To bad this week's verb wasn't "surreal".

After chomping my way through the lunch special at the Turn Around Cafe in Spur last week, I drove down a road not yet taken and found the abandoned prison.  (Here are a couple of articles about how the prison came to be abandoned.  The first one gets really interesting towards the end.  The second one explains some of the reasons why the first one got so interesting.)  I expected to drive up to a fence, a hundred or so yards from the facility and stare at it briefly before turning around to leave.

Not so.

This week when I went back, I packed my camera.

The privately run prison, which closed in late 2010, sits atop a vague knoll, not really a hill, about two miles south of town, hiding behind a field of mesquite.  The low-profile sign, simple even by prison standards, announced the presence of the facility in plain block letters.  The prison itself lies at the end of a half-mile paved driveway.  There are no fences.  No barriers. Nothing but the sign by the side of the road.

Nothing had changed from last week as I entered the main parking lot at the end of the driveway.  I debated whether or not to park in the empty warden's spot, as if I owned the freakin' place and had every right to be there.  Sneakiness trumped brashness and I parked along the far side of the lot, hoping the electric blue Dodge Avenger I was driving would blend in with, well, the sky and not be quite so obvious should anyone venture down the driveway from the highway.

The seasonably cold air put a sharp edge on the wind.  I didn't have a jacket, but hoped that walking around the place might keep me warm.

Reaching over the back of the seat, I grabbed the camera from the back and got out of the car.    I looked around for No Trespassing signs.  There weren't any. The gravel crunching under my boots sounded unnaturally loud as I crossed the deserted parking lot.

The place was abandoned, but not forsaken, if that makes sense.  It's like some sort of Satanic rapture had occurred, maybe ten minutes earlier, taking only the bad guys.  Whoosh!  At first glance, everything appeared exactly the same as it must have at the close of business on the last day of operation, two years previously.  At second glance, I noticed the tumbleweeds.  At third - the unlocked gate.


One of the main gates to the prison yard was unlocked and open.  Just a foot or so.  Just wide enough for me to slide through sideways or to grasp the edge and pull it wide.  If I wanted too.  No one was around... No one would see...

Through a feat of super-human resistance that King David himself would have been jealous of, I bested the temptation and managed not to go through the gate to the interior spaces.

This prison - a privately run, for-profit, institution - was big into razor wire.  It's everywhere - roll upon roll of it.  The state prisons I've visited use the same concertina-type stuff, but sparingly.  This place looked cheap -like an over-sized dog run, home to really bad dogs.  Low tech security with all the soft, pleasing architecture of Auschwitz.

The main buildings up front are painted in a vague flag motif.  Blocks of blue with bits of red and white striping at the edges.  It lends a concentration camp carnival feel to the place.  The administration buildings at the front of the unit were bright and clean.  In the back a long row of barracks type buildings comprised the inmate housing.  They were  dingy, low slung cinder block buildings - chalky white with tiny windows.

An omnipresent, continual high pitched whine permeated the area. As I circled the property, I finally located the source - a large metal box, about the size on an industrial refrigerator.  Or two.  The hunk of metal was painted orange and black with no markings that would identify it to the uninitiated.  It sat on a concrete pad next to the electric meters.  And whined - a single toneless note, on and on and on to extremely creepy effect.  It reminded me of something...

(Anyone else watch The Avengers?  Anyone remember this episode?)

I continued my circuit around the property.  Past the electric meters,  I saw that the gas meters were gone.  But the sewage grinder remained.

More than once as I swept my camera lens past the guard towers, I thought I caught a glimpse of men inside.    Only a trick of the light and closer inspection revealed nothing, of course, but it remained disconcerting.  I seldom see men who aren't there.

Still I didn't see any "No Trespassing" signs.  No, not one.  I was surprised by this, but I supposed no one really wants to break INTO prison, so trespassing isn't really an issue.  There were, however, a couple of "STOP - Entering Restricted Area" signs.  As they were obviously left-overs from the facility's functioning days, and since they barely made any effort with them - small signs tacked to telephone poles on the sides of the path/road leading to the back of the location - I ignored them with impunity and no small amount of disdain.
   

I didn't spend much time in the back of the prison.  The wind blew harder there and my shirt, albeit long-sleeved, was woefully inadequate.

As I made my way back around to the front I stopped.  Dead.

The gates were still open.  But now they were open wide.  Beckoning.  Yawning.  Tempting.

It was dodgy for a bit.  I reeeeaallly wanted to go inside.  They were practically begging me to enter!  I texted the Judge's assistant and asked her what the district's policy is on posting bail for employees.  She didn't answer.  I decided not to chance it.  Besides, it was damn creepy.  The wind wasn't blowing hard enough to move those chain-link monstrosities. And it almost certainly wouldn't have moved the gates in opposite directions!

