The Slobs and The Bobs and Stinking Isabelle

Eternal Sunshine #30 Released - July 2009 Issue - Diplomacy Subzine

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Wed, 01 Jul 2009 22:36:00 GMT

Now released: The July 2009 issue of Eternal Sunshine, issue #30. Included in this issue:

* Diplomacy results
* By Popular Demand
* Movie Reviews
* Deviant Diplomacy II
* Bourse
* New Game Openings
* Subzines by Jack McHugh, Andy York, David Hood, and Paul Milewski
* Prison Stories
* and more!

You can find Eternal Sunshine #30 in pdf format in the ES Yahoo group at:

http://games.groups.yahoo.com/group/eternal_sunshine_diplomacy/

or in both pdf and HTML format in the Diplomacy section of my personal website at:

http://www.whiningkentpigs.com/DW/

Check it out and let me know what you think!

PS - Diplomacy World #106 is about to go into final proofing...watch for it sometime after July 4th weekend!

Movie Review - Is Anybody There?

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Sun, 31 May 2009 19:42:00 GMT

Given the right film, Michael Caine has always had the ability to carry himself as one of the great actors of the last 40 years, from Zulu to Alfie to The Italian Job and on through the ages. Occasionally a bit loose with his choices, in recent years he his presence has been a welcome, shining attraction in a number of very satisfying movies; his part in Children of Men, in particular, I found terribly moving. Now we are presented with Is Anybody There?, which despite its rather simple setting and what could have been twisted into a trite plot, the strength of Caine carries the film through from beginning to end (with some help from a young Bil Milner). Milner plays Edward, a child of about ten. He lives with his parents in their home in late-80’s England, an only child, surrounded only by the other occupants: old folks whom have come to live in the home, as his parents converted it into a rest home as an attempt to get a business off the ground. It is crowded, his parents are on edge with each other, and death is always around the corner. Edward has become fascinated with death, or more specifically with the idea of knowing what happens after death, and whether ghosts move about in our world, unseen. When a resident dies, his first instinct isn’t to report it but to try and record any signs of a ghostly presence with his audio cassette recorder.

Enter Clarence Parkinson (Michael Caine), who has been moved to the home by social services against his will. He arrives in a small van decorated with advertisements from his prior career: The Amazing Clarence, a magician. It is at this simple plot point that the entire film could have been derailed, but Caine and Director John Crowley allow Caine room to reveal a complex and honest character. Clarence is angry at being moved into a home filled with doddering old folks he is afraid of become like, bitter at being alone, frustrated at his complete lack of control, and sadly aware that physically and mentally he is deteriorating. His anger and frustration is not hidden; in one early scene he and Edward scream at each other after a minor incident with a soccer ball, and Caine walks away crying in misery.

Eventually, a bond is built between the two, but that bond is always strained by the bitter lessons Clarence wants to teach Edward: among them “Your life changes, and not always for the better” and “You collect regrets, and they stick to you like old bruises.” Clarence most succinctly expresses his frustration in one moving scene when he exclaims “It just hurts to get this far and realize that there is NOTHING!” Despite his rages, their bond grows, and Edward does his best to help Clarence resolve issues from his past.

There are messages in Is Anybody There?, but they are not crammed down your throat: the aged have things to teach us, and they are desperate for the slightest bit of comfort and understanding; death is not to be feared, but accepted; you make your choices in life, choose your path, and it is better not to waste your years wishing that choice had been different. Above all, the film tries to show that life changes for the better and for the worse, and that moments of happiness can be found if you look for them.

Is Anybody There? is quite good, and produced a good number of tears for Heather and myself. I highly recommend it.

Eternal Sunshine #29 Released - June 2009 Issue - Diplomacy Subzine

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Tue, 26 May 2009 20:07:00 GMT

Eternal Sunshine #29, the June 2009 Issue, is now posted. It includes all of the usual foolishness, such as:

Halfway Home at the Halfway House Part 5
Hypothetical Question of the Month
Movie Reviews
Book Reviews
Columns by W. Andrew York and Jack McHugh
Music that Doesn't Get Old
Diplomacy results for Wouldn't It Be Nice and Dulcinea
Bourse
Deviant Dip II Results
Final Results for the Eternal Sunshine 7x7 Gunboat Tournament
Two new games transferred from Strange Meeting
and more!

