--- BAGELS, BABY MAMAS, AND A NBA TEST ---
16th February 2014

I'll let you in on a little secret. With the exception of the weekly celebration of Cheeseburger Day, I don't hardly ever eat in the chow hall. For the most part, I make my meals in the cell block and create masterpieces from the cook book full of recipes that I've compiled throughout the years. Most of them are just...fuhgetaboutit. Besides the fact that the food preparation and ambiance sucks, one of the main reasons that I don't frequent the chow hall is because I don't like crowds, and I especially don't like being sandwiched in between people without being able to move. So I mainly go to the chow hall for social purposes when I want to meet some of my boys or when I have to go there to pick up some particular spice or specialty item. This morning was one of those times. They serve bagels once a week and I have an arrangement with a guy who works in the kitchen to have them delivered to my house, but he couldn't come to me this morning so I had to go to him. It didn't take long for me to regret this decision.

Since I was already in the kitchen I figured that I'd meander up to the serving trough with all of the other moo cows and pick up an extra bagel off the serving line to throw in the bag that I was there to pick up. And in accordance with Murphy's Law, the line slowed to a standstill and I end up sandwiched in between two of the most brain dead bastards to ever wait for a bagel or inhabit a federal prison cell.

They're both Muslims and have black crocheted skull caps and big fluffy black beards. Their birth names were probably something like Lucian and Nate, but now, Praise Allah, they go by Mohamed and Rakim. Mohamed is standing in front of me with his serious face on and he's constantly brushing the sleeves of his gray sweat shirt like it's something made by Armani and he's plucking off pieces of lint that don't exist and looking around with the hopes that someone will notice him. I want to tap him on the shoulder and say, "Hey, I notice you. And by the way, we all have the same fucking sweatshirt as you do." But I don't, and finally the guy behind me turns around and they give each other the traditional Muslim greeting that sounds a lot like "Hot salami and bacon." The bagel line is moving slower than Lindsay Lohan on Xanax so I have the misfortune to overhear their conversation. This is how it went:

Mohamed: So I calls my baby mama Sharika this morning and she ackin crazy. See what I saying?
Rakim: Word.
Mohamed: She talk about maybe the baby ain't mine and we should get one of those NBA tests. See what I saying?
Rakim: Word?
Mohamed: So I says, I know the baby mine 'cause he hair be nappy just like he pappy. See what I saying?
Rakim: Word.
Mohamed: So thens I say, Maybe YOU should get one of those NBA tests 'cause maybe the baby ain't YOURS. See what I saying?
Rakim: Word.
Mohamed: Yeah, she think a nigga be slow, but I ain't new to this...I true to this. See what I saying?
Rakim: Word.

At this point I can't take any more, and I think to myself, You know what? Screw these bagels. So I hop out of line and go sit at a table and wait for my bagel dude to spot me. These two geniuses are just one of several reasons why I will never commit another crime again.

Word.

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

--- NO COUNTRY FOR OLD MEN ---
8th February 2014

I got up this morning and after praying and rolling out of my bunk I grabbed my white toothbrush with medium Blue bristles, and I ran a thick bead of Red Close Up toothpaste down the bristles and proceeded to vigorously brush my teeth and tongue. Then I washed my face with my Green wash rag using a fragrant Blue bar of Irish Spring soap, and then made myself a beautiful cup of Brown coffee and peeled off to leave my cellie to walk around the cell in his tighty whities while he completed his morning ritual that includes farting and spitting. I've met camels that didn't spit as much as he does. My cell mate is a young guy who got caught driving an 18 wheeler full of weed for one of the Mexican cartels and received 16 years in the feds for it. It's his first time in prison and in spite of his swagger and the gangsta snarl he keeps screwed up on his face, he is very green to this world back here.

The TVs in my cell block are located up on poles and they're soundless and you have to have a walkman to listen to them because each TV is tuned to a different radio frequency. And like everything else in a USP whether it be a table of salt and pepper shakers, the TVs are assigned by racial designation. I don't speak Spanish, but I'll sometimes go over to the Univision TV and watch soap operas on the Spanish TV because they have hot girls that are always flinging their hair around while they act all spicy. In an effort to blend in, if the Spanish guys laugh...I laugh; if they sigh...I sigh and shake my head. For all I know they could be saying, "Kill the gringo watching TV!!!" I'm just trying to blend in and look at some hot chicks.

This morning as I stood in my Tan uniform drinking my steaming cup of java, I watched a nature program about animals on the Discovery channel. Nature shows where predatory animals stalk, catch, maul, and eat their prey are very popular back here. It's almost like the pack back here is looking for tips. The program this morning was about a pride of lions in Africa and about their hunting rituals. Some cool looking lion with a bushy Yellow mane laid under a tree panting while his woman lioness went out and did the hunting and then brought him back something to eat. I never got that lucky. All of my lionesses liked to hang out and get manicures and talk on the phone as I went out and roamed the plains trying to round us up dinner.

