From: BXXXXXXXXXX X. XXXXXXXXXX [XXXXXXXXXX]
Sent: Friday, November 03, 2006 8:47 AM
Subject: Value Briefing Webinar November 14th
I am forwarding this event information to you because I feel it may benefit you. If you do not wish to received future event information please let me know. Have a great day!
XXXXXXXXXX X. XXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXX | Voice XXXXXXXXXX | E-mail XXXXXXXXXX
Microsoft Corporation | Communications Sector North America | Solution Specialist – Enterprise Project Management
Microsoft Portfolio Server and Office Project Server 2007 Value briefing:
Selecting the Right Work and Doing the Work Right!
50% of organizations today are applying a mix of enterprise project and portfolio management techniques. Of those 40% of the value of projects is still lost. However, companies that have put their focus on “Selecting the right projects, the right way, at the right time” are attaining a yield of 50% or more from their projects*. *Source: Dr. Howard Rubin Meta Group
Please join us on November 14th, 2006 to learn how you can align, prioritize, and optimize your project investments by 50% or more leveraging the latest Microsoft technology! In this webinar, LMR Solutions, a two-time award winner for Microsoft EPM Best Practices, will discuss the challenges that many organizations face in managing their project portfolios and how these organizations can alleviate these challenges through the proper balance of process, governance framework, and technology.
You’ll understand how to leverage the latest Microsoft offerings, Microsoft Office Project Portfolio Server 2006 and Project Server 2007 to support an integrated portfolio and project environment so that organizations can synchronize their top-down portfolio management strategy with bottoms-up project delivery, effectively ‘Selecting the Right Work’ and ‘Doing the Work Right’.
Session topics will include:
· An overview of the Portfolio Management discipline and process
· Aligning, prioritizing, and optimizing your project portfolio
· A Roadmap to Project Portfolio Management Maturity
· Demonstration of an integrated Microsoft Office Project Portfolio Server 2006 & Project Server 2007 solution
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From: Wolfe, Whitney
Sent: Friday, November 03, 2006 10:17 AM
To: Bell, James
Subject: FW: Value Briefing Webinar November 14th
May be useful to you…
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: Bell, James
Sent: Friday, November 03, 2006 9:18 AM
To: Wolfe, Whitney
Subject: RE: Value Briefing Webinar November 14th
I think you sent this to me already.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: Wolfe, Whitney
Sent: Friday, November 03, 2006 10:22 AM
To: Bell, James
Cc: Geddes, Edward
Subject: RE: Value Briefing Webinar November 14th
I just received this this morning…sorry if it’s the same email as a few weeks ago…I was just trying to keep you informed of potential developments which could help you and JAC. Forgive me for trying to foster an atmosphere of collaboration. You obviously want to perpetuate a silo’d approach to working. For shame James, For Shame…
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: Bell, James
Sent: Friday, November 03, 2006 9:44 AM
To: Wolfe, Whitney
Subject: RE: Value Briefing Webinar November 14th
I already signed up for this seminar in an effort to dispel your distorted, paranoid sense of reality. I thought by letting you know that I had not only seen but read and understood your previous forward you might release yourself from your own twisted perceptions. Alas to no avail. Will you always be trapped in this cage of self-deception? I have done my best; the rest is up to you.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: Wolfe, Whitney
Sent: Friday, November 03, 2006 10:57 AM
To: Bell, James
Subject: RE: Value Briefing Webinar November 14th
I just got off the phone with Brian T. Makar. Your rights to any and all Microsoft related seminars have been revoked. I think you need an attitude adjustment. You should spend some time thinking about what you’ve done and the implications of your actions.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
From: Bell, James
Sent: Friday, November 03, 2006 10:44 AM
To: Wolfe, Whitney
Subject: RE: Value Briefing Webinar November 14th
You are an escalation monster. Clearly the only way you can express yourself is through violence and intimidation, but remember this…I am a cockney street fighting bitch that will scrapple with you any day. I just got off the phone with George G. Irwin, regional manager of six Manhattan TCBY stores in our area. You, my dear friend are BANNED! Yes BANNED! From enjoying the delicious yet healthy yogurt treats in a 12 block area from our office.
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11/03/2006
8/18/2006
Dick Cheney and Jules Dassin
I recently learned from the commentary track on Jules Dassin's film "Night and the City" by Glenn Erikson that by the mid-sixties, right-wingers denied that there had ever been any black-listing in America during the forties and fifties. I would imagine they also downplayed the fact that fear mongering and persecution was the legitimate path to power for the Republican Party. By jettisoning the negative associations contained in the body of one out-of-control megalomaniac, other in-control megalomaniacs like Nixon could rise above.
Only in the 1970's, when films like "Night and the City" toured campuses and art house theatres did something like truth re-enter into the public conscience as the stories of those black-listed directors, and their stark films, became more relevant as Vietnam came home.
