THE BANK ROBBER'S BLOG
AUGUST 2013
--- WINNING THE WAR W/ BEN & JERRY'S --- Free Frye Fund Paypost. 1433 words Jeffrey Frye looks at the futility and stupidity of the "War on Drugs" in the U.S.A. It's especially relevant given that sentencing -- and the bulging federal prison
population due to low-level drug offenders -- is all over the news. As a Federal inmate, your Bank Blogger offers his informed view.
Buy now for just $1 and contribute your dollar to the Free Frye Fund.
Jeffrey P. Frye
--- MISS AMERICA --- My sister Tracy is a mail carrier for the post office in the suburbs of Chicago and on Tuesdays when we email or talk she's always bitching about the mailbag being heavy because that's the day she has to deliver coupons and circulars. So on Tuesdays I try to send her an email to cheer her up and make her feel better and I usually tell her something like, "Don't you think the mailbag would feel lighter if you weren't so old?" That usually cheers her right up. But just so I won't miss this day, I've taught Gnomez to remind me. So on Tuesdays when I walk out of my house the first thing I'll see is him sitting on my porch in his Go To Town sombrero and he'll pump his fist in the air and say, "Eees Toosday! Eees Coopon Day!!!" He has no idea what it means...but he does know that it's worth an extra Tootsie Pop. I'm thinking of taking a picture of him and using it as the graphic on my Twitter account.
My sister's married to a nice dago named Mickey, and I can honestly say that I love her more than chocolate. I call her Miss America. This nickname comes from a ballet class Tracy took as a child where the teacher of the class would pick the best ballerina of the week and that girl would get to wear a fancy cape and tiara for that week. I still remember how excited she'd get whenever she was picked. You can see Tracy's picture (without the cape and tiara) in the picture section of my forthcoming book BANK BLOGGER.
Tracy's birthday is August 28th and coincidentally it falls on Cheeseburger Day this year. So, from Me, Gnomez, Tony Cigars and Tuna, Stinky, and even the naked Indians, Happy Birthday Miss America. I love you.
Jeffrey P. Frye
--- GNO MAN'S LAND --- Sometimes I feel like a bug light for psychos. I just seem to attract them for some reason. As I've blogged about before, federal prison is filled with people from all walks of life. But the one thing that we have in common is that we all saw an opportunity where most people saw a boundary. Prison is also filled with egomaniacs with inferiority complexes and people who just don't think straight and who instead of being content in their ignorance, feel the need to rep their stupidity. Psychos. But in spite of this, the one thing that all people share, both normal and psycho alike, is the need to be accepted and recognized. It doesn't matter if you came from The White House or the outhouse, nobody is exempt from this human trait.
This premise can take on extreme facets though when you're dealing with psychopaths. Like the guy who had "Fuck You" tattooed on his cheek and then growled at me, "What are you looking at?" when he caught me staring at him. Or another guy I met one time that bet me five dollars that he had my name tattooed on his ass. I suspiciously eyed him for a minute after he said this and then I said, "You have MY name tattooed on your ass?" He pointed a finger at me and replied, "I'll bet you five tuna fish that I have YOUR NAME tattooed on my ass." I looked at him for another minute and said, "You're on pal." He promptly turned around and pulled down his pants in front of God and everybody and right there tattooed on one of the cheeks of his hairy ass were the words "Your Name." Needless to say, I didn't make any tuna salad that week. Just like newly arrived Prince Georgie already attracts the paparazzi, I seem to attract this brand of felon. But since I'm merely infamous and not famous, I attract the psychorazzi. They follow me around constantly.
But having said all that, I can tell you that there are some nice people back here. Not everybody back here is a psycho with profanity tattooed on their face or my name on their ass. There are some kind souls who were just dealt a bad hand in life and never quite figured out how to play it. People who wouldn't harm a fly, but who are slow or just easily led. One of these people is a guy who sits on my front porch and who because he doesn't know any better, and simply because I'm nice to him and notice him, worships the ground that I walk on. His name is Gnomez.
