Bailey

Image by Goya, “The Little Prisoner”, 1867. “Searching, searching,” I heard condemned men on the first tier of San Quentin’s Death Row calling. Looking out, a guard was already at my cell bars. After sending me through a strip search, I was allowed to pull on my boxer shorts, shower shoes, and then I was cuffed and yoked out of my cell and locked to the bars on the tier.

A guard darted inside, started searching my cell and came back out with a cardboard box, pulled back a flap, and I saw glued inside a six-inch razor sharp steel shank.

“What’s this?” the guard jammed me.

Closing my eyes, I just shook my head. Possession of an inmate-manufactured weapon was for sure at least a year in the hole.

Placing the box on the tier outside my cell door, the guard went back into my cell to search some more.

Yesterday, I came back from the hole after a week, locked up due to a case of mistaken identity. Another Hunter had received a write up and the guards had gaffled up the wrong one.

When I went to classification committee the associate warden had determined I should be returned to Death Row, and I had been assigned my previous cell. My tier cop, Bailey, had gone right upstairs and snatched up my TV, radio, typewriter, all my personal property and brought it right to me. Way cool, but apparently one of the boxes he’d used to bring my belongings to me had a shank concealed inside.

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11 Steps to Facism

Fascism: A centralized and private control of wealth and information in order to ensure the massive investment and manufacture of arms and military equipment, the suppression of rights and labor movements, the control of public opinion through the use of news media manipulation and state sponsored propaganda. 

1. Invoke a threat

If you have yet to believe that 9/11 was an inside job then dig deeper and do your own homework; American history has several other prime examples to choose from. The gulf of Tonkin incident occurred on August 2nd, 1964 which entered U.S. naval forces full steam ahead into the Vietnam war. But let’s take a few steps back: in the 1930’s public opinion for the U.S. joining WWII was so low that the majority of Americans all but ignored the global conflict as yesterday’s news. Following the attack of Pearl Harbor public opinion for joining the war was so high that enlistment offices were swamped and overwhelmed. Still don’t believe that this could happen? Think back to the weapons of mass destruction fiasco which lead to the war in Iraq. I just want to be clear that I am in no way insinuating that the United States government orchestrated these events, but I do want to demonstrate the shift in public opinion when it comes to such events. It takes more than high gas prices to support a war, it also takes public opinion, and when swaying public opinion to something like war it helps to have an enemy.

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The Past, Heavily-Filtered

The smell of Coco Chanel
hangs in the air.
Slowly, it begins to drift,
dancing seductively,
teasing me with its
aromatic beauty.
It is a familiar scent,
though the host
is a different vessel.
The one I remember,
she was a tapestry
of European elegance
and indigenous beauty,
with features as delicate
as a porcelain doll.
She had a penchant
for pilsners and lagers,
for Patrón and red wine.
I turn and turn,
staring madly at the crowd,
trying hard to see
if the past is on the verge
of being reborn.
I stand in the middle
of the pavement,
my nose, trying to track
the scent that is slowly fading
into the brisk air
of an early summer day
in San José, California.
Empty-handed,
empty-heart,
I start walking somewhere,
anywhere that is not here.
No matter where I am at,
the past, heavily-filtered,
is there, haunting me
with its rose-tinted,
five foot, three inch specter.

©2012 José-Ariel Cuevas

No Mercy for Dogs Part VII

Image by Titanium22 You can read all previous parts of No Mercy for Dogs here.

If Cerralvo had not been exactly what I had expected, neither was the Ramos compound.

In place of the gleaming gaudiness on display at some of the other narco-castles we had passed on our drive, a cold functionality ruled behind the Hammer’s walls. A neat gravel parking area encompassed the section immediately past the gate. I saw about a dozen vehicles, all clean and in good shape but none of which that would have impressed the casual onlooker. The main house was beyond that, a simple one-story box of perhaps 2500 square feet. Aside from the elaborate solar array that covered every square inch of rooftop space, this could have been any house in town. About a hundred feet from this was an open pavilion under which sat seven washing machines. Large oak trees were trimmed so that an incredible array of clotheslines could be strung around this point.