I made my way back to the car, glancing back over my shoulder a time or two.  The only sign, other than the empty parking lot, that this place wasn't ready and waiting for business, were the few small tumble weeds gathered at the main entrance.

That, and the open, viciously welcoming, prison gate.

As I drove back towards the highway, I was startled to see a FedEx van turn onto the short road and head out towards the prison parking lot.  I made a half-hearted attempt to stop him - to tell him his GPS was obviously misguided.  He didn't see me.  I was sort of glad.  I felt sure that if I did see him up close, he'd have no eyeballs.  Or maybe vampire fangs.  Or stink of death like a zombie.  Yep, pretty sure.

(Do you see 'em?  The guards that aren't there?)

Spur is one of numerous small towns in West Texas that attempted urban renewal via the prison-industrial complex, profit-driven or governmental.  For a few short years it seemed to be a real economic savior.  But we're all learning we can't sustain, economically or otherwise, a prison system that has a higher incarceration rate than China.  

This month it was reported that the Texas Association of Business, one of the most powerful lobbies in the state, is making reform of criminal justice funding a priority.  Why?  

Bill Hammond, president of the Texas Association of Business, said the group plans to push to expand successful rehabilitation and community-based corrections programs; to change Texas’ drug-sentencing laws to put more low-level offenders in local treatment programs and reduce penalties for small amounts of drugs; and to modify state licensing laws that keep some ex-convicts from ever becoming certified for various trades.

“We’re sending too many people to the slammer,” Hammond said. “The taxpayers and the business community are both being harmed.”

I think this is a good thing.  But then, I would, what with being all "community-based corrections program"-y and stuff.

All I really know is those damn gates didn't open by themselves.

Honesty Is The Best Policy

Jerry Martin is a red neck.

He’s a big ol’ corn-fed guy, with a deep, slow voice. He keeps his dirty blond hair shaved almost to the skin and his fair complexion is splotched with crimson. Today he wore his Sunday best for the court hearing – a three-button red polo shirt and a generally intact pair of jeans.

When he dropped his ponderous frame unceremoniously into the seat on the witness stand, the rinky-dink chair groaned in protest. He leaned back, draped a meaty arm over the side of the witness box and met the stare of the prosecutor with unblinking apathy. His right forearm sported a brand new anarchy tattoo, still slightly inflamed.

Jerry is direct. He’s blunt. He’s got no social graces. But he’s not stupid.
I testified about Jerry’s performance on probation. He’d had a decent attitude, marked by a propensity for answering direct questions honestly, but not volunteering any information. He did some community service and made some payments, but never did as much as he was supposed to.

And he smoked a lot of pot.

The prosecutor wanted to know what we did about that. I testified that at first we tried 12-step meetings. When that didn’t work, I sent him to a treatment center for an evaluation. They put him into in-patient treatment. It wasn’t working, so after a couple of weeks they put him into their “Intensive Inpatient” program. (Not unlike Dean Wormer’s Double-Secret Probation.) A week or so into that program I got an irate call from the drug counselor. Jerry was caught toking it up with one of the staff members.

That caused a bit of a kerfuffle.

Jerry came to see me that afternoon and admitted he needed some serious treatment. If he couldn’t kick the habit, he would end up in prison. That day Jerry and I worked out a plan to put him into a long term treatment program. The next day he was supposed report to me again to sign the papers that would give away his freedom for the next nine months.

Surprise, surprise – Jerry didn’t show up. So, after dodging a warrant for the past few months, Jerry appeared in court this afternoon to find out what the Judge would do with him.

Under questioning from his attorney, Jerry explained that he knew he’d screwed up. Marijuana was a major problem for him, as was alcohol. He was worried that he couldn’t make probation, but he wanted treatment and a chance to try again.
Then it was the prosecutor’s turn.

“When did you last smoke marijuana, Mr. Martin?” the lawyer asked, his Eagle Scout uprightness contrasting with Jerry’s bumpkinly sprawl.

“Yesterday,” Jerry confessed.

“Prior to that, when did you last smoke?”

“The day before.”

“I see. And do you smoke marijuana every day, Mr. Martin?”

“Pretty much.” Jerry slouched more deeply in the chair.

“And how many times a day do you smoke?”

“Oh, I smoke quite a bit,” Jerry drawled.

“And you don’t have a job,” the prosecutor said, leaning forward slightly in his seat. “How do you get your drugs?”

“My friends,” Jerry replied matter-of-factly.