I first met Gnomez several years ago when I was at USP Coleman down in Florida. He just showed up one day. I walked out of my cell and he was parked in a plastic lawn chair in the 4 sq foot area in front of my cell that I refer to as my front porch. Then he briefly came thru Lewisburg when I was there and upon seeing me for the first time (while in the main corridor of the prison) he dropped what he was carrying and came running and hugged me while he buried his face in my chest. I finally peeled him off of me and told him, "Get a hold of yourself man! This is prison." Now, he's here at Hazelnut and in my cell block looking perfectly back at home on my front porch sitting there in a blue plastic lawn chair.
Gnomez is Mexican and around five feet tall and he has the dimensions of a soccer ball. He's got about three teeth, but he loves to smile and rep them like they're a full set. He cuts his hair himself using a set of battery-operated clippers and it's always short. Sometimes when he's not wearing a collection of one of his fancy hats, I'll walk by and rub his head and tell him, "That feels just like a horse's chin, Gnomez" and he'll laugh and smile...happy just to be noticed. I gave him his nickname because I'm a giver of prison nicknames, and because he reminds me of one of those little gnomes that you put in your front yard or in your garden. Since he reminds me of this, and since he's Mexican, I named him Gnomez. Predictably, he loves his moniker. He talks with a lazy, sing-song Mexican accent and he calls me "Meester Yeff." Strangely enough, he's not the first one to call me this, but that's a whole other story.
Recently, Gnomez somehow got his hands on a big black sombrero and when I get up in the morning and walk out of my house and see him sitting there in it I feel like going to Pamplona or reading a Hemingway novel. Our usual morning dance starts with him saying, "Buenos dias, Meester Yeff" to which I'll say, "What's up, Gnoman. Do you have any coffee?" to which he'll reply, "No, Meester Yeff, I no hab pesos for coffee." This is prison and I don't trust or believe anybody (I'm talking Not. A. Soul.) so I suspect that Gnomez probably has a stash of coffee in his locker larger than Juan Valdez. But I'll still hand him two empty Styrofoam cups and tell him, "Go fetch us some hot water then" and I'll watch him waddle off to get it. I also pay Gnomez pieces of candy to root for my sports teams. I'll pass him with one of my boys as I'm walking into my house and ask him something like, "Who's the greatest sports team on the planet, Gnomez?" He'll pump his chubby little fist in the air and say, "Eees da Bears!" Gnomez is in prison for illegally crossing the border into the United States. The judge gave him five years. Apparently a special condition of this sentence was that he seek me out and sit on my front porch.
Like so much of this ride so far, Gnomez wasn't in the Bank Robber DVD. But I will say that he's not an unpleasant part of the ride. He'll never cure cancer, be a CEO, or lead troops in battle, but then again neither will I. I do my best to be nice to him because even though I may be a bug light for psychos and have a history of criminal behavior, I don't have a history of abusing my gnomes. Eees juss not Meester Yeff's style.
Yeffrey Pee Frye
--- PRISON PHOTOSHOOT --- Your favourite felon, just chillin'...
Jeffrey P. Frye
--- USP STUFFED PEPPER --- I just made the best stuffed peppers this afternoon that I've made here yet. I made five of them this time and when I make them I serve each one of them in their own separate bowl on a bed of brown rice. Today, I put some of my culinary sycophants to work and made em earn their keep for a change. These are guys that usually fawn over me while I'm cooking and make gratuitously asinine comments like "God, those are nice microwave bowls, Jeff" or "Where did you learn to dice sausage like that?" So I told them that if they wanted to get in the game and play ball today that they were going to have to work.
I had Mattie The Rat Killer from the Bronx dicing red bell peppers and onions (LIFE for execution of a federal informant), Ritchie from Newark dicing sausage (25 years for Simple Possession of 5 tons of pot), Larry Two Times making the rice (Simple Possession of two bank robberies), and Bam icing down the sodas and setting the table (20 years for blowing up his lawyer's office (he's pretty popular around here). They were doing the prep work out on the rock at a table in front of the TV while I made the sauce in my cell. Then like an all star closer at a baseball game, I came out to the mound and threw nothing but strikes.