You can get the pdf file in the Yahoo group at:

http://games.groups.yahoo.com/group/eternal_sunshine_diplomacy/

Or in either odf or html from the Diplomacy section of my website at:

http://www.whiningkentpigs.com/DW/

Check it out!

Halfway Home at the Halfway House - Part Four

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Sun, 24 May 2009 02:05:00 GMT

A lot of life at the halfway house was much more relaxed than in prison. Counts weren’t a timed activity; a staff member simply walked around with a clipboard, marking down everybody he or she saw until they’d gotten everybody on the list of who was supposed to be on-site at the time. Meals were at scheduled times (and breakfast quite early), but dinner was served three times a night. As long as you had a reason for not being able to make the earliest dinner, they allowed you to eat at the second. The third dinner was reserved for those who couldn’t make it back from work in time; you had to sign up for that in advance, just as you had to sign up in advance if you were going to take a bag lunch with you to work (which officially you HAD to do if you were working unless you were employed at an eatery, because you weren’t allowed to walk off the job site during work hours…I’d learn all about these rules later).

I ate my dinner and tried to settle in. Falling asleep was actually a bit difficult for me, which I attributed to the foreign surroundings. Of course, it might have helped if my roommates were interested in going to bed. They liked to stay up late, watching DVDs or playing some kind of video game. Things of this nature were allowed in the room, to a limit of one TV and one video game system per room, as long as they were owned by a resident of the halfway house. When the guy who owned the TV was leaving for good, somebody else would bring one in. DVDs were also permitted, but as you might expect pornography was not. That didn’t stop my roommates from popping in a porno DVD whenever possible. Trust me, it’s hard to sleep when six undersexed guys are gathered around a TV groaning and ooh-ing at two women going to town on each other. Because I was new in the room, and one of only two white guys for the time being, I had two benign methods for getting around this late-night entertainment: first, I could put my headphones in and try to fall asleep to talk radio or a baseball game, which sometimes worked; second, I could make them all uncomfortable by walking in the room, finding the porno on, staring at it for a few seconds with my mouth wide open, pointing at the screen, and saying something like “Oh my God…that’s my SISTER!” Nobody would believe me for more than a second or two, but I guess it put things into a less festive perspective, and voices would be noticeably lower for the rest of the night.

Of course that wasn’t the only thing which made sleep difficult in the halfway house. There was also the constant low-volume ring of cell phones, all night long. We weren’t allowed to have cell phones, and the pat-down searches we received sometimes when coming in from work might allow one to be discovered, but the rarity of that happening led me to believe that at least a few of the staff members were receiving cash “gifts” from clients to not look at things too closely. Usually these late night interruptions were from women, which would result in whispered sweet nothings…although sometimes in their sleepy stupor a guy would think the woman calling was his girlfriend instead of his baby’s mama, and a stage-whispered argument would ensue. But not all the calls were personal in nature. Within my first week I know that, even half-asleep, I was able to hear what sounded like drug deals being arranged for the following day, or instructions to underlings on how to handle collection matters. This wasn’t like prison, where everybody kept their business to themselves; here, it was back to business as usual for the career criminals.

The following morning I was introduced to the “shared chore” system of the halfway house. Each room had a chart on the door, and every week the residents would rotate between one custodial job in the room to another. One week you’d have clean the sinks and toilets in the commode room; another week it was sweep and mop the floor; etc. My job this first week was (not surprisingly) the one most hated: clean the shower stalls (of which there were two in a room of our size). I’d already noticed the day before just how filthy these were; clearly nobody had been doing much of a job. So I went to the front desk, was directed to the cleaning supplies (gloves, scouring powder, paper towels, and some sort of liquid cleanser), and went to work at the mess. I scrubbed for about 20 minutes, put everything away, and initialed the sheet to show I’d completed my task. But when I returned from breakfast, the staff member on duty had marked it as “not completed to satisfaction.” I looked around and found “Manny,” the staff member. I’m not sure what his game was; it could be that because I was one of the few white residents he expected me to carry some sort of racist attitude, or that he wanted some cash, or simply that this ball-busting was something he did to all the new residents to figure out how they acted. But even though I was irritated (and keep in mind, this is not a small issue; if you don’t complete your tasks in an “approved” fashion, it can affect your visits, future passes, and just about any other privilege you could earn) I remembered the rule of thumb I’d used to get by in prison: this wasn’t my house, it was THEIR house. So I had to follow their rules.