“And what do you do for them in return?” the prosecutor asked, letting a hint of disbelief creep into his voice.

“Nuthin’.”

“And they’re still your friends?” More than a hint of disbelief. “When were you arrested on this warrant?” he continued.

“The day after the Superbowl.”

“In January?”

“February.”

“And you weren’t working then, either?”

“No.”

“So where did you get the money to bond out of jail?”

“From Crime Stoppers.”

“Excuse me?!” The prosecutor was openly incredulous.

“From Crime Stoppers.”

“So you turned someone in?” You could almost read the lawyer’s mind – maybe Jerry wasn’t selling drugs himself, but he knew people who were. He must have turned one of them in to the crime tips hotline.

“No, but my mom did.”

“Your mom? Whom did your mom turn in?”

“Me.”

No one made a sound for several seconds. I would have loved to have seen the Judge’s face, but I had my eyes locked firmly on the desktop, shuffling through papers, in a mostly successful attempt to keep a straight face.

“Let me see if I understand this.” The prosecutor’s voice rose significantly. “Your mother turned you in to the Crime Stoppers hotline, got the reward money and used that money to bail you out of jail?!”

“Yessir,” Jerry deadpanned, completely unperturbed.

The prosecutor collapsed against the back of the chair. “No further questions.”


I guess Jerry’s honesty paid off. The Judge sent him to treatment. But he maxed out the underlying sentence, so if Jerry screws up again, he’s going to serve the maximum amount of time possible. And the next time there is a warrant for Jerry, I bet Crime Stoppers receives a request from the District Attorney not to post any reward money for his capture.

Cavalcade of Annoyance

Today's appointment calendar should be sub-titled "The Cavalcade of Annoyance".

By some unknown quirk of nature, I often end up with lumps of exasperating people all scheduled together on the same day. Today is one of those days.

Thankfully, since it's also the day before a holiday, I didn't have all that many appointments. There's only so much you should have to endure in a day. I've had whiners, criers, and the purposefully infirm so far this morning.

And I've had Hannah Montana.

Hannah Montana is a short, chubby Hispanic woman. She's 54 but looks 64 if she's a day. She likes to wear revealing shirts which expose her cardiovascular misadventures to public scrutiny. The scar from her open heart surgery gleams up a you from between to floppy, wrinkly breasts. She favors Hannah Montana t-shirts with pleather (plastic leather) vests and yachting caps. She likes sparkles, too.

This morning she came in with her face covered by a paper towel. She explained that she had opted for the tissue-y burka so that I wouldn't catch any of her germs. She worked hard to punctuate each and every sentence with a cough throughout our visit. Sometimes she would forget to secure the bottom of the paper towel to her chin, and the germs escaped from beneath it to cavort across the surface of my desk.

But it wasn't nearly as bad as yesterday.

Yesterday I got a new case - a woman the jail wouldn't touch. She has a severe, oozing staph infection on her feet. I didn't even take her into my office. We talked in the reception area instead. I hoped that if we were surrounded by other people, in a more open-air environment, the various viruses and bacteria that she was sharing would find other, more winsome, hosts than myself.

She was a talker - hearing only the first two or three words of anything I said before formulating her own reply. She kept up an on-going stream of comment while I tried to explain the rules of probation. Some of it was entertaining, such as the bit where she pretended to be thunderstruck that she would have to pay $50 to the Crime Stoppers organization.

"You mean we gotta pay them to go out and hunt us down?!"

Three times - THREE TIMES - I told her I didn't want to see her feet. Three times. But she's not much of a listener. The goo was oozing through the white cotton socks that she wore to accentuate the black rubber flip flops. She pulled her foot up in the air and yanked down the sock.

I couldn't help it. It was like driving past a train wreck.

I looked.

...and now I'm goin' to bed!

I started teaching another drug class today.  On a Monday of Mammoth Misery, Mishap and Misfortune.

I didn't know it was such a Monday when I left home this morning.  In fact, I didn't realize it until I got to the office.  Once I arrived and popped my oh-so-healthy sausage biscuits into the microwave, I went to the water cooler to fill my cup.  It was then that I looked down at my feet.  It took me a few minutes to realize what was wrong, but I finally figured out that I was wearing one black boot and one brown boot. 

That was the start.  Things went downhill from there.

I haven't had my blood pressure medicine since Friday.  Ran out and have no refills.  I spent the morning trying to call my doctor's office every time I had a moment.  Took me half the morning before I got anything other than a busy signal. 

I was in such a hurry to make it to work this morning following my masochism catechism class at the YMCA, that I forgot my rings.  That was one of the few happy accidents of the day, because no doubt they wouldn't have fit on my swollen fingers.  Did I mention I ran out of blood pressure medication?

