--- TICKING AWAY THE MOMENTS THAT MAKE UP... ---
24th August 2015

...A dull day. Fritter and waste your hours in an off-hand way.

We just got done doing what's called forced moves. That's where they lock us in and come around and give us a number of the cell that we're moving to. Of course, they moved me and my cellie to the worst possible cell in this joint. It's on the end of the range by the microwaves, the showers, and the ice machine that goes BOOM!!! every thirty minutes when ice drops.

I'm the kind of person that can roll with the punches but my cell mate is one of the most negative people that I've ever had the misfortune of meeting. He's sitting in there stewing right now about something that you can't change. Because that's what prison is: Forced everything. They dress it all up with a bunch of pleases and thank-yous, but that's just for the ACLU, because in the end, they can and do force us to do whatever they want to do.

I'm sick of this place and ready to come back up North and get off this plantation. At least there'll be the possibility of a visit if I get in the North Midwest region. It's things like this forced move thing that reminds me of just how screwed I am. Because, believe it or not, most days I don't even think about all this concrete and steel. I just cook, write, go out on the yard, and be like Nike. It's hard not to feel doomed though when these cops force you to do shit like move, and then you're locked into a 9 x 12 space with a whiny.

I prefer my Gangsters with no tears. You weren't crying cooking that damn meth, so don't cry now. Even though I don't have a home per se, I hope I get to go home someday. I'll make a home somewhere. Someplace nice, near the water. Around dogs and kids and people who laugh and smile. I'm a long way from Kansas though, and it's days like this I wonder if that will ever happen for me.

Time will tell. Because no matter what, that's the one thing I got. Time.

Jeffrey P. Frye
murderslim.com
Bank Robber's Blog
bankblogger.weebly.com
@bankblogger2

--- ANOTHER SUNDAY ---
23rd August 2015

I made Mexican pizzas last night that turned out to be not too shabby. I take 8' inch corn tortilla shells (soft) and soak them in olive oil, garlic powder, and black pepper before pre-cooking them in the microwave. When I take them out, they're crispy and taste good enough to eat by themselves. Then I take the tomato-based sauce that I've made in the microwave over several hours, stirring in chives, parsley, oregano, basil, Bay Leaves, salt, black pepper, and a couple of other ingredients that my attorney's asked me not to talk about, and it from the bowl I cooked in in, into a clear, plastic coffee cup. Then I generously pour it out of the cup onto the crusts. Then I dab about a tablespoon full of salsa onto the sauce of each one. After this, I take the back of my yellow plastic spoon, and moving clockwise, spread it all over the crust, making sure that sauce makes it all the way to the edges.

Then I take diced up red and green bell peppers and onions and throw a handful of them onto each shell. After that, I heap Moot-za-rella (a.k.a. mozzarella) onto each little pizza before pressing black olives into the cheese that I've halved with a razor blade. I do not spare the cheese, because let's face it...you can never have too much cheese on pizzas. Once I've smothered each individual pie with cheese, I place four of them onto a pre-cut piece of cardboard that I've cut to the size of the bottom of the microwave and wrapped in clear tape. This pizza board gets taken every time my house gets shaken down, but the tenacity of the Federal Convict knows no bounds....and I just make another one out of an empty case that the rolls of toilet paper come in.

Once I've got the four pizzas evenly positioned on the cardboard, I put them into the microwave and nuke them for about 6 minutes. Then let them cool. I eat them like a tostada, and they're crunchy. I don't slice them into pieces. I make eight or so of them at a time, and if you're lucky and you're not some noisy douche bag who sounds like 30 Cent as he tries to rap all night (like my neighbor does through the vent), you might just end up with two of them. Because you can't have just one...you've gotta have at least two. Maybe three...but never just one.

This morning after brunch, I went out to the yard and walked five miles and did 500 push ups. I had my ear buds in my ears but I didn't have the radio on. This is a facet of my anti-socialness after being in prison for years now. When I want to work out and I don't want to talk to people as I'm doing it, I pretend that my Walkman is on and when they speak to me I just do the whole Workie Workie thing and nod, then smile and wave. God, I miss Workie Workie. I would've thought he'd gotten busted sneaking back into the country by now. Oh well. I guess Chapo and the cartel need him just as much as I do.