I think I really saw a look of shock (as surprise would be too light of a word) when I caught Manny off-guard with my approach. I apologized that the showers weren’t up to his standards, but as it was my first day I wasn’t exactly sure the best way to get things clean enough. I proceeded to ask him to show me the spots I most blatantly missed, and to offer some advice or tricks on how to do the job better. After five minutes of this, Manny got tired of it and just asked me to do better next time, changing his remark on the sheet to “completed.” I knew that without question, whoever had been assigned the task for the prior week or two had done zero cleaning. But why they were able to get away with that was not my concern. I just had to get along with the system, such as it was.

Later that day it was time for orientation to begin. This was where I had the “pleasure” of being introduced to Miss Fosse, the “Employment Counselor.” She clearly hated her job, mistrusted everybody, and had no interest in helping anyone do anything. She had us fill out forms describing our work experience and skills, which were promptly filed and ignored forever. She had no job leads to offer, no ideas or hints, nothing. And there was no time for any of that anyway – we had a total of ten days to find a minimum of 30-hour-per-week employment or we would potentially be written up. Because I’d taken the Residential Drug and Alcohol Program in prison, I was living in this halfway house on a supposed “zero tolerance” policy; if I was written up once, that was all they needed to send me back to prison if that’s what they felt like doing. And there was no workable appeals process. I was going to have to find a job, FAST.

So, as you might expect, I immediately had the roadblocks laid out for me, one by one. First, I was not allowed to go out and seek employment yet, because I hadn’t been seen by the doctor and medically cleared. The doctor only came in on Tuesdays. This was Thursday. I would be stuck, sitting around the halfway house, until then. Oh, and the even better news was those days COUNTED against this “ten day” time limit to find employment. Even better: those were CALENDAR days, not business days. So by the time I cleared medical and was allowed to go out and look for work, I would be at day 7 out of 10. Oh, except that since I had to be cleared before I could submit my search schedule, I wouldn’t be allowed to go out and look for work until day 8. Wonderful!

In the meantime, it was suggested that I make use of the halfway house’s materials to look for work over the phone. Those “materials” included a huge stack of yellow pages, which were more than a year old. There were also a few “free” employment newspapers in stands, which never had anything in them but ads for employment education programs – “Learn to be a Dental Assistant.” At least there was the daily paper to look through, except there was only one copy for 60+ inmates, and inevitably the employment section would disappear before 8am. It would turn up again, after 7pm, or perhaps the following morning…or never. There was no computer or internet access, so job hunting was fully old-school.

This left my “job hunt” activities to be very limited. While Heather helped, faxing my resume to any ad she could find in the paper or online, I was left to flip through the yellow pages, day after day, trying to figure out who might be hiring. I’d make a list of a few places, wait my turn for the free “business only” phone, and call. There were only two questions to ask. “Are you hiring?” and “Do you accept applicants with a conviction on their record?” The answer to number two was almost always yes, because unless it is a business with some sort of security issue, they ALL accept applications from felons; they just won’t HIRE you. And for the first question, you heard “yes” about one time out of six, “we’re always accepting applications” half the time, and discovered the place had closed (or the phone number had changed) the rest of the time. Then you’d hand the phone off to the next person, and wait for your next turn.

It isn’t as if any of this was useful, because let’s pretend they told you “yes, we’re hiring, come in for an interview right away.” Nope, sorry, no go. You needed to submit your job search travel schedule the day before. So you’d have to wait until the next day…unless, like me, you weren’t cleared yet, in which case what were you supposed to do, say “can I come in next week to apply for this minimum wage job which you’ll have filled by noon tomorrow?” It was a frustrating, depressing waste of time. But I had nothing else to do, so I made a ton of calls a few hours a day, and spent the rest of my time reading.