I wonder how long it will take for a clear vision of the damage Cheneyism has wrought on our land to be not just articulated, but accepted. What will be the form of this expresion? When will it be recognized by a majority of the public? How much of the public would be enticed to discern the truth from the lies? Regardless of the approval rating, the statements Cheney has made are calculated to impassion his audience with a strong narrative. And in that way, no supporters would see any connection in tactics between " Connecticut is aiding Al-Qaeda" and "Are you or have you ever been in the communist party?"
I can only hope that the wave of technology that continues to subvert the mainstream media will, in the short-term, create a more sensitive instrument for detecting falsehood. Only then will Cheney's outrageous statements sound as tinny as they truly are. Hopefully, like the delusional Harry Fabian, played by Richard Widmark in the film, his most extreme statements are marking the beginning of his political end.
Only in the 1970's, when films like "Night and the City" toured campuses and art house theatres did something like truth re-enter into the public conscience as the stories of those black-listed directors, and their stark films, became more relevant as Vietnam came home.
I wonder how long it will take for a clear vision of the damage Cheneyism has wrought on our land to be not just articulated, but accepted. What will be the form of this expresion? When will it be recognized by a majority of the public? How much of the public would be enticed to discern the truth from the lies? Regardless of the approval rating, the statements Cheney has made are calculated to impassion his audience with a strong narrative. And in that way, no supporters would see any connection in tactics between " Connecticut is aiding Al-Qaeda" and "Are you or have you ever been in the communist party?"
I can only hope that the wave of technology that continues to subvert the mainstream media will, in the short-term, create a more sensitive instrument for detecting falsehood. Only then will Cheney's outrageous statements sound as tinny as they truly are. Hopefully, like the delusional Harry Fabian, played by Richard Widmark in the film, his most extreme statements are marking the beginning of his political end.
Counting Calories
I cannot become obsessed with the elements of my body that are real as defined by sight, touch, taste and smell, but only the signifiers that give feedback to my body image. These signifiers range from "state of body" feelings, to how one actually sees their own body in a mirror, all of which can radically alter as a day progresses as the body image is constantly reevaluated by my own conscience.
I cannot become obsessed about how my body feels, but only the body image itself. One might argue that using substances to change how one's body feels can be obsessive to the point of addiction, but it is clearly changing the perception of feeling, not the direct feeling one recieves from their body. Alcohol, when it is in our bloodstream, changes our bodies directly and immediately but more importantly it changes how we perceive our bodies. It is the impact on perception that is essential, not the dehydration, high blood pressure and impaired mental faculty.
In the same way, I won't exercise because it makes me fit, I will exercise because it allows me to change how I perceive my body image. I seek to be fit based on a measurable signifier. Enhancing the body image is dangled like a carrot. In Six Sigma speak, it is the statement "anything that can be measured can be improved". This might seem childish to those who are are comfortable with connecting the body, the signifier and the image, but for me, these are very different spheres and connecting them as related goals is impossible.
That is why I feel drawn to a a web site like this (www.fitday.com). It allows me to understand why the calorie counting craze has been so strong in our culture, all the way back to when my mother diet-ed in the 1970s. It allows you to create a portrait of your body image that is at once removed from the body itself and yet a perfect system for modifying, comparing, and adjusting. Always ripe for revision as I constantly alter my image defined by graphs of intake, output and waste. By modifying this image, I percieve I am changing my behavior.
Does it really change behavior? Of course not, but it does create obsessive behavior. What will drive me to change my behavior? Only when I willingly commit to the worship of the body image, one which I am constantly rejecting. It is a crisis of faith, one that posits that if you believe in the body image, you can attain the body image which is forever your true mirror.
I cannot become obsessed about how my body feels, but only the body image itself. One might argue that using substances to change how one's body feels can be obsessive to the point of addiction, but it is clearly changing the perception of feeling, not the direct feeling one recieves from their body. Alcohol, when it is in our bloodstream, changes our bodies directly and immediately but more importantly it changes how we perceive our bodies. It is the impact on perception that is essential, not the dehydration, high blood pressure and impaired mental faculty.
In the same way, I won't exercise because it makes me fit, I will exercise because it allows me to change how I perceive my body image. I seek to be fit based on a measurable signifier. Enhancing the body image is dangled like a carrot. In Six Sigma speak, it is the statement "anything that can be measured can be improved". This might seem childish to those who are are comfortable with connecting the body, the signifier and the image, but for me, these are very different spheres and connecting them as related goals is impossible.
That is why I feel drawn to a a web site like this (www.fitday.com). It allows me to understand why the calorie counting craze has been so strong in our culture, all the way back to when my mother diet-ed in the 1970s. It allows you to create a portrait of your body image that is at once removed from the body itself and yet a perfect system for modifying, comparing, and adjusting. Always ripe for revision as I constantly alter my image defined by graphs of intake, output and waste. By modifying this image, I percieve I am changing my behavior.
Does it really change behavior? Of course not, but it does create obsessive behavior. What will drive me to change my behavior? Only when I willingly commit to the worship of the body image, one which I am constantly rejecting. It is a crisis of faith, one that posits that if you believe in the body image, you can attain the body image which is forever your true mirror.