After walking and working out, I sat there and watched a soccer game that was being played by the Mexicans, Cubanos, and Puerto Ricans. There was one guy whose tall, that's from Armenia or one of those other Eastern Bloc countries that make me hock up phlegm every time I try to pronounce them. His name is Vlavic, but I just call him The Russian (because he hates Russia and this pisses him off), or I call him Vlav The Slav. The guy is huge, like 6'4 and 300 lbs, and he has the disposition of a puppy. He speaks broken English and has the habit of not understanding which order that words are supposed to go in. When he saw me watching him today, he broke into a smile and started jumping up and down yelling, "Luke me! I play Ball foot!!!" He reminded me of an excited Frankenstein. He got pinched in some RICO case up in NYC and is doing 20 years. He probably walked into court and mistakenly said "Guilty...not!" instead of Not guilty. He was real easy to spot out there on the field, because he's about a foot taller than the Spanish guys. One team had on red sleeveless jerseys and the other one had green. After watching the ball foot game for a while I walked down to the Boom Boom room, which is a pavilion where people play cards and do other things that will go nameless in this government-supervised email. I will say though that I smelled some rather pungent White Widow wafting on the breeze as I walked up.

So that was my lazy Sunday; just another typical Sunday in prison. Good food in bad surroundings. It could be worse. Actually, it has been worse. So I try to focus on what is and not what isn't. Think about Workie Workie as I eat pizza with my boys, and then go outside and watch Vlav The Slav play ball foot. Welcome to my world.

Jeffrey P. Frye
murderslim.com
Bank Robber's Blog
bankblogger.weebly.com
@bankblogger2

--- OUR OWN CELL ---
10th August 2015

I packed all of my stuff a little while ago. This is a routine that I've developed over the years that's a precursor to going to jail (a.k.a. SHU or lockup). In years of doing time and going to lockup, I've learned that even though my cell is only 9 x 12 or so, when I leave the cops to gather up my belongings from different places inside of it, I usually end up losing about 25% of my stuff. When you only own 10 things in the world you tend to notice when three of them are missing.

So I took all of my cards and photos off of Faceblock; then I took down the pictures and the two Lisa Frank cut-outs that I had taped up on Facebunk, and I put my shoes, cup, books, cook bowls, and the cheap, black, plastic Rosary that hangs by my head when I sleep, and I put all of it into my locker. I did this so that it will be easier for the cops to inventory and stuff into a green Army duffel bag after they've tackled me, cuffed me, and dragged me to the SHU. Because the way that I go to jail back here is usually the same way that I was taken off the street; with force, and kicking and fighting.

You often hear me floss about being built Ford Tough. To me, part of this means being able to deal with any problem that comes my way in whatever manner that it needs to be dealt with. Back here, it always seems to come down to violence. Because an ass-whipping seems to be the main thing that people back here understand. However, I've found that the threat of violence is actually more effective than the violence itself. But every Blue Moon it seems like I have to smash a chair over somebody's head or knock them out just to show that the gun isn't just firing blanks.

Because your beliefs and what you say you stand for is nothing but talk unless you're willing to suffer for it. I am...and have.

Just so you don't think that I'm completely twisted, I do not like living this way. I loathe it. And I consider myself to truly be non-violent. But if you don't stand for something you'll fall for other people's bullshit. That may not be exactly how the saying goes, but I think you get what I mean. It's not the physical violence itself that I have a problem with. It's the tension and air that precedes it where I'm stewing and looking at somebody and thinking, "Just say something, motherfucker. Anything. Because I got something for your smart ass." I tend to be passive/explosive, and if I deem a confrontation to be inevitable, I'm one of those people that believes in running head-on into it just to get it over with. But the fact that I hate living this way doesn't change the fact that this is my life. Nothing changes that.

Those of you out there who read my blog on a regular basis know that I believe in God and that I pray. God sure didn't have anything to do with robbing those banks all those years ago, but He has turned out to be a great Bail bondsman, and eventually, even a friend. But I don't think that believing in God entails us to be humble to the point of turning ourselves into a receptacle for other people's disrespect or bullshit.

So what is my immediate problem? Actually, I don't have one. But my cell mate does. He's an undiagnosed psych patient who needs treatment, and I came real close to giving him a dose of medicine this morning. I am a morning person. I'm up before they unlock my cell door at 6:15 am, and I'm dressed with my teeth brushed, hair combed, and drinking coffee with my boots on. My cell mate sleeps till 11 am and expects complete silence. All I can say is that he's set his expectations way too high given the fact that this is the penitentiary. Just because he spends all of his holidays in here, does not change the fact that this is not the Holiday Inn.

I am considerate and respectful towards him, but I'm also entitled to live in a manner that doesn't make me feel like I have to walk on eggshells till noon. He got huffy this morning over the toilet flushing and it almost got him snatched off the top bunk and beat all over the cell. When I fight, I only believe in two things: Strike first, and strike with overwhelming violence. There is no such thing as a Fair Fight in prison.

