, I mean it literally and without exaggeration.

Lisa stood at five foot nothing without heels. He was shorter than she was with heels on. Enough said.

Anyhow, sipping on my beer in the karaoke room, Lisa and I are flirting, whispering into each others ear, lips barely brushing, interrupted a couple of times by cock-blockers, then she leans over the low table to reach something on the other side.

And I had to remind myself to breathe. For a tiny lil asian girl, she had one hell of an ass!

After karaoke, most people left and it was just Johnny, Lisa and me. Johnny asks her what she feels like doing (mind you, I had just met Lisa hours earlier), and she turns to me and asks what we're going to do. Caught off-guard since I was expecting her to make plans then ask if I wanted to join if anything, I replied, "Well I'm kinda broke so yeah..."

Johnny suggests that we go shoot pool at Broadway Billiards, and again I reiterate that I have no money on me. We somehow ended up cabbing it there anyway.

Now, either Lisa was a very quick learner, or she was lying to me lol, because for someone who had only shot pool three times, I didn't have much to teach her. We spent a couple hours there, then cabbed it back to Chinatown.

Driving down Broadway, once we made it to Chinatown, the unavoidable question surfaced. Where is Lisa going? So, after Johnny pays for a cab to the pool hall, then pays for the table time at the pool hall, and again pays for the cab back from the pool hall (all this for three people), Lisa says:

"I'm gonna go to Alex's."

I'm pretty sure I must have smirked.

Now, dear reader, you must be thinking, what kind of girl is she, going back to your place less than 24 hours after meeting you online! Yeah, that crossed my mind too. You'd be surprised to know that we were together for 18 months before I was sent to jail. And you'd be even more surprised to find out that this relationship only truly ended two months ago. Also, I was her first (wtf, right?)

We went through thick and thin. It was us against the world. And against each other. The type of relationship you can only dream of, because you can only have it when you're young and naive. Or just very lucky. The passion, loyalty, blind devotion, trust... most of which have very little room in reality.

She was the morning sunshine after a nightmare; she was my confidante; she was my everything. In retrospect, where did things go wrong? Probably right from the start. How could we have prevented our recent break up? Probably couldn't. Do I regret having ever met her? Never.

Lisa will most likely always have a part of my heart, not her as a person, but the memory of her that has crystallized in my mind's eye, only reinforced by months and months of incarceration.

Obviously we had our problems. And I can't deny the pain and disappointment that I felt over the years. But despite all of it, I kept on trying. Despite all of it, I kept on loving. What's the point of having a heart, if you don't use it because you're afraid it'll be broken?

Despite it all, I will always move on.

I Bleed

2009-10-10T16:13:00.005-04:00

a rhyme I wrote, there's a youtube link to the beat

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zIfDZ_ww0CY&feature=channel

im only playing with the hand that was dealt to me
in the care of lady luck, im a living prophecy

tryna make the best from a petty life of greed
escaping from the grasp of my realities

my addictions to the underground never ceased
temptations never setting me fully free

i battled with the beast within for eternity
please let me be, the last of a dying breed

this eternal hell and pain isnt meant to be
witnessed by the faculties of mentality

caged soul bound by the shackles of treachery
cold as ice as my eyes witness this tragedy

lies from the lips you love on a path of misery
hips and thighs mesmerize got you acting differently

so i bleed so i bleed so i bleed

* * * * * * * *

i shoulda asked for some proof of paternity
but they dont gauge another man's veracity

you have to see for yourself past hypocrisy
picking up empty promises to the third degree

everything nowadays happens for a reason see
destiny runs its course even with disbelief

im a learned cynic tagged with a felony
never led astray by the off key melodies

i cant help but pity the parody
of a man reaching desperately for his family

he's not worth any more mention lyrically
he's as good as dead to me, mentally, physically

i repent for a life of immoral deeds
got me wondering if im nothing but an evil seed

quicksand drowning in the doubts of self deceit
never giving up at the cruel hands of defeat

breathe for another day, better times painlessly
there will be time for redemption thankfully

lessons from a fallen soldier on the battlefield
is it true when they say that every wound heals

new york to cali i give you a rhapsody
classical portrait of a broken family

so i bleed so i bleed so i bleed

* * * * * * * *

i do have to say i chose my path selfishly
fear the cold wrath of a man waiting patiently

surrounded by deceptive masks of heresy
how can a single man overthrow fallacies

conformity with the masses is policy
contract killings are the norm, no compliancy

so rest in peace or agree with the Agency
learn to shut your mouth and not speak blatantly

eyes shifty coz the world is your enemy
if you can't beat em, join em coz you're outta strategies

nothing ever is what it first seems to be
number one lesson learned in a conspiracy

in a cube 9 by 9 dying with a cellie
sharing 9 square feet coz i used to sell ecstasy

23 and 1, going crazy in solitary
serving us trash and green expired meat

consequences of the past finally catching up to me
its time to pay the piper he wasnt sworn to secrecy

progression of the world at the cost of purity
corruption is the bane of a lost humanity

intricate patterns of behavior like a tapestry
and every word i say, know i say it factually

so i bleed so i bleed so i bleed

* * * * * * * *

tragic memories from a child lost at sea
passed down in my genes from my ancestry

its a never ending circle in a cycle viciously
thats the burden of the curse of my family

bound by the chains of time, can we break free?
can we see the light of day, smiling happily?

maybe many days, far from now eventually
but it will likely never be a probability

so i bleed so i bleed so i bleed

"Who the hell are you," you wonder?

2009-10-01T15:08:00.000-04:00

A little introduction is in order so that all the other posts are at least somewhat coherent.

To sum it up neatly, I was born in Cali, came from a temporarily prospering family which ended as a fragmented one, raised in France, kicked out and sent back to NYC (I moved around a lot prior to moving to France, and lived in NYC for a couple years), went to a boarding school upstate NY, then an irresponsible lifestyle led to my dropping out of college and being arrested for selling ecstasy.

Sentenced to 2.5 years of prison, after 1.5 years of pretrial and 3 years of probation, I dealt with the feds for 7 years of my life. Right now (at 27), that's a little more than a quarter of my entire life. All this for 1,500 pills, a profit margin of no more than $5,000 lol. Pitiful, but my motivation for selling drugs wasn't to make a profit, but rather to get free drugs and maintain the lifestyle I was accustomed to. I didn't really abide by the rule "Don't get high off your own supply," but with all the drugs in my system, I'm pretty confident my brain wasn't functioning properly.

This should, in essence, put into perspective the rest of the memories and stories posted here. Some have somewhat of a moral, or a lesson learned upon reflection. Some are just funny or crazy. Some might be rhymes, short fictional stories, or just memories. Oh great, the ramblings of an ex-junkie...

Basically you get a free peak into my soul and a sideline seat to my battle with my inner beast(s), which, up until recently, I thought was going to be a never-ending fight.

Hope you enjoy reading this as much as I will writing it. Then again, if you don't, this is about MY life, not yours ;P