Not surprisingly, the resume faxes did very little to generate any job leads. Oh, I did get ONE phone call from one of the maybe 100 resumes Heather sent. Because we didn’t have phones, the calls would come to the front desk, and the staff would take a message and let them know you’d call them back. It was a less-than-optimal system. First, they’re calling what they think is someone’s house, and get “Volunteers of America, can I help you?” instead. Assuming they choose to leave the message (often after being rudely asked “is this a personal call? We can only take messages regarding employment!”) you had to hope it found its way to you. A company nearby was looking for a dispatcher, and I suppose my experience at Amerifleet sounded good to them. So they called, and left a message. An hour later when I walked by the front desk, I was told “Oh, Doug, we have a message for you.” I stood there for about 20 minutes while they searched. Nope, can’t find it. Wonderful. Finding a job was going to be sooooo easy.

I don’t mean to imply they never found the message. Two days later I was told they’d finally found it. When I went to the front desk, they’d lost it again. Then they found it, at last, an hour later. It was scribbled on a square sticky note, with an illegible company name. The phone number was wrong; it went nowhere. I wasn’t surprised in the least. I simply felt more hopeless, and depressed that Heather was taking such effort to help which appeared to be wasted energy and time.

Before I was able to go out and look for work, Heather came down and brought me some clothes and other items I’d need. This was my first face-to-face glimpse of her since I’d left more than 30 months earlier. I can’t even begin to describe the overwhelming emotions…I was so happy to see her, but it also felt very uncomfortable (especially as I was not really supposed to have true contact with her, as it wasn’t a visiting session). I could also feel some tension rising from Heather’s side, which I learned later was because she had some fear of how easily we would be able to slip back into the magical connection we’d felt when we first met and fell in love. 30 months is a long time, and we’d both changed some in that span, but I didn’t think it was going to be a major problem. And, of course, she worried about whether I’d still find her as beautiful and desirable as I had before…which from my standpoint was just as silly as how nervous she was on our first date. How could I not see how incredibly gorgeous and sexy she was, is, and always will be? Heather is one of those women who will still be beautiful when she’s in her 70’s…older, yes, but unquestionable beautiful. (I still don’t see how I got so lucky after years of bad choices and bad luck).

I was given the opportunity to spend an afternoon away from the halfway house even before my medical clearance: a group of us were driven to a special meeting where Dallas was announcing some broad new programs to help those with criminal records. Miss Fosse was very insistent that we all go, as she’d heard such wonderful things about all the new training and hiring programs. This wouldn’t just make it easier for us to find jobs…it would make her life simpler too. The meeting was about three hours long, and it only took me about thirty minutes to realize it was a complete waste of time. Ignoring all the talk by the speakers regarding how this program was designed especially to help minority felons (of which I am not one), I also came to understand that in order to use the job-placement assets this program could provide, you needed to complete three to four weeks of specialized training AND have two interviews with the administrators. After a while, Miss Fosse even became disillusioned, and raised her hand to ask what this program could do for those clients she was in charge of, as none of us had the kind of time horizon they were talking about; we needed jobs FAST. Unfortunately, they admitted there wasn’t really anything which would help us. It was (like every program I have encountered before or since) designed for state or county felons, not Federal.

Finally, after a week or delays, I was ready to head out and look for work. With the phone books and faxes doing nothing, I had to nail down a plan. Miss Fosse was only willing to provide me with a four hour pass, which really didn’t leave much time for job hunting, especially since it took 20 minutes to get from the door of the halfway house to the nearest transit station, and another 30 to get to any reasonable location where you might find work. I’d found a job in the paper which two other clients had been able to get work through during my wasted week, but they weren’t interested in hiring anybody else from the halfway house after that. Their reasons were common ones I would discover during my job hunt. First, if you hired one of us you had to be willing to deal with Miss Fosse; she would show up for on-site visits once a week, having forms to be signed and reviews to be made. Then there were the random calls from the halfway house, often at least once a day, to confirm that you were actually at work like you were supposed to be. A lot of clients got fake jobs from friends, and then spent their time hanging out with buddies, or reintroducing themselves to the criminal lifestyle. There was also the issue of the lack of initiative most of the halfway house clients possessed; it was not at all rare for somebody to go to work for a day or two and then just stop showing up, because they didn’t like the job. Overall, hiring a felon who lived in the halfway house was a lot of extra work for the business, with very little reward. True, there was a tax credit they could apply for, but the felon had to keep the job for 60 days (I think it was) before the application was valid. So many people quit, or did such a piss-poor job that they’d be fired, that the tax credit was not a realistic incentive.