Enough garments to clothe an army were hanging on these, my first clue as to just how many people depended upon the Hammer for their well-being. The south wall of the perimeter was made up of businesses which opened up on the main thoroughfare to the rest of town, and included a tortilleria, a carpenter’s shop, an electrician’s shop and parts supply warehouse, an auto repair shop, and on the corner, yet another of the ubiquitous depositos. The various portions of the family that operated each store lived in homes built on top of each showroom, each of which was draped in its own extensive solar array. A much larger tractor-trailer repair shop occupied the entire northern wall, though I could not see this from where we had parked. All told, the perimeter wall enclosed a rectangular space of perhaps 500 by 700 meters.

Most of that interior was parkland, which was fed by a system of hoses leading to yet another windmill/well array, only this one was supplemented by an automatic pump for days when the wind was playing hookie. The Ramos clan kept geese, ducks, dogs, cats, and a cantankerous potbellied pig poignantly named Vicente Fox Quesada in a barn on the east side of the complex. The geese were particularly mean bastards, I was soon to learn, and we would all have our revenge for nipped-at-ankles when we ate them at Christmas time.

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Book Review: No Quarter

A foundational goal of Bay Area Butchers is to provide a platform for writers to show us what it looks and feels like to be alive in the world around them, their life forged in uncontrollable circumstances followed by decades of choices and reactions.   There are many experiences and perspectives that each of us will never know, no matter how adventurous and open we are, and others we hope to never know despite the mistakes we make.  These are the experiences that most captivate us in movies and books, in stories told to exhilarate and scare, to educate and warn.  I’ve always been fascinated by crime stories and criminals, by those characters who choose to break all the rules and societal expectations, to go their own way, damn the risks and consequences, all in pursuit of some flawed, romantic goal.  But at a distance, through the gloss of Hollywood and the imagination of writers, the harsh reality of committing a crime, of being caught and the life lived as a result, is shielded from us; the worst truths hidden, only known by the ignored and forgotton, the imprisoned and dead men walking.   

My limited and distorted perspective of a life lived in prison was shattered after being introduced to the writing of Michael Wayne Hunter. Michael has spent 18 years on Death Row at San Quentin State Prison before his sentence was commuted to Life Without Parole in 2002. He is the recipient of numerous awards for his writing, including PEN America Center Awards for fiction and non-fiction, and The William James award for prose. His past works have been published in a variety of books, magazines and newspapers. More of his current writing can be found here on BAB, as well as on www.minutesbeforesix.com and Life After Death Row. He now resides at Pleasant Valley State Prison in Coalinga, California.  

Michael’s new book, No Quarter (available through iTunes and Amazon), is an eye-opening journey into the day-to-day life of our prisoners and the cast of true to life characters that surround them.   No Quarter is a complex murder mystery, an unconventional love story, and a window into the life of those we disregard as damned and unredeemable.  It’s a story about living within prison: about “greed, fear, power, knowledge, leverage, and most of all — dying”.   Michael has provided us with an opportunity to see this world first hand, how it really looks and feels to live within those high prison walls, how they affect all those that enter, leaving their mark on even the best of us.   In the end, No Quarter lays bare the national tragedy that is the death penalty and death row.  We are confronted with the truth and consequences of a barbaric policy of vengeance carried out with banal indifference.   

After the jump is an excerpt from Chapter One of No Quarter, a taste of Michael Wayne Hunters new novel (which you can purchase through iTunes and Amazon):

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The West Coast Greek Situation

Image by Naotake Murayama Just had lunch in SOMA today and it sucked balls.

