Giving Inmates Bad Names
- Jul 22
- 4 min read
July 22nd, 2026
Nobody who was one ever called themselves out loud a gangster. Before escaping high school I heard that applied to hippies too. These days I crash beside/beneath a guy who answers to the second title and damned if hes really not despite looking spot-on a patchouli-stinking bean-sucker (I'm SO being a poser - that Kiss My Face Patchouli Shave Cream is DOPE, Bitches). He would never cop to the first but is more one than the majority of lame wannabes clogging this 1200-turd toilet. We're talking my A-1 homie, Hoagie, the Oakland Hippie, or plain "Hippie" also "White Jesus" on our yard. Connective kismet 1000%, us.
On the regular I enlighten you on being a Northpoint unicorn, the distinctly middle class Honky without sex charges, alternative less for my big ol' atypical gay life and more for fringe style. Meeting somebody I don't need to catch up on mixing LSD and Looney Tunes, subculture of the Beach Boys or cannonades of crap from a music-freak lifetime with a decent bit as a radio DJ, major subplots of DC comics, loads of obscure 1970's knowledge of TV or movies I'm no sloch at neither, no suh! Also he adopted saying "beantz" from my dead since 1997 pal Shawn McCarney whose cafeteria lady would ask "wahn some beantz?" delivered deadpan with deadeyes and I snort decades down with resurrected zest only now in a roomful of convicts. Nifty, right?
Matching my range in inherently worthless-yet-priceless cultural ephemera isn't where this pre-30 imposing lumberjack impersonator and I stop with the psychic link. He's a book-learner like me right here, us both chasing paper becoming bona fide before heading home. Having a spirit twin within feet is a literal Godsend I say.
To boot, his folks are Dutch, and me with that year living in Holland. What're the odds? Right next to me, somebody getting me a way nobody over a decade could. He's got this amazing lady-friend staying by him during a spacious bid, speaking what a good cat she caught. Tonight I learned this doll likes to get tanked, hitting the strip-club stage to close the night with "Psycho Killer" by Talking Heads. Boy O'Mighty I better be there once for that exquisite mess! Respected by the status quo without selling out is important. Most come here and change up quickly. We stayed us and improved steadfastly from day one, enduring bogus behavior in the beginning, us now respected community leaders.
Reaching my rope limit I hit our unit administration office and told its previous tenant I knew he expected me to be that queer who came in and (making my right hand into a puppet, moving its mouth vigorously)
do this, but I ain't that inmate. I'm here on a violent case but 11 years in without violent charges inside. Keep me in that crap wing where a gay dude with their own means doesn't fit and I can't tell employers that next July. After my stuff being stolen, a line like dope-fiend UNICEF at my locker daily for everything - coffee, vermicelli, abandoned hope..., getting slugged upside my head after I exploded and tossed my unfinished mug at a fat thieving YAP (Young Ass Punk) who ran himself breathless like an unwanted family d(h)og every time anybody opened a bag of anything to beg disgracefully. This led to me dumping my racecar driver looking boyfriend barely giving Jabba even a mean-mug afterwards, way more worried about his cravings and needs, reason two I bounced that boob. Arriving back to glorious garbage-dump Dorm 5 Lower Left recycling my favorite metaphor was what taking a DD bra off must feel like.
Crash-landing by Hippie who I cook with nightly to mutual bliss. No hype, this cohesion has unearthed more culinary ass-kicks than any partnership here. Random items from our lockers and coolers among other jewels crafted omelettes with sophisticated French-style mushroom cheese sauce (head to "Recipes" and loosen yer britches!)
decadent sausage cornbread muffins with cream cheese, fried vermicelli made with ingredients like sugar free lemonade packets, mackerel, and mayonnaise equaling ungodly ummami savoriness, and one on-the-fly sweet potato pie off a can of yams and a sleeve of Dolly Madison powdered donuts. Our comic timing and ability to bounce off each other is dope we both tell each other constantly to our total agreement.
Something he does I tried moving back for before the serendipitous conclusion is proofread. Having somebody devour real books then give this voice an ear is gold. Insults occur with other convicts and me writing. Not dogging it, the opposite. Generic compliments with obligatory head-pats for smartness. Maybe an abrupt switch to the actual reason we're talking to start with like something inside my locker I have no desire to come off. Having somebody tell me it was torture to read would be so much better, showing me where to start or ask questions about instead of that thing most inmates do with abandon: waste my damn time.
Feverishly I'm knocking out a long-form short story/memoir project. Dissecting my upbringing and family precisely is crazier than expected. Big and bold is a message from my folks that I was one mistake they never got done being pissed about. Also not a reprint of a pair of local popular teen icons some expected me to live up to. This valedictorian and hard working critical thinker has realized maybe I'm better than them. That pair never tried. Threw their hands up before I stopped growing. Still had the audacity to be upset when I was messed up. As for Hippie, like I've told you all before, I came to prison and met 2.0 family. Brothers, cousins, and the closest this egomaniac will ever get to kids. Thing is, I'm OK. Awakening this is not the start of me whining for the remainder of this life. It's me figuring the best way to live and forgive it. Separating survivors from assholes is serious. Know who about never calls themselves what they are? Victims.
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