Because I’d lived in Dallas, I figured my best plan was to hit one major retail area and apply for jobs at every store there. That way I’d take the van to the train to a bus, arrive at my destination, walk from store to store, and then head back. Two hours was the maximum amount of time I’d have to fill out applications and talk to managers. The first obstacle: you have to list every single place you are going to go on your job search form, with address and phone number, in advance. I couldn’t be sure what stores were still at this shopping center and which had closed, or what new retail outlets had opened. The phone books were only useful if you knew the name of the business. Still, I managed to get five stores down on the list, with the information. This led to the second obstacle: Miss Fosse herself. She did not believe anybody when they put a lot of locations on their list; to her it was simply an attempt to appear busy while you’re out having sex, drinking, or who knows what else. I actually had to argue with her and show her that all these stores were in the same plaza, within walking distance of each other. Finally she signed off on the form, but then reminded me that I was forbidden to apply at any store NOT on my list. In other words, if there was a business there I had forgotten about, or which hadn’t existed when I went to prison, the only way I could try to apply for a job would be to call them later and then use up ANOTHER day to travel there and get an application. Fat chance.

About this time is when I realized my third obstacle: I needed my driver’s license and Social Security card to secure employment…the identification which the prison had somehow lost. So I’d need to use my second day of job hunting (as I’d already gotten approval for the first day, I wasn’t about to change things around) to go downtown and try to resolve that nightmare. Fortunately I’d had Heather bring me my birth certificate from home when she brought the clothes. A few phone calls had led me to believe that I’d be able to use that to get a new copy of both my license (which was not expired; I had renewed it a few months before leaving Texas) and my Social Security card. With luck, I could do both in the same day. In the meantime, I figured that if someone wanted to hire me I could promise to bring appropriate ID on my first day of work.

Finally I learned the fourth obstacle: it was my responsibility to maintain contact with the halfway house. “Full accountability” was the name they used for the policy. What this meant was I had to call the halfway house just after arriving at, and just before leaving, each of my destinations. Unfortunately, this meant I’d have to call them in between EACH business I went into. First I’d call when I got off the bus, then go to the first store on the list, apply, get a signature on my sheet to show I had been there (whether or not they were hiring), and then waste precious time (and 50 cents) to call on a pay phone back to the halfway house, so they could mark off my completion of my first location and my intention to proceed to the next one. To me this was the stupidest of all the rules. After all, the stores were RIGHT NEXT TO each other! But my attempt to argue from a position of logic and reason did nothing to help…if anything, it only made Miss Fosse and the staff more suspicious of my intentions. Nobody else seemed to be complaining, so why was I? Of course, as I’d learn throughout my time there, that was because most of the other clients were using fake jobs, cell phones with no caller ID on them, or any other number of ways to outwit the system that I was so desperately trying to follow (including bribing staff members, in my opinion). I hadn’t been in the halfway house long enough to believe that the rules made success next to impossible…so I was going to do things their way as long as I could. With the “zero tolerance” policy hanging over my head, a screw up wouldn’t just mean giving up the six months I was due to spend split between the halfway house and home confinement; it would also mean giving up the five months I had taken off my sentence for completion of the Residential Drug and Alcohol Program. In effect, if I broke the rules blatantly enough, the Federal Marshalls would just pick me up and send me back to Pennsylvania to spend almost another year locked up (something which I saw happen to four or five clients during my time at the halfway house). Plus, this wouldn’t be a bus ride on Greyhound. Instead, I’d spend two to three months in the Federal transfer system, moving from rat hole to rat hole until I’d made my way back. Maybe I’d enjoy a few weeks in solitary confinement in Fort Worth? Or six weeks sleeping on a folding cot in Oklahoma, in a huge way station where pigeons that roosted in the rafters crapped all over the inmates (of their blankets if you were smart enough to stay covered all night long)? No thank you. I just wanted to get through this nightmare and get home to Heather, and to Tigger who somehow had survived in decent health despite being 20 years old by now. I couldn’t believe that nobody had ever been able to find a job this way…some clients had to succeed, and I was determined to be one of them, even if it nearly killed me in the process.