4/04/2006
Dim Bulb
REWRITE:
Dear Sunbox Corporation,
Your website needs to be revamped so I can order light bulbs by lamp type.
I have a Sunbox DL and am disappointed I have to disassemble the front cover of my lamp to identify the bulb type. I then have to reassemble it to use it while I wait for the bulbs to show up. Then I have to do it again, to install the bulbs.
Why can't you list the width and lux power of the bulbs that go with the product on the product page? Then I could order replacements off the product page.
OR you could just link to the bulb page and list the models that it fits below.
Either way you are delivering extra customer service at little cost.
IF you do option one, it would allow you to up-sell extra bulbs that go with the product at the time of purchase. This would probably increase you revenue by 5-10% with only a little investment on your website.
Personally, when the light bulbs burned out in my original sunbox, I found it very difficult to get the correct replacement bulbs. And in my winter depressive state, I pretty much said "fuck it" and let the lamp sit unused for a long, long time.
In fact, your product went into storage for several years. That is years of bulb sales you missed.
Listen to me, I am the voice of the consumer.
Dear Sunbox Corporation,
Your website needs to be revamped so I can order light bulbs by lamp type.
I have a Sunbox DL and am disappointed I have to disassemble the front cover of my lamp to identify the bulb type. I then have to reassemble it to use it while I wait for the bulbs to show up. Then I have to do it again, to install the bulbs.
Why can't you list the width and lux power of the bulbs that go with the product on the product page? Then I could order replacements off the product page.
OR you could just link to the bulb page and list the models that it fits below.
Either way you are delivering extra customer service at little cost.
IF you do option one, it would allow you to up-sell extra bulbs that go with the product at the time of purchase. This would probably increase you revenue by 5-10% with only a little investment on your website.
Personally, when the light bulbs burned out in my original sunbox, I found it very difficult to get the correct replacement bulbs. And in my winter depressive state, I pretty much said "fuck it" and let the lamp sit unused for a long, long time.
In fact, your product went into storage for several years. That is years of bulb sales you missed.
Listen to me, I am the voice of the consumer.
3/26/2006
Ambien
Ambien is a sleepy cat,
But you know that
In fact, it would not surprise you
To see her go
To sleep on cue
Not put to sleep
But go to sleep
As in late at night
Counting sheep
Her teetering and tottering
Gives you a clue
Of what is about to ensue
But give a push and a prod
Keep away the nod
For now you have an opportunity
To let Ambien know what
How you think of her
It is a chance to explain
How you want to hang
Yourself
When she rants and raves
About herself
Her petty victories or backstabbing stance
Or personal affronts
Which all to often
You must bear the brunt
It is enough to keep you up at night
Your mind running in tight
Little circles
So be honest for a change
Get it off your chest
Because odds are
After you have expressed
Your anger, scorn and wrath
The the morning after the aftermath
It will not be on Ambien's mind
More likely it will be
Who left behind
The empty pint of Chunky Monkey and
Crummy cracker wrappers
According to her
It is all that matters
But you know that
In fact, it would not surprise you
To see her go
To sleep on cue
Not put to sleep
But go to sleep
As in late at night
Counting sheep
Her teetering and tottering
Gives you a clue
Of what is about to ensue
But give a push and a prod
Keep away the nod
For now you have an opportunity
To let Ambien know what
How you think of her
It is a chance to explain
How you want to hang
Yourself
When she rants and raves
About herself
Her petty victories or backstabbing stance
Or personal affronts
Which all to often
You must bear the brunt
It is enough to keep you up at night
Your mind running in tight
Little circles
So be honest for a change
Get it off your chest
Because odds are
After you have expressed
Your anger, scorn and wrath
The the morning after the aftermath
It will not be on Ambien's mind
More likely it will be
Who left behind
The empty pint of Chunky Monkey and
Crummy cracker wrappers
According to her
It is all that matters
2/13/2006
Luskins
Scott borrowed the car his father had given him. He had gotten his permit a while back but there was ambiguity as to when Scott could use the car. His father had given it to him, but somewhere along the line there were limitations to when Scott could use it, possibly set by his mother or his sister, but something stricter than the just the DMV rules.
You could really sense something was changing about the culture, angles were appearing everywhere. Eyeglasses, clothes, and haircuts, but Scott's car had its four tires firmly placed in the Seventies American car opulence. It had two giant doors, a V-8 engine, electric windows, air conditioning, a caramel vinyl top, a creamy chunky bottom and a huge trunk. It was ugly. It could have been a Ford Grenada or a Buick Skylark.
I rode shotgun and Stephen was in the sticky back seat because the AC never really reached back there. Scott wore aviator sunglasses and drove fast. Years later, in a passing conversation, outside of his home, I learned that he was forced to attend driving safety classes because of speeding tickets. He told me how the class convinced him not to speed. Scott was very logical and swayed by empirical evidence. He quoted the most compelling arguments he found in the seminar. Two cars left from the same starting point. Car A disregarded the speed limit, car B maintained posted speed limits. The cars arrived three minutes apart at the destination.