At the end of the day, I rushed out of the office to go pick up aforementioned medication and a sleazy burger that I could gulp down before class started.  I careened into the oddly angled CVS drive-thru and screeched to a halt inches from the pharmaceutical window, where I demanded my drugs.  The nice little chemist tried to hand me one package. 

"There should be two," I said - somewhat panicky.  "One I called in Saturday and one the doctor's office called in today."

"They did call one in, but it's the same one you called in."

They called in the wrong prescription!  I was briefly incensed until the whole thing became tragically moot when I realized that I had no money.  I lost my debit card holder thing-y.  Couldn't find it anywhere.  Had no cash and no checks.  I never have cash or checks because I live and die by the debit card.  Which I had lost.

Furious, I peeled out of the drive-thru and headed for my house, trying to remember the last time I had it.  I found it in the pocket of a recently worn jacket.  Managed to make it back to town in time to grab the burger, snarf it successfully and get the class set up.

In all my above whining, did I mention my back has been nagging at me for the last couple of weeks?  No?  Well, it has.  And tonight, two hours into the class, I dropped my dry erase marker.  I didn't really have a pressing need for the dry erase marker.  But they won't allow me to carry a security blanket a la Linus Van Pelt - well, maybe they would, I haven't asked - so I always make do with carrying a dry erase marker while I teach.  I needed it.  And it was way down on the floor. 

I knew I couldn't bend my knees to pick it up.  I can't actually bend my knees for the first two days after M. C. class.  So, I bent from the waist and swooped down to grab it up off the floor.  I'd like to point out that thanks to my snazzily well stretched hamstrings - thank you pilates - this was not a problem and I had the magical marker back in my hand in the blink of an eye.

But I couldn't straighten up.  My back was stuck. 

I grabbed the edge of the podium and finally pulled myself back up to a standing position and managed to stymie the rasping gasp that tried to leak out of the sides of my mouth.  Thankfully, the class didn't last much longer.  I'd already decided it was time to wrap it up and get the hell out of Dodge.

Why, you ask?

Because, at the point when we were discussing the history of drug use, and I was supposed to talk about the rise of designer drugs in the 1980s, I was going to make a point about the drugs crack and ice. 

I said "crack and ass".

We worked hard today.

For reals.

Friday Cemetery Blogging

This is another of those photos I like but for no good reason. No bad reason either. I just don't have a reason.

How has your week been? I survived another night of drunk class and now I'm parked in front of the TV watching Stephen King's Rose Red for the umpteenth time. The poor old guy from Emergency is fixin' to bite the big one.

Geeze, I loved Emergency when I was a kid.

Tonight was family night in drunk class. The one thing I was looking forward too was finally meeting Magdalena's husband. Magdalena is the only woman in the class. She's been on my caseload for several years now and she is nuts. Shoebox-full-of-antipsychotics-nuts. You just can't help but love her. She's absolutely kooky.

Ever watched any of the novellas - the soap operas on the Spanish channels? Or am I the only one who watches soaps in languages they don't really understand? Well, if you've seen them, you've seen Magdalena. There's always at least one matriarchal type who wears her hair up, overdoes the rouge and dresses out-outrageously. That's her. You know the over-wrought emotions and the over the top facial expressions? That's Magdalena, too. She's highly entertaining.

For years, her one constant, her only support has been her paramour, Cortez. She always calls him by his last name and she pronounces it with this fabulous novella-esque accent. Cortez. I wish you could hear it.

Last week she came to me in tears. Which is not at all unusual. She was sobbing over the fact that she had no one to bring with her to family night and she knew that meant she would be dumped from drunk class. Her family are all worthless; her kids are drunken freeloaders and troublemakers. Her only hope - her only light - is Cortez.

Cortez.

But he doesn't speak English. Whatever would she do? Much weeping ensued. I knew she'd been looking for over a month for someone to bring with her. Sadly - pathetically, even - she hadn't been able to find anyone. Not anyone, except Cortez.

Cortez.

I finally asked her if Cortez understood English. Her face brightened and the tears quit falling. Of course he understands English. He understands everything she tells him. He just can't speak it.

Ok, I said. If he understands, bring him along. He doesn't have to talk.

Magdalena and Cortez were among the last to arrive. Tonight she was dressed to the nines in black leather and a white cotton blouse. She normally wears her long, curly black hair piled on the top of her head with a couple of long ringlets framing her face that would make any hasidic rabbi deeply jealous. Tonight her hair was pulled up in the front with the rest flowing down over her shoulders and back.

