Big-Housekeeper

June 12th, 2026

Pleasantly plagued by addictions, housekeeping is a biggie with me. Would I claim OCD? Not so much, but I seriously dislike clutter and enjoy removing it. Not neurotically like Ive watched many of my inner circuit fall. Activity-wise, its a co-mingler with my actual drugs of choice, like coffee and long-lost-love cigarettes ("Kamel" Red Lights, with their funky paper-bag package aesthetics) for sure. All around I dig improvement via erasure. I spend more time deleting this blog than writing it, barely being hyperbolic.

     Less is more, a tenet I live unwilling but lovingly locked down with. Im reduced from a two-bedroom cottage on an acre to a twin mattress on a bunk-bed with slight metal shelves, one at my foot and one shared at the head, then a tall locker with two shelves. Check the crib, Homey.

Reflecting my 1998 compact life in Amsterdam with a cushion behind a bookshelf on the floor and two North Face vinyl travel bags were furniture. At 19, Brenda (Holt) Flatmoe and I slept in Linda Chapman's walk-in closet of Lexington's infamous freak-inflated Preston Arms (I call a dude here with the same first name "Pressed-In To-My-Lovin' Arms" like the hilarious queen and third shift boss at the fast food joint in this here flashback Marlon did that place confusing the poor kid to pieces. Prisoner Preston's scared of everybody so I call him "Thundershirt" like those dog-outfit ads with petrified pooches in storms. Man also makes me think of those riot Looney Tunes where Sylvester Cat is Porky's pussy woke and wigged-out, menaced in a motel by murderous mice) with the mattress from a pullout sofa on the bottom, clothes hanging over us, and a Siouxsie Sioux print tacked between who came alive swinging a machine gun the first night ever I tripped acid in 1989. The next morning assistant manager Travis at UK campus Hardee's drug me in while I dodged duty staying in the closet to unload the truck. Strychnine eating my spine in July's baking sun, I threw a box of frozen patties on the dolly, its weight popped the push-handle forward and smacked the bejeezus out of my throbbing head while Trav knee-slapped over my sweat-soaked misery. Best days ever.

With the bare amount of space I own everything is appreciated. A few books including the Humanities In Minutes Boxed Set (had me wondering if Socrates was a "hugger" the other day) I can't rave enough about, the gorgeousness of spine art with the juxtaposition of the set with graphic novels and an Oxford dictionary would be lost in a multi-bedroom full of collections. Omission promotes perfection like rejection has in my life's big picture. I advocate for committing suicide in any way that saves a life. Adherence onto objects often is opposite.

     We (myself and the mahh-velous Mizz A., proxy I bury in messages and missions nonstop, bless her generous soul) are tackling BMaR's feng shui, focusing the content bulk on this space and excising a couple of fields. Visually a scroll experience making the previously hidden material accessible, more lined with my vision. I think you'll dig it. I'm into keeping things fresh. Eight months in we're having an uptick in traffic, ready for momentum and hopefully real talk.

Silence deafens. I need voices from our visitors. We watch y'all tiptoe to the J. Jonah Jameson image to comment then wienie out. Don't! Say something, Sweet Thang. Constructive comments privately from folks I knew before I was cuffed and up in here bore fruit. I'm not chasing echoes, either. Rather divining stimulating conversation, criticism, debate, or welcome any reasonable (or amusingly unreasonable) questions about situations involving prison's scene.

     Next housekeeping item related to invisible visitors: would my regular drop-in from Australia pipe up, PUHLEEZ? Mate, I've decided natures calling me Down Under, driving drop bears on my international to-do list to #1 (I THINK this strange visitor could be a friend from another life, yet assume nothing nowadays). I'm wanting to feel the place to collect vibes and shells.

     Starters: this killer semester course-wise is killer with Sociology of Healthcare, then Childhood/Family. Fascinating meaty goodness and Australia is one of two countries I picked for comparison and contrast re:healthcare alongside Switzerland. The Aussie way is plump with wisdom we need.

     Adamant non-socialist I am, we have charity built into our constitutional tax code with good reason. Saving our fellows is duty. Judgement ends at our hospital/doctor's office doors, then every single body regardless of circumstance is equal. Only the most qualified gets employed to service the sick public, no exceptions. I'll delve this deeper next go-round with prison healthcare.