Scott described the particulars of the experiment. These details worked to support Scott's acceptance of the fact that speeding does not get you there appreciably faster. It was the first time I realized Scott was making a decision about his life. He was exerting his will over his desire. Personally, it never occurred to me before. I was just starting to understand desire.
Our trip to Luskins was before all that.
Scott or Stephen, one of them had heard a story at school. You could walk into Luskins with a receipt for blank tapes and grab a cardboard box filled with a two hundred-dollar tuner and walk out. You had to have balls. You had to walk with confidence. You had to flagrantly wave the bill of sale around, you had to make sure no one stopped you on the way out.
Luskins was a Washington appliance warehouse store that had a vast collection of TVs, stereos, tape to tape boom boxes with detachable speakers. In the back was a giant sound room to test your component choices. They knew a lot about stereo equipment, about amps and watts. Each of them had a stereo. They were concerned with fidelity. I lived in a bedroom filled with my dead grandmother's furniture.
I became inaudible and all my insides started to bubble, hot. It was very hot. In the parking lot they were deciding who was going to go in with the receipt. Was I going to do it? They didn't really even ask me.
Minutes go by as I walked in circles around bins filled with plastic cases surrounded by cardboard boxes located in the front of the store. Each lap I looked around. I had lost sight of them, and was alone. They knew. Everyone knew what we were doing. Just by looking at me, they knew something was up and everyone in the store was looking at me. I was like that beaver at the Rock Creek nature center that had been hit by car on the left side. It suffered brain damage and could only walk to the right. Just looping around and around to the right in his cage endlessly as children on field trips watched. Insufferable, stuck there, I couldn't leave, where would I go?
Then here comes Stephen walking down the main isle heading towards the tinted glass door. There was no cashier in the way, just a glass top counter on the right. The store was run on a commission basis and it was expected that the stereo salesman would ring up the sale and bring the receipt back to the customer. This is what allowed the scam to work.
Stephen is struggling with the box a little bit. He was short, about 5'4" but it was an act. Stephen was strong and incredibly balanced. As he approached the door, he turned around and leaned against the door nodding his head and mumbling something towards the counter. I could not understand what he said, because he had the receipt stuck in is mouth.
I nearly puked as the bright sunlight from the outside parking lot framed Stephen's silhouette. I did one more lap then left. The box was sitting on top of the trunk. Stephen had a huge smile but was still playing it cool. The brightness was hurting my eyes. Scott comes up shortly thereafter and pops the trunk, then makes for the driver door.
Turning off Rockville Pike we took the back way home past the bike trail. Only a few years earlier we used to take that very same trail out to White Flint Mall a few miles from Luskins. Scott rode his silver Mongoose and I would ride my red Sting Ray I had won in a raffle in the sixth grade. We only went for one thing, pizza from the Italian counter at the International Eatery. Each nation lined up across from each other in a wide cafeteria on the third tier. The same kitchen replicated on down a jagged line with changes in the flag and color scheme, but I ignored the others and only went for pizza. I always got one piece of pizza because I couldn't afford more. It came as a small round whole pie. I loved that pizza. It took about an hour and a half for us to get there by bicycle. And on that final hill we would always have to get off our bikes and walk them up in humiliation. It was an all day journey and you would have to think twice before committing to it, but I loved that pizza.
You could really sense something was changing about the culture, angles were appearing everywhere. Eyeglasses, clothes, and haircuts, but Scott's car had its four tires firmly placed in the Seventies American car opulence. It had two giant doors, a V-8 engine, electric windows, air conditioning, a caramel vinyl top, a creamy chunky bottom and a huge trunk. It was ugly. It could have been a Ford Grenada or a Buick Skylark.
I rode shotgun and Stephen was in the sticky back seat because the AC never really reached back there. Scott wore aviator sunglasses and drove fast. Years later, in a passing conversation, outside of his home, I learned that he was forced to attend driving safety classes because of speeding tickets. He told me how the class convinced him not to speed. Scott was very logical and swayed by empirical evidence. He quoted the most compelling arguments he found in the seminar. Two cars left from the same starting point. Car A disregarded the speed limit, car B maintained posted speed limits. The cars arrived three minutes apart at the destination.
Scott described the particulars of the experiment. These details worked to support Scott's acceptance of the fact that speeding does not get you there appreciably faster. It was the first time I realized Scott was making a decision about his life. He was exerting his will over his desire. Personally, it never occurred to me before. I was just starting to understand desire.
Our trip to Luskins was before all that.
Scott or Stephen, one of them had heard a story at school. You could walk into Luskins with a receipt for blank tapes and grab a cardboard box filled with a two hundred-dollar tuner and walk out. You had to have balls. You had to walk with confidence. You had to flagrantly wave the bill of sale around, you had to make sure no one stopped you on the way out.