Magdalena is a tall woman. She can pull off an imposing posture when her body is not wracked with gut-wrenching sobs. Tonight she strode purposely into the room, knowing full well that all eyes were on her. She smiled broadly and just a little shyly, then stepped to one side so we could see who she was pulling along behind her.

The fabulous Cortez.

Turns out he's skinny little old man and his first name is Wilbur.

It's RAINING!

Rain always makes me want to write.

I like to walk in the rain, but tonight mud is a bit of a factor. Still, the dog is avoiding me and she sort of slinks away anytime I look over at the leash. I've never had a dog that liked to walk in the rain. I dunno why.

Today was an interesting day. I got flowers. Well, a flower. One of my probationers brought me a red rose. I didn't have to yell at him, so I figured I could perhaps keep it without it being a bribe. Mindy and the boss were standing in the hallway outside my office when my guy left. I took the rose out to show them.

Mindy demanded to know what I had done to merit flowers. I explained that the guy told me it was a Mother's Day rose. She eyed me with a critical gaze.

"Was he younger than you?" she asked.

"Considerably."

"That's it then. He thinks you're his mama."

I think I stuck my tongue out at her, because that's the kind of mature discourse which pervades our corporate culture. My boss took a look at the rose, nipped off one of the thorns and ate it. I kid. you. not. I asked him if the term 'oral fixation' meant anything to him. He asked if that was the big word next to his picture in the dictionary.

Then, my next guy, whom I normally cannot stand, asked if he could start seeing me twice a month instead of just once. As I tried to dislodge the gum that I inadvertently sucked down my windpipe, he explained that he was sorry we'd gotten off on the wrong foot and that he knew he had a lot he had to get done over the next year in order to get off of probation. He thought it would just be easier if he reported more often so I could keep his feet to the fire.

After I picked my jaw up off the floor and finished with that guy, the next one showed up having done nothing on his community service. None. Nada. Zilch. But the first words out of his mouth were "I wanna make a deal." His idea of a deal was to agree that if he didn't complete 24 hours of community service this month, I could send him to jail. He claims he needed some extra motivation.

Vince Lombardi could only hope for that kind of motivation.

I don't know what's going on. Maybe it's the humidity.

Funniest Thing I've Been Told So Far Today:

"People who are high on Jesus crack really make my life difficult."

You can thank Rose for today's bon mot.

Friday Cemetery Blogging

The picture this week is from the Big Flat City Cemetery. I love long, tree-lined drives. The best one I've seen in Andrews, Texas. There are two long lanes bounded by huge old elm trees in their city cemetery. They shade the entire cemetery and they make the whole place about 15 degrees cooler than anywhere else in the area. On any given summer evening you can find a dozen or so people walking in the peaceful coolness. I heard the county commission wants to cut the trees down. I have no idea why. Rampaging stupidity fueled by extensive in-breeding and years of pesticide abuse is my guess.

It was rainy and snowy for most of the day today. My favorite kind of weather. Stick-Boy, the least unreliable of the local weather guys, says we might get more of the same tomorrow. I certainly hope so.

Tonight was the last night of our DWI classes for a while. I'm gonna miss that particular group of drunks. They were a lot of fun. I learned some neat things about some of them, including one of my own guys who is frequently on my list of people I would like to hit with my truck. He talked to me about how he loves to read. He never finished high school, but he just finished Dante's Inferno. For the second time! He's about to start on the Odyssey. We had a really good conversation about Joseph Campbell's hero theories. Who wouldda thought??!

The gods must not be all that upset...

Along about 3:45 this afternoon, I experienced a miracle not unlike that of the loaves and fishes.



"I just found peanut M&Ms in my desk!" I announced triumphantly to no one in particular.

"Woooow," came the reply from Mindy next door.

A few minutes later:

"They don't even taste old!" I said. "They don't really taste all that fresh either..."

Mindy darkened my door frame, holding a small box in one hand and two bright green foil-wrapped somethings in the other. "I'll trade you a box of conversation hearts and two marshmallow bunnies for two M&Ms," she said.

"I'll give you four M&Ms if you give me the hearts and keep the bunnies," I told her. "I hate marshmallows in all their permutations."

"I hate 'em like this," Mindy agreed, eyeing her bunnies disdainfully. "I love them in Rice Crispy treats, though."

"Not me!" I said as I munched another M&M. As I was searching the package for a blue one, a light dawned in Mindy's eyes.

"Hey! Let's take a couple of jars of this community service peanut butter and open 'em up. We could jam the marshmallow bunnies down in the middle and reseal 'em."

"Ooooh! Good idea!"

"We'll use creamy peanut butter. That way it'll be easier to get the bunnies down in there."