I took the diced sausages (turkey and beef) and sauteed them in olive oil in a microwave in one bowl, and sauteed the diced red bell peppers and onions in another microwave in another bowl (in garlic and black pepper in yet more olive oil). I'd made the brown rice in a separate bowl and let it sit till it was swoll up as big as Nikki Minaj's ass, while I had my sauce cooking in yet another microwave upstairs. I was running from one microwave to the other checking on things, and at one point we had all four microwaves in the cell block locked down. When everything was done, I threw the sausage and onions and peppers into the bowl with the rice and mixed it all together. Then after I put a bed of rice into each bowl, I stuffed the peppers with the rest of the rice mixture and mushed them down into the bed of rice. For the last part of the show, I smothered the top of each pepper with mozzarella and then poured enough sauce over the pepper to cover it to where it was dripping down the side of it, but not enough to soak the rice. Then for the final inning, I sprinkled parmesan cheese over each pepper because...well, because you can just never have too much cheese. Then I distributed one bowl to each member of the team and told them to cook them in the microwave for five minutes or until the tines of the fork would go through the side of the pepper.
When they were finished cooking them we all sat down at the table and had Mt. Dews and Pepsis with our meal while a whole new breed of multi-ethnic sycophant surrounded the table and while drooling, said, "Those sure look good. What do they taste like?" I sure wish Obama would drop by. If he'd put on an apron and make himself useful I'd put him in the game too. I'll bet that once he tasted one that he'd give me a pardon on the spot. Or not.
Jeffrey P. Frye
--- SUNDAY BRUNCH --- I just got back from the chow hall and made it through 15 cops with a smuggled 10-44. Am I
proud of myself? You bethca. It might very well be the only crime that I get away with this
year. When we go to the chow hall there's two entrances that people are allowed to choose from
and just by nature the whites and Hispanics go to one side and the blacks to the other. After
we choose which side of the chow hall we're going to, we have to pass thru a metal detector as
we go in the door. Then as we come up to the serving line we scan the bar code on our ID card
across a laser scanner that reads our info and our name and picture pop up on this big flat
screen TV that's located behind the line. If you try to file back through the line and attempt
to get a second tray, your picture and name start flashing in bright red as if to say,
"WARNING!!! WARNING!!! CONVICT FRYE IS ATTEMPTING TO GET ANOTHER BISCUIT!!!" The bulletin that
the FBI put out on me wasn't as severe as the Biscuit Alert is. It's very scary.
After having successfully made it through a meal (which is a generous description) that
consisted of powdered eggs that I feel sure never saw the ass of a chicken, possum sausage, and
an apple, I filed back out through the exit and still yet another metal detector. I fully
expect them to install a full body scanner someday like they have at O'Hare Airport back in
Chicago. After having made it through the metal detector, I was greeted by about 15 rookies in
training that were wearing disposable latex gloves and had their hands in the air out in front
of them like they were waiting on a surgical utensil so they could make an incision. They were
all lined up against the wall and indiscriminately pulling people out of the line as they
walked by so that they could pat search them. You could tell they were newly minted by the look
of uncertainty on their faces, and also by the fact that they didn't have a radio, keys, or a
can of pepper spray on their belts. At the head of this clueless coterie were two seasoned
C.O.s who were holding up the wall and had toothpicks in their mouths and who were obviously
supervising the training op.
Cops, even faux cops like C.O.s, have a language all of their own and a lot of times they use
it just to try and be all mysterious and because they think it's cool. Instead of saying
something like, "An inmate in B Block needs to go to medical because he's cut his finger"
they'll say something like, "I've got this 10-42 in Bravo that needs to 10-82 for a 10-21." The
Masons don't even try to be this secret.
So as I began to enter the line of rookies I heard one of the supervising cops say to the
other, "Cindy's momma went 10-99 last night and I sneaked over and 10-46'd her for a while."
Then he asked, "What'd you do last night?" The other guy answered, "Just a bunch of 10-55.