Luskins was a Washington appliance warehouse store that had a vast collection of TVs, stereos, tape to tape boom boxes with detachable speakers. In the back was a giant sound room to test your component choices. They knew a lot about stereo equipment, about amps and watts. Each of them had a stereo. They were concerned with fidelity. I lived in a bedroom filled with my dead grandmother's furniture.
I became inaudible and all my insides started to bubble, hot. It was very hot. In the parking lot they were deciding who was going to go in with the receipt. Was I going to do it? They didn't really even ask me.
Minutes go by as I walked in circles around bins filled with plastic cases surrounded by cardboard boxes located in the front of the store. Each lap I looked around. I had lost sight of them, and was alone. They knew. Everyone knew what we were doing. Just by looking at me, they knew something was up and everyone in the store was looking at me. I was like that beaver at the Rock Creek nature center that had been hit by car on the left side. It suffered brain damage and could only walk to the right. Just looping around and around to the right in his cage endlessly as children on field trips watched. Insufferable, stuck there, I couldn't leave, where would I go?
Then here comes Stephen walking down the main isle heading towards the tinted glass door. There was no cashier in the way, just a glass top counter on the right. The store was run on a commission basis and it was expected that the stereo salesman would ring up the sale and bring the receipt back to the customer. This is what allowed the scam to work.
Stephen is struggling with the box a little bit. He was short, about 5'4" but it was an act. Stephen was strong and incredibly balanced. As he approached the door, he turned around and leaned against the door nodding his head and mumbling something towards the counter. I could not understand what he said, because he had the receipt stuck in is mouth.
I nearly puked as the bright sunlight from the outside parking lot framed Stephen's silhouette. I did one more lap then left. The box was sitting on top of the trunk. Stephen had a huge smile but was still playing it cool. The brightness was hurting my eyes. Scott comes up shortly thereafter and pops the trunk, then makes for the driver door.
Turning off Rockville Pike we took the back way home past the bike trail. Only a few years earlier we used to take that very same trail out to White Flint Mall a few miles from Luskins. Scott rode his silver Mongoose and I would ride my red Sting Ray I had won in a raffle in the sixth grade. We only went for one thing, pizza from the Italian counter at the International Eatery. Each nation lined up across from each other in a wide cafeteria on the third tier. The same kitchen replicated on down a jagged line with changes in the flag and color scheme, but I ignored the others and only went for pizza. I always got one piece of pizza because I couldn't afford more. It came as a small round whole pie. I loved that pizza. It took about an hour and a half for us to get there by bicycle. And on that final hill we would always have to get off our bikes and walk them up in humiliation. It was an all day journey and you would have to think twice before committing to it, but I loved that pizza.
2/11/2006
Crowne Plaza Breakfast in 2004
Foul ordered breakfast. One coffee cup missing from radiated scramble. Dyed yellow grey with Mexican catsup, knife stab opening mums or dandelions on the tray with two plates and one cup of ice water. Rotting fruit sweetness permeates the chemically baked bread molded into shape, never cut. Potatoes soggy with rot absorb a hint of dyeing strawberry. The plate uncovered behaves as if flatulent. It shows three strips of last years pig, a dull sheen daring you to consume.
2/03/2006
Scared Straight
I can't recall how I got there or what procedures I went through to get into the building. I do know that the Montgomery County Correctional Facility exterior was constructed of dull brown bricks, the kind you find in municipal buildings that have an ambiguous function. You have to learn what the building is for.
The similarity between its construction and some of the modern libraries we broke into occurred to me only later. In fact, I could be making it up, some disorder making me make connections that aren't really there.
The room looked like a cafeteria, the same brown municipal bricks on the outside were on the inside lit by fluorescent lights. The five or six of us sat on one side of a large folding cafeteria table in the middle of the room. Then after an introduction, the detective brought in the convicts. There were eight or nine of them. They walked in from two separate doors on the wall opposite us. The women came in on the right, the men from the left. Some were in orange jumpsuit. They were loud and we got quiet.
At some point after some more direction from the detective, he walked out of the room, leaving us. The juvenile side of the table was mute. I minimized my movements and sound. Shallow, light breathing, I gripped my elbows. Every muscle was frozen as if I was playing headlights. Headlights was a game where you would run around the neighborhood avoiding detection. It was never declared, but you would pretend you were a ninja or behind enemy lines and you must not be detected. When you see headlights you dive behind a tree, bush or ditch and freeze. Scott and I used to play it until we were twelve. It was really fun.
Back in the prison cafeteria they started grilling the kids on my left, making me last. One man would lead the assault by asking the questions. "What did you do?" He wasn't particularly tall or big, but he was a man. They were all fully grown people that bellowed, twitched and sputtered without suppression. They were nervous and on edge but that seemed to be from too much coffee. They seemed almost happy to be there, in front of us.