     American society's homeostasis is its paramount concern, and the depths with which our blows is unfathomable. Ghastly numbers of treatable and preventable deaths, our dependence on emergent-care medicines replacing primary prevention strategies, and intrinsically broken pay systems volleyed by dueling legal teams next to an Australian combo platter of coverages public and private shows our sick shame.

     Avidly I'm pro-American and flip people off for kvetching about exceptionalism. Virtually every developed country besides us proudly sees their way is best without being berated by the typical peck of slack-assed second-generation-cash traitorous snobs. However this is where the side I empathize with further by the gray follicle needs to stop lawyering, re-grow a beating heart and focus on fixing. Looking across wavy waters we could see the way.

     Next topic for my hopeful future Aussie prison-pen-pal: howd yall get so damn FAT? I know how we did. My vista of Men At Works digs was the greatest of Great Outdoors with that Barrier Reef, overloaded cute killer animals, and everybody born with hiking equipment and a fistful of Vegemite. You meet us neck and neck-roll for obesity and beat us at diabetes? Did your country perhaps see this as competitive? Thatd be my only guess. Good on you all for stomping us on one thing we can all agree America was producing, regardless of bearing. Hell, even our MANNEQUINS got hefty - yours too? Do you all have people like Valerie Bertinelli apologizing because they used to be hot (Flintstone here knows this is old news but I'm now getting around to complaining, Wilma) then advertised it, like she should've been a porker all along, and shaving down to a bangin' bikini bod was the unhealthy thing?

Don't stomp that soapbox, Batmama, she's innocent! Maybe I'm crazy (scratch that - documented) but seems to me she was a young woman working in Hollywood and being fit was vital to her career. Now she's older and cooks professionally, so being an adorably chubby person fits. Nobody owes anybody apologies. Well maybe for doling out a crap one before, giving young gorging slobs the idea they're victims inculpable for their happiness. Massive Madness of the 'Murcans: wash a pizza down with a birthday cake, call the waist product a disease then munch an antidepressant for dessert. Next step: blame everybody else for this failing at instant blissfulness.

     A 350 pound youth new to the scene last week answers to Big Sexy. Whining at me about dudes hating preciouses like him, I told this breathing Pride Parade float they don't think enough about him for that to be the case. The horror was palpable but he deserves an honest friend. I'm not giving him a bullshit everybody's beautiful lecture, but did tell him about NPTCs freak scene and likeliness of chubby chasers, lifting his heavy spirits. Then he told me he'd heard a lot of men here use people for money. I sermonette-ed him on this and how to avoid it. While we headed in, he asked Chocolate Cupcake (there's Vanilla, too) You think Ill find a motherfucker that'll buy me a TV?. Instantly I liked him more for his moxified audacity. I hope he scores a box if not an analog AM/FM radio with decent ear-buds. Shoot for them stars, B.S..

Working in retail, the industrial unicorn was a positive comment card. Bitching sees print 9/10 of the time believe-you-me, Jackson. I preached and practiced customer service like a boss and often was. Still, the number of times it was recognized in writing versus the random times I was off and made ink hit paper were incomparably tiny. I moan and groan 'dem Northpoint Blues but this Monday, June 15th begins a new era, and the first sign of genuine progression from the inmate floor since the arrival of last warden Kevin Mazza in 2021. I'm not keeping quiet, either.

      After this weekend, noon count is cancelled. This means an open yard throughout our day. Seven o'clock is the only count until 3. The freedom this brings is phenomenal. I imagine a rounded hour of locked wings after 10 to allow for situations like diabetic services will remain. Still, the liberty brought by this is unimaginable. I'm graciously thankful, hoping the community shows positive results so more decent changes like this one come ahead. Call this cautious optimism.

     OK that's housekeeping notes. I'm working up more love off my board here directly so stay posted. New one - "Comparison of Child Development Strategies: An Individual Perspective" popping up in Essays. Crack it open. Stay cool and comfy with the dreadful drips all over out there! Be back before you know it...

xoxoxo Your Soft Bat-ch Cookie

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