Five Things I Hate About Cello Kebob & Pizza:

1.       Mold on the yogurt drinks
2.       Line out the door
3.       $15 for two tiny pieces of lamb, some rice, and vegetables
4.       Nasty service
5.       Cannot understand the employees at all

Last weekend I had some OK Greek food in San Jose at John’s of Willow Glen.  My leg of lamb didn’t have a bone in it, was a little dry and was slathered with some weird gravy (turkey?).   Why is it so hard to get good lamb in the bay area?  Is it because everything trucked in is half rotten by the time it arrives here from the central valley wasteland?

This made me remember the last time I was in Detroit.  The leg of lamb was bigger than the plate and I ordered a rack of lamb to go!

I grew up with solid greek food every couple of miles in Detroit.  Kokkari is probably the best in the Bay Area but, unless it’s your banker is picking up the check (happened recently) it’s a tad expensive.  The best place for Greek food that won’t break the bank is Vasili’s.  I love when the meat falls off the bone because it’s so tender.  But Vasili’s is in Santa Cruz so doesn’t really count (I count Santa Cruz as part of the Bay Area but they’re having none of it).

The question is, “Why is it so hard to get good lamb in the Bay Area?”  Is it the vegans?  Doubtful.  They couldn’t even keep open the Café Gratitude chain.  How many other vegan restaurants are out there?  There are only five listed  on Yelp in the Mission.  This out in a city of 700,000 full time residents and another million plus on the weekends.  The cause must be something else.  Is lamb too fatty?  No, it’s really lean.

Are there not enough people of Mediterranean descent in the bay area?  Doubtful.  I used to go to the Greek Orthodox festivals but even they have gone downhill recently.  Are there enough Midwest and East Coast transplants to support good Mediterranean places that are open outside of the 10-2 Monday through Friday lunch range?  Definitely.
 
I need to save up for a Vasili’s franchise. Going to Santa Cruz this weekend and Vasili’s is definitely on the menu.

Bad Quotes

I didn’t vote today. I should have but ended up taking a half-day at work to enjoy my neighborhood and walk around. Did anyone vote? Probably not. The only thing on the ballot I cared about was a cigarette tax. I didn’t want to go out of my way to cast a vote on that, and if I have to pay an extra dollar in taxes because I smoke, AND I find out that *MY* vote would have counted… I would go nuts. But that is not going to happen. I hope that when people see the word “TAX”, they will say no. I also know that when people see “TAX THAT DOES NOT IMPACT ME”, they will vote yes. Let people do that they naturally do. All I know is that in a few years, the cigarette cartels will be in charge of bringing illegal cigarettes into our area and I’ll end up avoiding all taxes by buying my smokes from them.

If I were to say…

“I never have been in favor of bringing about the equality of the white and black races.” and/or “whatever negroes can be got to do as soldiers, leaves just so much less for white soldiers to do…”

… most people wouldn’t like it.

When Mitt Romney tells us that Detroit shouldn’t be bailed out, all we see is “Let Detroit Go Bankrupt”. I know there are many reasons to vote for Mitt, but when a majority of the people in Michigan wake up in the morning and say to themselves “I think that the person who wants to eliminate my job and let me deal with it gets my support,” it makes we wonder. 

A stripper is supposed to tell you that you have the largest penis in the world. When she tells you that you’ve got a small dick and no woman would touch you unless you had money in your pocket, you either walk away or pay her enough to tell you that you have the largest penis in the world.

The people of Michigan are at one of the extremes. Either they read Mitt’s article and said “Yeah, we need to restructure things so that Detroit works again”, or they walked in like zombies and, after reading “Let Detroit Go Bankrupt”, they still voted for Mitt. Regardless of what happened, no one was asked to explain.

We all need our heroes. I always wanted Obama to be one. He will be when nothing matters.

The quotes above were from Abraham Lincoln. Today, he slays vampires. Back then he fixed all that was wrong with the world and eliminated slavery.

Awesome thing to do for someone who hated black people and …

[But we all need our heroes]

Hunter?