The first was a girl, she was about fourteen. Her story started with stealing liquor from the liquor cabinet, then going out after curfew, then shoplifting. Getting pregnant then an abortion. The man was pulling it out of her like taffy. We all witnessed how they worked her over. Drawing it out of her.
"What did you do?"
"Why did you do that?"
"Did it make you feel like a grown up?"
"You like fucking don't you..."
"You like speed, driving fast, and getting fucked up."
All of this was said with pride. You are a whore and you will keep getting pregnant and then abortions and the scar tissue will make it so you can't have babies and there you will be all fucked up and alone whoring yourself on the street. This is being yelled at her, while the rest of the prisoners chimed in with yodels and wolf calls and grunts of stupid bitch. She cracks.
Next up is a small guy who fights all the time and is proud of his accomplishments to date. He fights everyday and broke somebody's nose once, and broke into somebody's house and his stepfather can't tell him what to do. He is the one most comfortable here. He isn't easily scared but they go to work on him about his mother.
Then they talk about how he doesn't know a thing about fighting. In the can, where he is heading, you put someone down, they stay down. They tell him how no metal is allowed but they find it, and make a knife with it. One of the chorus guys gets up and shows a few scars where he had been stuck.
"You small skinny motherfucker is going to get cut up bad, talking all big. They will cut your ass up!" and right then it changes because now the prisoners are really getting into it, getting wound up. "Shit, I'll cut you ass up" and he is staring right down on him. He is a big black motherfucker now. No longer just a guy in a jumpsuit. And you know he will would enjoy it. The small guy cracks and starts bawling and he turns into a kid again.
We all release a little. Next up is another girl who whines about her mother forbidding her to see her boyfriend. About how she runs away and gets high. But I am not listening to the stories anymore, they are the kinds of kids I don't care about. They are the kind that would pick on me. I don't care about them, but the show the prisoners are putting on is getting more and more intense. The stabbed guy is shaking his leg which is shaking the cafeteria table. He has been doing this for about the entire time he has been sitting there. Mid-sentence the lead guy interrupts the whiner and tells us all that the stabbed guy is masturbating. The lead guy tells all this while the guy jerking off is staring at the girl who stops talking. She is scared now. "You ever been gang banged?" he asks the girl. She stutters. He keeps jerking, hitting the table. Then they pile it on, "If I had you alone , I would hold you down and fuck you in the ass." At least I think that is what he said. She cracks.
Now there is no pretending that they are there to help us. They are there to get off and they are doing it. As each kid cracks they corral the dogs and smooth things out, and then unleash them again. And now it's my turn.
Another guy in the chorus starts in on me. "You there, what did you do? You look effeminate." It was weird that he would say that, why would he use that word. Was he trying to tell me something? "Why do you have your arms like that?" I almost think I am going to get off easy. I was wearing a down puffy green jacket with my arms held across my lap, gripping each elbow, still. Here it comes. "I am cold" I saw it in a way that I hope will say, I am not like them.
"What did you do?"
"I broke into libraries and stole the change from Xerox machines."
"You what?" says new guy.
"We, I broke into libraries and stole the change from Xerox machines."
"Why did you do that?" says leader guy.
"You think that's funny" says a new guy.
Then they go to work on me.
"You a faggot, aren't you?" I had been called a faggot many times, but never by a man twice my age.
"I would knock your teeth out so that I could fuck your mouth with nothing in the way"
"You would like that wouldn't you? Faggot."
It starts to get blurry now. My reflection from that point is of hot tears rolling down my face because of the shame of being here, surrounded by these shits, who see nothing of worth in me. The shame of not being smarter, better, of being a fuck up and a loser. I am worthless gripping my elbows.
I then knew, more than ever, that people were awful and that the way they treat you would never really change no matter how old you got. I learned that what makes prison so terrifying is not because your liberty is taken away. All kinds of social norms wash away that illusion, but what makes prison so terrifying is that your liberty is taken away and given to others.
Community service and getting back to normal is what happened next.
The similarity between its construction and some of the modern libraries we broke into occurred to me only later. In fact, I could be making it up, some disorder making me make connections that aren't really there.
The room looked like a cafeteria, the same brown municipal bricks on the outside were on the inside lit by fluorescent lights. The five or six of us sat on one side of a large folding cafeteria table in the middle of the room. Then after an introduction, the detective brought in the convicts. There were eight or nine of them. They walked in from two separate doors on the wall opposite us. The women came in on the right, the men from the left. Some were in orange jumpsuit. They were loud and we got quiet.
At some point after some more direction from the detective, he walked out of the room, leaving us. The juvenile side of the table was mute. I minimized my movements and sound. Shallow, light breathing, I gripped my elbows. Every muscle was frozen as if I was playing headlights. Headlights was a game where you would run around the neighborhood avoiding detection. It was never declared, but you would pretend you were a ninja or behind enemy lines and you must not be detected. When you see headlights you dive behind a tree, bush or ditch and freeze. Scott and I used to play it until we were twelve. It was really fun.