I'm coming to the conclusion that it's impossible to live in a 9 x 12 space for any long amount of time and not end up hating the person that you live with. After a while, it gets to the point that you know when they're going to fart, cough, or get up to take a leak...and you end up hating them for doing these simple things.

I believe that even though you're out there and I'm back here, we've all got our own cell. I once had a conversation with my friend and fellow MSP author uv ray where we talked about this. Your "cell" may be a beautiful King Size bed where you lay beneath a down comforter at night and "pretend" with your partner, as you lay there with their arm wrapped around you secretly wondering if "this" is all there is to love; or it may be a job that you dread driving to everyday but have to, because you know that the bills aren't going to pay themselves; or your cell may be a beautifully decorated home that you sit alone inside of for months and years on-end, where the loneliness is so tangible that you feel it in your stomach.

Or your cell may be a 9 x 12 concrete box in an FCI that you waited so long to be able to get to, only to find out that the patch of grass you thought would be greener has the same old psychos grazing on it. All disappointment is relative to the individual whose disappointed. And sometimes in life, no matter how good we've been, and how hard we've tried, at the end of the day, we all have our own cell.

Jeffrey P. Frye
murderslim.com
Bank Robber's Blog
bankblogger.weebly.com
@bankblogger2

--- SHORTY MORGAN ON THE LAM ---
3rd August 2015

Shorty Morgan almost lost his life last night. The cop who was working our block shook-down my house and pretty much ripped it apart. Shorty Morgan lives in a fragile teriyaki-based eco system that I've created for him out of a White to-go dish that came from a teriyaki plate. He has a pool that I've made by taking the Yellow lid of a jar of peanut butter and turning it upside down and filling it with water. He likes to sit in the pool and chill as he stalks slow-moving bugs. There's also a rock that I've placed in there that he likes to sit on top of and do his "Lord of The Flies" pose. He's very statuesque for a tree frog. Then I have a fresh fauna in his house that I replace every few days and that he hides underneath when he's in Bush Frog mode. I keep a little water in the bottom of the dish, and it's all covered by a clear plastic lid. Taped on the wall behind his house is a picture of the Geico gecko, and next to that is a card with a picture of death valley on the cover that a friend of mine named Lilly recently sent me. Shorty will sit on his rock and stare at it for hours like he's on a safari. Amazingly, in the year that I've had him, he's never had any problems in shakedowns. But that all changed last night.

When I came in from work, my house looked like a cyclone had been through it. There were clothes, books, and a box of Cheezits laying on the floor. The photo of the girl with the gifted anatomy that I had posted on Faceblock had been deleted from my wall and was officially missing. My locker doors were flung open and the cop had rifled through my meager possessions and had even gone through my letters. As I stood there looking at this mess and feeling disgusted, I thought to myself, This is the best you can do? No problem; I can take it. Then I thought about Shorty and swung my head around to look at his house. It was gone.

I happened to glance down, and sitting there in the trash can next to the toilet was Shorty's abandoned frogitat. The contents of it were missing and only the shell was left. Then I noticed something floating in the toilet. It was Shorty Morgan. He was floating around on a clump of grass and looking up at me like "WTF???" I retrieved his house from the trash and put it back on top of my locker and then scooped up the clump of grass out of the toilet and put it back inside of his house. I tried to pick him up on my finger, but he shook me off and said, "No. Don't touch me." He was obviously traumatized. I'd come back in off the yard with a pill bottle full of miniature crickets (one of his favorites) and shook the bottle up hard to stun them, then popped the lid and dropped them into Shorty's house and covered it back up. He immediately pounced on one, catching it in mid-air. I was making burritos, and when I was finally able to get down to it, I looked over at Shorty and he was sitting on his rock with a cricket hanging halfway out of his mouth. He was in Cricket Nirvana.

It's not easy having pets back here. This environment is definitely not frog-friendly. I'm just glad that for whatever reason, the cop didn't flush the toilet. I would've missed Shorty Morgan. He's a low-maintenance cell mate and friend. And unlike my last girlfriend, he doesn't want a better house, new breasts, or a $900.00 pair of Jimmy Choos. A couple of crickets, and he's happy as a clam.

I'm going to have to come up with a habitat for him that blends in better, because he's definitely got some heat on him right now. As I type this I've got him stashed in a location that will remain anonymous for now. For all I know, the cop who shook me down last night reads my blog. Although, I doubt that his taste is that good. But for now, Shorty's on the lam.

Jeffrey P. Frye
murderslim.com
Bank Robber's Blog
bankblogger.weebly.com
@bankblogger2