Image by philld“Hunter,” a guard called to me from the gate of a San Quentin condemned men exercise yard.

Placing a set of dumbbells down onto off-white concrete, I walked over, and asked, “What’s up?”

“You’ve got a medical escort,” the guard said evenly.

Shaking my head. “I didn’t make an appointment and my name wasn’t called this morning. Think you have the wrong guy.”

The guard went away, and I went back to my workout, but the guard reappeared, and said, “No, it’s you. Cuff up for your appointment.”

“Tell them I refused,” I answered and started to turn away.

“You can’t refuse this appointment.”

Turning back, I studied the guard intently, and said slowly, “If I’m going to the hole just tell me and I’ll cuff up. But don’t insult my intelligence with the medical appointment fairy tale. If it’s a medical appointment, I’m not going, and if you really want me, you’ll have to call an extraction team.”

Nodding, the guard admitted softly, “You’re going to the hole.”

“All right.” Pulling off my workout gloves, I turned around for handcuffs.

Marched into my housing unit, shoved in a cage, I asked the guard, “Since I went along with the program, can you tell me why I’m going to the hole?”

“I really don’t know.”

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Music Review: A New Discovery

Image by eyeliam Southern Gothic, Southern Americana, Dark Country, Doom Grass, Alternative Country or whatever you want to call it, I am addicted to it.  My only problem is this is a new discovery for me and I do not know that many bands. I’m sure they’re out there.  If you know of other awesome tracks like these, I would like to know about them. Send me some feedback. Also if you think this sucks, then listen again.  If it still sucks, I guess it’s an acquired taste.

 

The Builders & The Butchers - Bringing Home the Rain

   

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God loves a good pharmacist

We are the children of the gods
Coming of age we face these gods
And to defy them
We stand on the cross roads paved by our ancestors
With a social responsibility
To make the world a better place than the one we found ourselves in
We come with great strength to fight this battle
And already celebrate an early victory before the first sword is drawn
Or the first shot fired
Are we that good or that over zealous in our primordial behavior
To cave in to this human condition and beg for more
Everyone knows what they take from the table
Few understand in what they bring to the table
Our history embroiled and buttered for easy consumption
Hides the truth behind the curtains and set lights and ropes
All the worlds a stage
A golden age
A golden future
A silicon age
A graceless future
The hours of war on a Facebook computer
We all have been lied to
These I phones do not bring us any closer
We alienate our messages in cloaking devices
Masturbating each other in clever text messages
Emoticons have replaced phone conversation
Binary code will replace emoticons
All your dreams for sale
Every thought every impulse predetermined by focus groups in marketing fish tanks
Pavlovs dogs
Barking in the night
Gimme
Gimme
More

M is a covert reporter on special assignment

Streets Of San Francisco

Image by Saopaulo1 I caught myself today just about to say “Don’t you think it is funny when white people end up in the Mission and don’t know how to handle themselves?”

The Mission is diverse and full of lots of amazing things. Everything that goes on is supported by the neighborhood without much outside help. A store closes down and it gets filled right away by something, and the result is people walking down the street without having to think “Oh… why are there two storefronts in a row shuttered up?”

The negative things associated with our hood aren’t very common. I have always felt the need to defend the hood.

Then I saw a bunch of people walking around with their strollers, sitting outside with their young children at bars, and trying to figure out which restaurant “where you can sit outside” they were trying to find.  When I asked them whether they were talking about one of the new local places that opened up - like the Local’s Corner, or whatever it is called, which I have never gone to - they never mentioned “the place that serves really good tacos”.

I’m pretty sure that they were thinking of El Metate and after pointing it out to them, they scattered away like tourists.

I caught myself today just about to say “Don’t you think it is funny when white people end up in the Mission and don’t know how to handle themselves?” Then I realized that I am white, but understood what it was like to be part of the environment instead of being treated like a real person.

I never had much of a problem walking around and being a nice guy. And what I do ends up working for me most of the time.

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