"Yeah!" I was getting excited about the idea. "We should microwave the peanut butter first."

"Yes!"

"And freeze the bunnies!" I said.

"Oh, good! Then we can push the bunnies down into the hot peanut butter and it will be perfect!"

"Yeah," I agreed. "We should put them in ears first."

"True," she said. "That would be a lot easier."

"Yeah, little bunnies headfirst into the peanut butter, nothing but their feet sticking out of the top. It's like a Marshmallow Mafia hit."



We ate some more M&Ms. Then we went back to work.

Walk, Do Not Run, To the Nearest Exit.

Have you noticed that ever since 9-11, we lemming-like Americans are desperate for something to worry about? We worry about security, the housing market, Britney Spears and the weather. That doesn't mean we really take any action to make these things better, but we sure do a dandy job of being vexed about them.



The weatherman is a fine case in point. I suppose ever since Katrina and Rita we've been hyper-aware that Mother Nature can kick our collective keister whenever she so chooses. But instead of granting her the respect that such power deserves, we cower and fret. Evisceration of the weatherguys is one of the favorite sports played at Spooky R Ranch. Is it just me, or have weatherpeople technologized themselves into a completely fabricated psuedo-frenzy of anguish and apprehension over the slightest bobble in the jet stream? They weren't this bad before.


Yesterday the news broadcast dire diatribes about the Red Flag Warning. I had an 80's flashback and thought maybe the Soviets were attacking. It seemed a vague possibility, what with there being a new Rambo movie headed for theaters. Turns out I was wrong. Evidently the weather service has been issuing those warnings for decades whenever the humidity falls below parched and the winds rise above about 25 miles an hour. Which means we've lived under Red Flag Warnings for practically 2 days out of 3 for the entirity of my young life. We never worried about it before.



But now? Color us Concerned.



Bah!



And what about security? I think I've mentioned before that we have a somewhat lackadasical attitude about security around here. Maybe we will regret that some day. Probably not, though. I'd much rather work in our current office environment than in one where we are hustling people through metal detectors and worrying about concealed weapons. As long as they stay concealed, I'm ok with 'em.

Last week Rose was in court waiting on a hearing with the Judge and the court reporter. For some reason, the reporter started asking Rose about how dangerous our job is.

"Don't you ever get scared of these people?" she asked. "'Cause some of them scare me just sitting in the courtroom with them."

"Well, sure, some of them are freaking crazy, but most of them are just stupid," Rose told her. "Besides, I make it real clear that if they go to prison, it was their fault, not mine. And only the Judge can revoke their probation." The Judge grinned at that.

"Y'all have panic buttons in your offices, right?" she asked.

Rose and the Judge both snickered at that. "Yeah, we have them, but I never remember where mine is," Rose said.

"You know what I think panic buttons are good for?" the Judge asked. "They're good for marking the spot where they need to draw the chalk outline."

"So, what security DO you have?" the reporter asked.

"Well, we're pretty loud. We're all screamers," Rose said solemly. (Many, many eyebrows disappeared up into hairlines at that, as she was telling us this story that afternoon in the Grand Ballroom.) "And we know about the zig zag run. That's pretty much it."

The reporter just looked confused and the Judge howled with laughter. The truth is, that pretty much is the extent of our security plan. When we hear yelling coming from someone's office, we tend to gather outside the door to eavesdrop and giggle. When it gets really heated, one of us will usually burst through the door and assist with throwing the poor sap out of the office. That's always fun! And in the 14 and a half years that I've been here, we've never had a sap that we couldn't escort off the premises. Maybe someday we will. Maybe we won't. Either way, it doesn't really matter.

What matters is that we aren't worried about it. Worry only gets in the way.

In which the author comes clean about today's mode of transportation.

When I woke up this morning, my eyes were all crusty and red. My nose was all stuffy and my throat was scratchy. Even my hair was crusty. I got in the shower and thoroughly de-crustified.

When I emerged, rather drippily, a few minutes later, I felt better. However, my ocular orbs totally balked at the idea of wearing contacts today. (I wear hard contacts and sometimes there just ain't no way of getting your eyes to cooperate with that type of intrusion.) I put on some war paint and smacked some gel in my freshly decrustified hair.

Then I threw on some shorts and a t-shirt and had breakfast. I dutifully packed my little backpack full of semi-professional clothing (casual Friday, dontcha know) and trudged out the front door.

That's when I was hit in the face with the wind. It is freakin' June and the wind was coming straight out of the north. It was only about 15 miles an hour - maybe 20 - but I was going to have to ride straight into it. And it was cold. Cold, I tell ya!