Back in the prison cafeteria they started grilling the kids on my left, making me last. One man would lead the assault by asking the questions. "What did you do?" He wasn't particularly tall or big, but he was a man. They were all fully grown people that bellowed, twitched and sputtered without suppression. They were nervous and on edge but that seemed to be from too much coffee. They seemed almost happy to be there, in front of us.
The first was a girl, she was about fourteen. Her story started with stealing liquor from the liquor cabinet, then going out after curfew, then shoplifting. Getting pregnant then an abortion. The man was pulling it out of her like taffy. We all witnessed how they worked her over. Drawing it out of her.
"What did you do?"
"Why did you do that?"
"Did it make you feel like a grown up?"
"You like fucking don't you..."
"You like speed, driving fast, and getting fucked up."
All of this was said with pride. You are a whore and you will keep getting pregnant and then abortions and the scar tissue will make it so you can't have babies and there you will be all fucked up and alone whoring yourself on the street. This is being yelled at her, while the rest of the prisoners chimed in with yodels and wolf calls and grunts of stupid bitch. She cracks.
Next up is a small guy who fights all the time and is proud of his accomplishments to date. He fights everyday and broke somebody's nose once, and broke into somebody's house and his stepfather can't tell him what to do. He is the one most comfortable here. He isn't easily scared but they go to work on him about his mother.
Then they talk about how he doesn't know a thing about fighting. In the can, where he is heading, you put someone down, they stay down. They tell him how no metal is allowed but they find it, and make a knife with it. One of the chorus guys gets up and shows a few scars where he had been stuck.
"You small skinny motherfucker is going to get cut up bad, talking all big. They will cut your ass up!" and right then it changes because now the prisoners are really getting into it, getting wound up. "Shit, I'll cut you ass up" and he is staring right down on him. He is a big black motherfucker now. No longer just a guy in a jumpsuit. And you know he will would enjoy it. The small guy cracks and starts bawling and he turns into a kid again.
We all release a little. Next up is another girl who whines about her mother forbidding her to see her boyfriend. About how she runs away and gets high. But I am not listening to the stories anymore, they are the kinds of kids I don't care about. They are the kind that would pick on me. I don't care about them, but the show the prisoners are putting on is getting more and more intense. The stabbed guy is shaking his leg which is shaking the cafeteria table. He has been doing this for about the entire time he has been sitting there. Mid-sentence the lead guy interrupts the whiner and tells us all that the stabbed guy is masturbating. The lead guy tells all this while the guy jerking off is staring at the girl who stops talking. She is scared now. "You ever been gang banged?" he asks the girl. She stutters. He keeps jerking, hitting the table. Then they pile it on, "If I had you alone , I would hold you down and fuck you in the ass." At least I think that is what he said. She cracks.
Now there is no pretending that they are there to help us. They are there to get off and they are doing it. As each kid cracks they corral the dogs and smooth things out, and then unleash them again. And now it's my turn.
Another guy in the chorus starts in on me. "You there, what did you do? You look effeminate." It was weird that he would say that, why would he use that word. Was he trying to tell me something? "Why do you have your arms like that?" I almost think I am going to get off easy. I was wearing a down puffy green jacket with my arms held across my lap, gripping each elbow, still. Here it comes. "I am cold" I saw it in a way that I hope will say, I am not like them.
"What did you do?"
"I broke into libraries and stole the change from Xerox machines."
"You what?" says new guy.
"We, I broke into libraries and stole the change from Xerox machines."
"Why did you do that?" says leader guy.
"You think that's funny" says a new guy.
Then they go to work on me.
"You a faggot, aren't you?" I had been called a faggot many times, but never by a man twice my age.
"I would knock your teeth out so that I could fuck your mouth with nothing in the way"
"You would like that wouldn't you? Faggot."
It starts to get blurry now. My reflection from that point is of hot tears rolling down my face because of the shame of being here, surrounded by these shits, who see nothing of worth in me. The shame of not being smarter, better, of being a fuck up and a loser. I am worthless gripping my elbows.
I then knew, more than ever, that people were awful and that the way they treat you would never really change no matter how old you got. I learned that what makes prison so terrifying is not because your liberty is taken away. All kinds of social norms wash away that illusion, but what makes prison so terrifying is that your liberty is taken away and given to others.
Community service and getting back to normal is what happened next.
1/02/2006
We Broke Into Libraries and Stole the Change from Xerox Machines
Originally there were three of us. Scott P., Stephen S. and myself. We were an oddball crew. Scott was the smart "husky" from a broken home, Stephen was the short clown, who learned to juggle and ride a unicycle, and I was the tall doofus that stuttered. I say I was the doofus because I didn’t have an identity then. I was absent, silent, and rarely spoke. And could sit for hours with either of them without saying more than ten words. I imagine it was creepy for them at times, but I don’t know.
We lived not far from each other in a suburb of Washinton. Scott lived across the street with his mother, his sister and eventually his grandmother, in a house very similar to the one I lived in. It was painted white though and was on a hill. The fenced in backyard was a steep drop down to one of the only true alleys in the neighborhood, where the backs of houses could be seen through the trees.
