Well… it’s been a while since my last written session. It seems that either I have to be alone or cold outside before I can seat endless hours mindlessly staring at the mac screen wondering about how to put together a story with the actual physical part “typing” of the process being accomplished. The tough parts of life. And it just the beginning of October. So now that the wifi is down and I am unable to watch countless late night hours of dumb yet fascinating “TOP 10 blah blah blah” videos. I am able to get something into words.
There are so many many Top 10 categories. It’s an all-nighter once I get started on that shit.
Thank the gods for breaking my habit.
While I was away spending a joyish weekend in Denver, Co. I had the chance to stop off at my father figure home on the drive back and happily thumb through what remained of my belongings. Some junk, pictures, and a few ol boxes of comic books. I reminisced about reading this one and that one. Imagining the storyline and pages as I slowly examined each plastic bound book. It’s been so so long and so many lives lived between the days of me collecting comics. My family thought comics were evil, a sign of stupidity, so the first couple years was a slow start. I had to steal from the stores and or pay behind the back of the parental figures or not eat lunch at school for entire weeks for I spent my lunch money on the latest issue from some classmate. All in fear of being caught by my parents. Not so much by the mother figure, but the father figure. He gave a good hell with a belt the day he found the box of comics in my closet. Gave my mother a good hell for supporting my weak minded addiction. But, none the less I came out ahead by developing the skills of a Chinese ninja. Top secret silent mission grew my collection quicker as I successfully collected and finish reading a book without getting caught.
Fucken family! fast forward
Years past an I was an adult at the age of seventeen. At least that was when I left the home and began the good ol life of supporting myself. From time to time I would wander back to my childhood by walking into a lonely comic book store and on one such occasion, I came across Decapitator by Randy Bowen
1-4series. An off the wall four part mini-series of a dude traveling through time and space bounty hunting, decapitating beings and the lot for his master.
“A menacing warrior from a distant world of Monster Lords and robot nymphets traces his own bizarre connection back to a familiar green and blue planet.”
Being a four-shot mini serious add value to it as well. Knowing that this was a limited story release. Far better than riding the coattails of a Superman series. What a waste! With my exquisite taste in the finest of American comic culture of the time, I was sold.
By the way, everyone should take the time to purchase a copy of Decapitator by Randy Bowen
one of four and give it a read. Place it back up for sale on eBay
if you don’t want to keep it. Great comic book. Cool ass statues at collectors prices.
Maybe my father was right about the comic books in that it leads to being a disobedient adult for in the year of 1997 I spent three solid months in Shelby County Detention Center
facility for a crime that I was fifty percent in the wrong. Not saying it wasn’t my fault, but my time wasn’t just by my bidding; though wrong enough to be used as a post for proving the new Shelby County prosecuting attorney amazing ability to fuck a human being that simply made a ‘growing up’ mistakes in life. I learned a lot those months behind bars. Once I got out I realized three months solid was nothing, but at that time in my young life, it seems like forever. So good on you Shelby County prosecuting attorney cunt, and to those people in my life at that time who fucked me; you taught me well. And “THANK YOU!
” For that now I can see I have turned out a far better person than you will ever be no matter how many generations you produce. “I read your FB.”
During that time, of growing up and trying to fit into the prison system of overcrowded rooms, where blacks controlling the TV, Mexicans hiding in their own corner trading milk, and then the white folks being the loudest and scariest. I guess there was pressure to fit in. I read for the first time “Catch in the Rye
”. I learned how to “freak a black & mild
”. I practiced how to conserve my TP, and save my pints of milk for trade or midnight dessert. Anything of extra amenities outside of the three meals a day and standard issued TP, blanket/matt, or the orange jumpsuit was extra, and no family of mine was sending money to a jail. That would be shameful in the eyes of the community.
And then there was some ol white dude. Just one.
There is always some ol white dude in the room. No matter what room it is. It could be a club, a spa, a maria captains lounge. Always.
It was during this time that I gain my first ‘prison tattoo
” my “jailhouse job
” as they are so hipster named. I was amazed how imaginative humans are when it came to getting the job done with little to no equipment and I could go on all day about giving this ol man credit on creativity, but something tells me that he learned it in some other locked up location.
How it came to be, I have yet to understand. What one will find in a prison is without say. This ol white man was the house tattooist. I remember him stating that he was being held in the county jail for over a year as he was awaiting transfer to the state pen for some named crime. A standard story form the white folks. Then I begin to understand why they were the strange ones. They seemed to be the ones that carried the heavier convections or maybe it was pride in claiming territory in the room.
This ol white man had lined up a self-made jailhouse tattoo gun. Sneaky Photos
He had manage to collect parts of a guitar string, plastic Bic pen, some fasteners, electrical wires, a 9volt battery, and a tiny motor. I was way impressed. Most parts from a cassette player he said. Also more impressive was a bottle of India ink, or so he said. The main parts of the gun were throw away so there was no need to worry about contamination. Soap and water cleanse everything.
As to having something to do while you wait. Waiting…
Reminds me of that ol Louisville, Ky Tattoo Charles
slogan. –Tattoos while you wait!-
Now I understand it. Cause when one’s ass is in jail, there is nothing else to do… Wait. So might as well get a tattoo while you are waiting if the price is right. The ol white man was simple. I was able to trade a months supply of milk and dinner dessert for my ink.
My right to manhood.!
In the beginning, the time was pressured for I had never in my lifetime planned to get inked in jail. So when asked, I said “ yeah” when asked what do I want? “uuuuuuh” was about the best I could do for the first 30 minutes.
I laid down my design, what I could live with at the time. Decapitator! Decapitator chest piece. Slight variation, but dead on for what I could remember.
The deal was made, payment arranged, and the wires were attached to the 9volt. The buzzing sound was one of a kind, echoing in the concert cell. It seems that I can even remember the sound of the splashing of the ink as the sharped guitar string dips into the bottle.
And it begins. Pure free hand! What seems like an eternity, my selected image was complete. Soap and water were applied, and off to my matt on the floor to heal. Funny how little things like looking in the mirror can bring back months full of intense memories.
When I got out of jail, mom picked me up. Drove me to Taco Bells. That and a Twix candy were the only cravings. Three months being limited from free cattle like consumption; being cut off from “selection” is another story. Until then, remember.
My prison ink is better than your pussy ass store bought ink!
Ps. India ink. Prison ink. 20 years old and still looking good.
Pss. I know the difference between the pen, jail, and detention centers. Do you?
Love that shit!