We're getting ready to go hunting so I hung out in the shed and packed some loads. Did I ever
tell you that I pack my own loads?" I could just picture C.O. #2 packing his own loads, but I
had a strong suspicion that it had more to do with a laptop and a website based out of the
Czech Repulbic than it did with hunting.
As I walked by, one of the rookies straightened up and said, "Sir, would you step over here
please, I need to pat you down?" I walked over in front of the rookie, but too far for him to
touch me, and I asked, "How old are you, kid?" He said, "I don't see how that's relevant to
this encounter, sir?" I replied, "I do. Now, how old?" He rolled over like Cocker Spaniel and
said, "24, sir." I shook my head and said, "I have pending charges older than you and I've been
doing this a while and have rules about the people that I allow to pat me down, son. And one of
them is that whoever pats me down must possess the requisite paraphernalia to subdue me before
I allow them to touch me. Things like handcuffs." He flushed red and bit the corner of his lip
because I suspect that this exchange had not been covered in his training. An angry
confrontation followed by hitting his deuces and subsequent brute force to subdue the
challenging convict? I would imagine that that was chapter two or so. But a cheeky dressing
down and polite refusal? I'm not so sure that that was in his manual. He finally whispered to
me, "Sir, would you just please let me pat you down because all these people are watching."
Never let it be said that I'm I'm a complete hard ass because I went from feeling contempt for
him, to thinking, "Poor guy."
I must have a little Cocker Spaniel in me too because I took a step towards him and turned
around and placed my back to him and placed my hands to my sides in the air and assumed the
pose and said, "Sure kid, go ahead." When he got to my sock he felt the lump of an apple that I
was attempting to help gain its freedom from oppressive kitchen workers, and he said, "What's
that, sir?" I replied, "It's a 10-44 (registered apple) and I have a 10-13 (carry permit) for
it in my left top hand pocket." He replied, "Thank you sir" and ignored it and went on to the
other sock. At this point I think that he wanted me gone so bad that he could've felt a .22
Derringer in my sock and he would've let me pass. When he'd finished I told him, "Keep up the
good work, Guvner" and me and my 10-44 went 10-82 back to Bravo.
God, I miss going to Denny's for Brunch.
Jeffrey P. Frye
--- UNINTENDED CONSEQUENCES --- You've read a bunch of Jeff's posts for free. But Jeff needs some cash. Even $30 would be helpful. And $30,000 dollars will get him O.J. Simpson's lawyer. Our man will be free.
With this in mind, MSP is starting the FFF... the Free Frye Fund.
Every now and then, we'll post longer and more in-depth posts from Jeff at the bargain price on one dollar. First up is the brilliant UNINTENDED CONSEQUENCES, where Jeff takes regretful look at his situation in this touching story.
Jeffrey P. Frye
--- THE KRAYS --- One of the many labels that I wear in this world is that of "Animal Lover." Prior to being placed on the shelf, I've had many dogs and cats as pets and friends throughout my life. I say "Had" and not "Owned" because I don't think that we ever really own pets...we just get to enjoy their company for a while before they move on. I once had a gray Persian cat named Scrunchie Munchie (that received his name from my son Brandon because of the way his face looked), and I also had a cat I named Pita that I rescued from two people that were torturing it (and reeducated them about how to treat animals). "Pita" was actually an acronym for Pain In The Ass because she was meaner than the prison nurse and had more attitude than a Beyonce video. Then I had a big Brindle dog named Percy. He was a humble soul and he used to mingle with the tourists on the floor of a gift shop I owned while I sat behind the counter and chatted them up and drank Irish Coffees. But my all time favorite pet was a West Highland White Terrier named Tuffy that I rescued from a breeder. Despite his AKC champion pedigree, the breeder planned to euthanize him because he continually terrorized (and sometimes killed) the other dogs in her kennel, so I took him off her hands and brought him home. Tuffy was a little ruffian and tougher than the bunions on my ex-wife's feet. We had a good run and I was there talking softly to him and holding his paw as the vet put him to sleep because he'd developed intestinal parasites and couldn't be saved. After he went to sleep one last time I walked outside and sat down in the grass and cried like a baby. I still miss him.
