I've... seen things you people wouldn't believe... Iranian cerntrifuges on fire off the shoulder of Orion. I watched c-beams glitter in the dark near the Ford River Rouge Assembly Plant. All those... moments... will be lost in time, like tears... in... rain.
Time... to die...
The administrative remedy process was seemingly designed by Franz Kafka to be an exercise in bureaucratic futility.
You have 15 days to file a BP-8, which you must get from your counselor. If he only visits the SHU every three weeks, you're SOL. If you do manage to file, it goes to your case manager and unit manager, who will veto it. Then you have a limited amount of time to file a BP-9, which theoretically goes to the warden. In practice, it stops at an assistant warden's desk. Denied. So you try to file a BP-10 to the regional office. You need to attach all supporting documents, including the original incident report. Good luck getting those from your counselor or case mangler. If you do manage to file it, it will come back in 4 months with a dot-matrix printed page of boilerplate reasons why your grievance is denied. Last but not least is the BP-11, which goes to BOP Headquarters in DC. By this time you're either dead or on the bus to the halfway house.
Only when the process is completed can you petition a court for action under 18 USC 1983.
It's like a bad high school production of Terry Gilliam's "Brazil".
-k.
I just did five years in Federal prison and did two stretches in the SHU (basically solitary), totaling about two months. First time was for drawing on a paper food service hat. Second time was for being a smartass to the prison shrink.
Me, I didn't mind it so much. Peace and quiet (though occasionally you get a screamer on the range). Got some reading done. Meditated.
But you only get to make one call every thirty days. No coffee, no commissary. The cops keep the place cold like a meat locker. Lights never go off.
It's not for violent criminals. You get sucker punched or stomped and you go to the SHU for 30 days for an "investigation". You file a grievence against a staff member and you go in for a 90-day "investigation". You get the flu or scabies and you're in there for two weeks: quarantine.
The really violent people end up on a USP or AD-Max in Florence, CO.
I didn't mind the SHU because I enjoy a bit of solitude now and then. But in California, there are guys who've spent decades in the hole. That totally fucks you up.
-k.
Seconded. We had spray painted stencils on anything larger than 12". For mics and cables we used colored duct tape and wrote on that with a Sharpie. Every gig ended with a "dummy check" at the end of the night: even if you think everything is in the truck, it never hurts to make one last check (onstage, backstage, etc.). You'd be surprised how many times something turned up in a dummy check.
Designate one person as the gear wrangler. Teach him the Roadie's Creed:
If it's wet, drink it.
If it's dry, smoke it.
If it moves, fuck it.
If it doesn't move, PUT IT IN THE TRUCK.
-k.
My father just passed away after a long illness. His funeral is tomorrow, and the last few days have been a blur, long sad silences punctuated by visits from friends and family members coming to pay their respects and drop off a casserole or a covered dish dinner.
My relationship with my father was often a stormy one. Sometimes we were best friends, sometimes mortal enemies. Sometimes we were father and son.
The rule on staying alive as a program manager is to give 'em a number or give 'em a date, but never give 'em both at once.