Scott’s older sister was the same age as my second oldest sister, but Lisa was beautiful in a way that was unique on the block. She was young, thin, drove her own car, smoked cigarettes like her mother and cussed. She was the last generation of kids in my neighborhood to wear bell-bottoms unconsciously. Denim jackets and roach clip held feathers in her long straight black hair made her look American Indian, exotic and out of place. Bruce Springstein’s Born to Run would be blasting from her room as I walked up the stairs towards Scott’s bedroom. The door would fling open and she would race down the stairs past me, and then I would glimpse her profile. She was forever moving away from the house, the neighborhood, her mother, and me. I was comfortable with that, as I could rarely speak to her and could never look at her in the face for more than a second. Her physical presence made me flush. Most of my time in that house was spent looking at the creamy wall to wall carpet or a TV screen. How irritating that must have been.
Scott’s mother was pack-a-day Benson & Hedges smoker that was very depressed. Lacking the experience and perception to correctly identify it as a problem, I was never put off by the dark rooms, her slurred speech, or distant gaze. The lack of scrutiny of my person was welcome. I would ring the doorbell at her home and she would open it and either start moving towards the kitchen waving a hand up the stairs towards Scott’s bedroom, or she would hold fast to the door, preparing to send me away. This went on for years, with intermittent breaks as other kids in the neighborhood gained favor with Scott or his family, but I outlasted them. Scott would never answer the door. Running interference for Scott was one of Mrs. P.'s jobs, and I could tell instantly if I was going to enter or be brushed off.
Scott would never come over to my house and I never though it strange. Why would he? I had nothing to offer, but Scott had an open fridge and a long list of possessions that he shared freely with me. His father, who lived in the District, provided the games.
Singularly, it was the Atari game console that drew me across the street. Star Raiders, Combat, Adventure, Night Driver, Asteroids, Missile Command, Joust, Midnight Magic, Pac-Man, Donkey Kong, dominated the afternoons after school. At weekend sleepovers, hours were spent in silent coke and cookie fueled sessions with the black and red button joystick. The TV glow would grow to outline our frames behind us on the creamy carpet as the sun set. No lights were turned on to replace it.
It is hard to put a date one when I started going over to Scott’s, both of us were born in the neighborhood at the same time. I do know when it stopped.
We lived not far from each other in a suburb of Washinton. Scott lived across the street with his mother, his sister and eventually his grandmother, in a house very similar to the one I lived in. It was painted white though and was on a hill. The fenced in backyard was a steep drop down to one of the only true alleys in the neighborhood, where the backs of houses could be seen through the trees.
Scott’s older sister was the same age as my second oldest sister, but Lisa was beautiful in a way that was unique on the block. She was young, thin, drove her own car, smoked cigarettes like her mother and cussed. She was the last generation of kids in my neighborhood to wear bell-bottoms unconsciously. Denim jackets and roach clip held feathers in her long straight black hair made her look American Indian, exotic and out of place. Bruce Springstein’s Born to Run would be blasting from her room as I walked up the stairs towards Scott’s bedroom. The door would fling open and she would race down the stairs past me, and then I would glimpse her profile. She was forever moving away from the house, the neighborhood, her mother, and me. I was comfortable with that, as I could rarely speak to her and could never look at her in the face for more than a second. Her physical presence made me flush. Most of my time in that house was spent looking at the creamy wall to wall carpet or a TV screen. How irritating that must have been.
Scott’s mother was pack-a-day Benson & Hedges smoker that was very depressed. Lacking the experience and perception to correctly identify it as a problem, I was never put off by the dark rooms, her slurred speech, or distant gaze. The lack of scrutiny of my person was welcome. I would ring the doorbell at her home and she would open it and either start moving towards the kitchen waving a hand up the stairs towards Scott’s bedroom, or she would hold fast to the door, preparing to send me away. This went on for years, with intermittent breaks as other kids in the neighborhood gained favor with Scott or his family, but I outlasted them. Scott would never answer the door. Running interference for Scott was one of Mrs. P.'s jobs, and I could tell instantly if I was going to enter or be brushed off.
Scott would never come over to my house and I never though it strange. Why would he? I had nothing to offer, but Scott had an open fridge and a long list of possessions that he shared freely with me. His father, who lived in the District, provided the games.
Singularly, it was the Atari game console that drew me across the street. Star Raiders, Combat, Adventure, Night Driver, Asteroids, Missile Command, Joust, Midnight Magic, Pac-Man, Donkey Kong, dominated the afternoons after school. At weekend sleepovers, hours were spent in silent coke and cookie fueled sessions with the black and red button joystick. The TV glow would grow to outline our frames behind us on the creamy carpet as the sun set. No lights were turned on to replace it.
It is hard to put a date one when I started going over to Scott’s, both of us were born in the neighborhood at the same time. I do know when it stopped.
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