Just because the judge pronounced me pond scum and dragged me out of the dock and exiled me to a life of Bank Blogging in the pen doesn't change the fact that I'm still an animal lover. So far on this ride I've been to three United States penitentiaries and in all of them I've had pets. In USP Coleman down in Florida I had a lime green tree frog named Gangster that lived in an ice cream container in my window and hung around the cell by sticking to various surfaces. His co-amphibean in crime was a toad named Big Meech that lived in a habitat I'd created in a large plastic container. I fed them grasshoppers that I caught outside on the rec yard and smuggled back to the cell block in a empty pill container (got that visual?). Outside of the one time during a lockdown that Big Meech tried to eat Gangster, they got along famously.
Then at USP Lewisburg I had a borgata of cats that was headed by a little hardhead named Whitey. One of his capos was a bitter and charismatic little black female aptly named Ms. Farrakhan. Their photos and bios, as well as some stories about them, can be seen in my book BANK BLOGGER that comes out next month and can be purchased either through the Murder Slim Press shop on murderslim.com or on Amazon...but what can't be purchased on amazon.com these days, right? Then the warden at Lewisburg gave me the bum's rush and had his mace-toting minions muscle me up onto a bus and they stashed me at this joint in the mountains of West Virginia called: USP Hazelnut. It's actually called Hazelton, but since it's like a loony bin and clown convention all rolled into one, I dubbed it USP Hazelnut (actually my friend Alexius Rex first called it that, but I have no intention of giving him credit for it).
Upon arriving at this fine asylum, one of the first things I was told was that there were two feral cats that lived on a piece of turf on the East End of the yard and that I should steer clear of them because they were dangerous. Being that I'm a cat lover, and being that I have a rich history of doing the exact opposite of what I'm told, and being that danger is my business, I got a fresh pack of tuna fish and headed East.
I walked down the sidewalk that fronts the cell blocks on my side of the yard and at the end of it I veered off onto the grass and sitting there were two big gray cats with fat heads. Their faces were all balled in a manner that was something akin to a perpetual sneer. They looked identical, except for the fact that one of them had two different color eyes and the hair on one side of his head stuck straight up just like Workie Workie's. Being that they looked like they could pass for twins, and being that one of them looked a wee bit catsephrenic, and being that they lived on the East End of the compound and had to be tough cats to live in general population in a USP, I decided to name them Ron and Reg, or The Krays, in honor of the brothers that were at one time considered two of London's most feared and infamous gangsters. In spite of all I've just mentioned, I made the mistake of trying to approach them using my standard "Gay-ass kitty voice." As I approached them I bent down and held out my hand with the tuna fish in it and said, "Hey there little buddy, are you hungry today?" The one with the different color eyes promptly attacked me. Like an arrow fired from a bow, he shot out and bit into and attached himself to my upper thigh. I started screaming, "ARGHHHHHH!!!!" and began spinning in circles trying to shake him while he was attached to my leg. He finally let go and went tumbling like an Olympic gymnast and landed on a patch of grass next to his brother. He licked himself a couple of times then got up and sat down next to his brother, and as they both began to stare at me, I heard one of them say to the other in a Cockney accent, "You certainly had that cross cove running his bone box. The chap must be new to the academy." I was bent over with my hands on my knees breathing hard and my leg was bleeding. I finally straightened up and hauled ass back to the block and decided to regroup. As I walked down the sidewalk and passed the gun tower in the middle of the yard I looked up and the hack had slid the
big windows open and was laughing so hard it looked like he was crying. I wasn't. But I just kept going because at that point I just wanted some Neosporin and a band aid.
So now you've met The Krays. You can expect to hear about them occasionally in future posts because I have no intention of accepting their rejection or going out like that. I'm going back in. But this time I'll be wearing extra layers of clothing and I think I'll put some bass in my voice when I talk to them. After all, this is prison.
Jeffrey P. Frye
30th August 2013
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10th August 2013
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