My steely resolve melted totally at that point and I turned on my miserable heel and went right back in the house. I changed into my semi-professional clothing and then drove Earl the Truck to work.

I've been sitting at my desk all morning, sneezing and wheezing. I tried whining to Mindy but she gave me some bullshit about suckin' it up and getting to work and how I would feel better and if not she'd just kick my butt or something. I told her to get the hell out of my office. She laughed, (laughed!) and said that is the speech I always give her when she shows up in a whiny mood.

I hate her.

But, I'm still here. My eyes are still crusty and my nose is all runny. I can't go home, 'cause this is a child free weekend and I really want to go out and play tonight. My mom always said if you're too sick to go to school, you're too sick to go out and play. Geeze. So now I have to stay here all damn day so I can go out and play tonight. (Jackson and I are going camping this weekend!!! Yay!)

Dammit!

And now for something completely different:



Here's a photo just for beth. Took this one the same day as the god-forsaken cow/windmill landscape. We do have a few pockets of beauty around here. ha ha!

If you would like to make a call, please hang up.

The antediluvian town of Fugly McCreepyville, which is 30 miles to the north of here, got blown halfway away in a tornado Saturday night. The same storm smacked our office building with a huge electrical body slam.

A dozen valiant little surge protectors paid the ultimate price to keep our computers in mostly working order. Their charry remains sizzled and smoked a bit on Monday morning. The hotwater heater was a casualty, as were all the security cameras. The cameras were not much of a loss because all but one monitor had died of natural causes over the last couple of years. The one remaining monitor is somewhat off the beaten path, and therefore remains perennially unmonitored.

And then there was the good news: Our phone system was fried. Toasted. Cremated. Annihilated. It perished in the smite-yer-ass storm. Adios. Sayonara. Goodbye. Do not dial nine for an outside line.

And the really good news: Its going to be two weeks before we can get a new system installed!

In celebration of this most joyous occasion, I thought I would post a few pictures I took of my tulips a couple of weeks ago.

Friday Cemetery Blogging

I was on death row last week.

One of the guys in my class works at the Walls Unit in Huntsville, which is where Texas kills people. There was supposed to be an execution that day, but a stay was granted and the warden had some free time. So, our classmate arranged a tour for us.

I don't know what I think about the death penalty. I am a fence straddler on the issue. Both sides have some valid arguments. And I am completely baffled by the opposition to DNA testing that might exonerate an inmate.

Texas prisons are immaculately clean. You could eat off of most surfaces. They still smell like feet warehouses, but they are clean. But the death chamber and its accompanying cells put the rest of the place to shame. It was laboratory clean.

The warden led us into a short hallway housing the four cells and a shower where the prisoner spends their last day and eats their last meal. On the wall opposite the cells was a table covered in a pristine white cloth. Spanish and English Bibles and other religious books were carefully spaced along its surface. At the far end of the table was also a guest register. There was no information in the book, just signatures of the Warden, the Lieutenants, the chaplain - evidently anyone who came onto the cellblock when a prisoner was present. A silent stream of witnesses to the presence of an unnamed guest.

The death chamber itself was much smaller than I thought. There was room only for the gurney and for us to stand shoulder to shoulder along the walls. The warden dropped his crusty, good ol' boy demeanor while we were there. He explained the very clinical process while my hand was on the dead man's pillow.

Everyone filed out very quietly.

The experience hasn't helped me come to any conclusions or have any great epiphany. But unlike other prison spaces, it was quiet and solemn. And respectful.

I'm still thinking.

Escape from Alcatraining

I sneaked (snuck?) out! Yup. Skipped the institutional-b-b-q dinner and went to the cemetery. And do you want to know how perfect it was? Do you really?

It. was. raining.

I get a little weird about rain. A slow drizzly rain lasting for days and days is my very favorite weather. When it rains, I want to be outside soaking it in. When I lived in town, if rain woke me in the middle of the night, I would go out for a walk. (No street lights in the country. And there's coyotes. heh.) I've been stopped by the police a couple of times when I was out walking in the rain at 2:00 a.m. They always assumed I'd been drinking. Hmm....

Anyway, the rain is also great for gorgeous color in your photographs, as long as you can keep your camera dry. This evening I went to the Oakwood Cemetery, which is where Sam Houston is buried. I've been there before and there is a statue there that I've never been able to satisfactorily photograph. There was not a lot of time before the light gave out, but I think I got some good shots.

And now, I should be doing my homework. Something about assessing my strengths as a manager. I guess I'll quit writing and do something im.por.tant. Is there any way to frame procrastination as a strength?