As I watched the program, they called breakfast and I filed out with the rest of the pack to muscle my way up to the trough for my morning scoop of grain. As I was standing in line outside of the chow hall, I heard a heated conversation between two Black guys. One of them was young and one of them was old. The young guy was bitching because the old guy owed him money and hadn't paid him. He said, "You must think I'm AT&T nigga, 'cause you always putting me on hold." In spite of that great line, it all went bad when the old guy opened his mouth. The old guy said, "Fuck you, nigga. How you like that?" Apparently the young guy didn't, because he hit him with a three piece combo that was fast as lightning and that dropped the old guy to the ground. Several of the young guys friends jumped in and proceeded to hurt the old man with the jazzy mouth. I jumped back to give them room and all I saw was a flurry of fists and feet that was darker than Wesley Snipes' family reunion.

The corridor flooded with cops that ran up and dived on the pile, with the bleeding old man at the bottom of that pile. But that's how it is in prison. Your mouth can write checks all day long, but you better make sure that your ass can cash them. No matter how old you are, the pride never stops roaming the plains; the pride never loses its taste for fresh blood.

When I finally got back to the cell block my cellie was all dressed and ready for a new day of stunting and mean-mugging and strutting around and acting like all of the other lions around here. He's young and green and what he doesn't realize yet is that you can't ever take a day off from being strong back here. No matter what color you are and no matter how tough you think you are, if you're not careful you can go from being predator to prey in the blink of an eye. I think the rapper 50 Cent summed it up best for me when he spit the lyric, "In this world there's predator and prey; I'm a predator, I pray three times a day."

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

--- CALIFORNIA DREAMING ---
1st February 2014

Two nights ago I had a beautiful dream. I dreamed that I was free again. I was in a large kitchen sauteing onions in olive oil that were simmering in a large silver pan as I slowly stirred them with a long wooden spoon. I looked down at my feet, and my dog Tuffy was sitting on the floor with his beautiful white fur, and he was looking up at me with absolute trust and love in his eyes. My girl kept flitting in and out of the kitchen as I cooked and coming up behind me and wrapping her arms around me and kissing me on the side of my neck and whispering things in my ear that made me laugh. In my dream, she had the fragrant smell that a rose does when you bend down and stick your nose into it and inhale.

The first part of my dream involved just these three loves: Food, Tuffy, and the love of a woman, two of which I haven't physically felt in years. The second part of my dream involved another of my loves...the water. I was standing on the fantail of a ship as it cut through the Atlantic ocean and I was looking down at the light blue wake that the screws of the ship had created as the seagulls nosily tagged along behind the ship. I felt the sun on my face and tasted the salt on the wind and felt the insignificant feeling that I always feel when I'm in the ocean and surrounded by water for as far as the eye can see.

My body has been locked up for years, and will be locked up for years to come, but my spirit is still free. And on nights like this I get an opportunity to feel all of the sensations of freedom that I took for granted when I was last allowed the privilege of them.

When I woke up from my dream, I laid in the dark and was filled with a feeling of peace and joy. The only sound in the cell was the soft hissing of air that came in through the vent in the top of the cinderblock wall. After laying there for a minute, I got up and went to the small turret-like window at the back of my cell and stared out into the crisp January night sky. The stars above the Mojave desert sparkled like diamonds and looked close enough to touch. I stood there wanting to walk outside and just stand in the nighttime and feel the cold air as I looked up at the stars, something else that I haven't done for years now. On nights like this when I wake up from these dreams, I allow myself to yearn for freedom instead of locking that yearning away behind a door in my mind like I do every other day.

I hope that I never stop having dreams like this because they're directly proportional to my hope that I'll survive prison and be free again one day. But throughout the years I've come to learn that one man's dream can sometimes be another man's nightmare, and if you're not careful back here, instead of doing the time, the time can sneak up and start doing you.

I got a stark reminder of this again yesterday when a young guy in the cell above me hung himself and died. He was from Los Angeles and had a life sentence and simply lost hope. I also believe that he lost the ability to dream and to remember what it feels like to have your girl wrap her arms around you, or what it feels like to run your fingers through your dog's fur as he wags his tail and licks your face. I believe that this poor tortured soul lost his dreams and was left with only nightmares. What a terrible feeling of loneliness he must have felt in those last moments as he slid the noose over his head. I imagine that the ache was so bad that he had lost his ability to even cry anymore; I imagine he was just numb. I understand these feelings well.

Before I went to bed last night I said a silent prayer for the guy who hung himself and asked God to release him of the pain and fear that he felt here on earth. I also asked him to give him his dreams back...wherever he may be. Then I laid back and prayed for another dream.

"All the leaves are brown, and the sky is gray. California dreaming on such a winter's day."

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

--- CALIFORNIA MASS ---
1st February 2014

I went to mass this morning with a skinhead from my block whose also Catholic. The priest here is an older Nigerian man whose pretty nice (very unlike Father Willy). He did a good portion of the mass in Spanish so I had no idea what he was saying, but when everybody said, "Amen" so did I, and when everybody yelled, "Glory be to God!" I gave Him glory.

All in all, it was a pretty nice service and easy to get into. At Hazelton, they'd card you at the door and if you weren't on the list they wouldn't let you in. I even told them one time, "My brother and the Bishop are friends" but apparently I wasn't on that list either. As I walked to the South end of the compound to the chapel I was able to glimpse the mountains over the wall that surround this joint. They looked like everything else around here...sandy.

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