At Band Camp

So far so good. The trainer is a lady I've heard before who is way cool. She's energetic and funny and she refuses to use power-point because it is usually a cover for lack of quality information. A woman after my own heart!

She talks a lot about Generation X. I like to think I am my own person - original, unique, and unexpected. Hell, no, I'm just the poster child for my generation. Sigh...

This is one of those trainings that embraces the concept of networking. We eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner together. We spend the day in a classroom together. And last night we were all at Wal-Mart together picking up those gels, aerosols and liquids that we didn't bother to bring on the plane. They want us to bond.

I'm not into bondage.

I want to run back to my hotel room as soon as they will let us out the door, so I can grab my camera and go to the cemetery before the light is gone. All these damn trees get in the way of the sun and it gets dark way before supper is over.

But I'm going along for dinner. (Partly because I'm trying to do the right thing, but mostly because its too much trouble to explain why I want to go to the cemetery.) I'm even making an effort to speak to my fellow trainees. Y'all'd be proud of me. Normally, when I'm with people I don't know, I sit down, break out the pencils and sketch book and draw and doodle my way through the day. I focus on the speaker and eavesdrop like crazy, but generally don't hook up with anyone else.

I converse for a living and at times like this I enjoy the opportunity to spend an entire week without speaking to anyone other than waiters.

Community Supervision and Corrections Department

Diesel asked where I work that I was able to get a day off for Ford's dignified demise. I work for Fake Cow County Adult Probation. Except that Adult Probation is entirely too self explanatory, so they changed our name to something long and convoluted and completely affected.

Generally I love my job, but not all the time. Right now it is being a teensy bit stressful. Stressful like oral surgery stressful.

The upside is that when the going gets tough, the weirdos get busy.

Mindy: "I think we should play with Nunzilla. Do you think she could spark a fire?"

Rach: "Nah, I've tried it before."

Mindy: "Maybe we need some sort of fuel. Like hairspray or something?"

Rach: "Oh, good idea!"

I sent an instant message to ChevyPickup: "Do you have any hairspray? Preferably aerosol?"

CP: "Yes. Why?"

Rach: "Just bring it down to my office."

She did.

I wound up the nun and was about to set it loose on my desk, when the Boss stopped in my doorway.

Boss: "What are y'all doing?"

Mindy: "We're going to spray the nun with hair spray to see if we can get it to flame up when the she sparks."

Boss doesn't say anything for a moment. Then: "I think I'm going to leave now. And not come back."

Mindy: "Bye."

So, I sat the nun down and she did her spark-ly best while CP sprayed her in the face with flammable styling product.

Absolutely nothing happened. And now my desk is sticky.

But I feel better.

...and that's why I/you/we could never work at the bank.

That phrase has become the official ending to all stories told at work. Its like some sort of benediction. It is an expression of the understanding that things have gone too far and none of us are fit for polite company any longer.

My neck is killing me.

I'm watching the Biography Channel profile on Tim LaHaye while I'm typing. I think its sort of interesting that his son-in-law calls him "Dr. LaHaye".

I wonder if my neck would feel better if I changed the channel?

I finally got most of my Christmas cards addressed. They are going in the mail tomorrow - I swear! I'm am so ready for Christmas to get here. We're not 'ready', but damn, I am sooo ready. Know what I mean? Did I mention my neck hurts?

Its rainy and cold outside. I think I'll make a fire. And maybe some hot tea...

Yesterday Jackson did all the laundry and helped Katie with her homework while I slept through an afternoon of Midsomer Murder reruns. Tonight he is taking her to photography class after braving the horror that is Wal-Mart in search of cat food. Isn't he cool?

That's what I know tonight. What do you know?

Deskscape

Headless has been reading about other people's desks. Here's what is on mine:

(In addition to the boring and plebian computer and phone.)

Box of Kleenex
Wonder Woman notepad
A wind up nun that walks and spews sparks from her mouth.
A set of gargoyle pens
A desktop dart game that I use as a letter holder
A veritable bucket o' pens and highlighters (one of which is a skull pen that lights up when you use it)
Business Cards that make me sound like a grown up
Appointment Cards
Stickies (i.e. post it notes and flags)
Steno pad full of phone notes
A Vanilla Bean candle by Henri Rendel from Bath and Body works. (Smells like Carmex.)
A Route 44 Sonic cup full of cherry diet dr. pepper
4 files
1 legal pad and portfolio
A stack of papers over three inches high
A note attached to a mangaled, rumpled and partially missing sheet of paper documenting some sort of community service. The note says: "My mother's dog got my paper I swear on my mother's grave I'm not making this up but the number job where I did it and the nurse I did it with I'm sure can call her and she will tell you and fax another copy please don't send me to jail!"