Funny Television Commercial - OnlineBootyDate.com

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Sun, 03 May 2009 03:54:00 GMT

We were watching TV tonight and this ad came on. It's good stupid fun.

Halfway Home at the Halfway House - Part 3

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Sun, 03 May 2009 02:42:00 GMT

While the remainder of my bus trip was tedious, exhausting, and seemed to be eternal, it was actually rather uneventful. I grabbed a sandwich in Little Rock, and managed to get a few hours sleep between there and Dallas. We arrived in Dallas about two hours later than scheduled, and I’d had it drilled into my brain that any late arrival would be considered a serious violation of the travel policy. So I canned the number I had for the halfway house, but the woman who answered didn’t seem to care one way or the other. “Just get here as soon as you can, that’s fine.”

I tried to call Heather too, to hear her voice - and to see if she had calmed down from the fit she’d thrown the last time we spoke. I got her answering machine, left a message, and headed out to the street to find a cab. I was quite familiar with this part of downtown Dallas, having ridden Greyhound in and out of the station countless times when I worked for AmeriFleet. My only real concern was finding a cab driver who could figure out where we needed to go; my directions were pretty simple, but since they’d come off the internet I had no way of knowing whether they were correct or not. Also, Hutchins is a bit out of the way, so it was possible a cab driver would not want to go that far when there was no return fare available.

There were two cabs waiting on the street. I approached the first one and climbed in the back. “I need to go to Hutchins.”

“The Halfway house, huh? It’s fifty bucks since I can’t get a fare back.”

Obviously I wasn’t the first passenger to climb out of the bus station heading to the halfway house. And I suppose that doesn’t say much for the town of Hutchins when the only reason anybody wants to take a cab there is to report to a Halfway House.

As it turned out, my directions were not entirely correct, but only because of a major change off of Interstate 45. The halfway house was supposed to be located about two blocks from an exit, but that particular exit no longer went east and west; the connection to the west had been closed permanently. So instead we had to take a different exit and work through a few side streets. Apparently this change had taken place a number of month earlier, as the cab driver knew all about it.

The area we were driving in was rather empty. There was a gas station/convenience store and a house or two, but that was it. Then we turned right and hit the correct street, and I could see the layout was quite isolated. There was a water tower on one side of the street, with a huge overgrown field. On the left side of the street there were three buildings: one was a typical small commercial building housing some company or other. Farther down the street was a propane company called Blue Rhino, with small and large tanks everywhere, and trucks moving around – it seemed rather active. In between, there was your typical sterile-looking brick buildings, pure government: the Dallas-area Halfway House, administered by the Volunteers of America (who weren’t volunteers, of course). It could have passed for a small medical building, except for one fenced-in area with a basketball hoop which could only be accessed from inside the building itself.

I was home…at least my new home for the next six months.

The front door was open, and I walked in. The lobby area was rather quiet, although I could hear a television somewhere in the distance. The standard-issue institutional tile made up the floor. There was a small sofa to the left, and to the right a large desk with two windows, similar to something you’d find at the Department of Motor Vehicles. I approached the window nervously and was happy to see a rather pleasant and unintimidating woman behind the window. I gave her my name, my prison ID number, and my social security number, and she asked me to wait at the couch. “Do not speak to anyone until I have processed your entry,” she warned. Fortunately that wasn’t much of a problem, as I think only one or two people walked by in the meantime. One, I noticed, was a female…this reminded me that the halfway house was co-ed! I would actually see living, breathing women again. Somehow though, this didn’t seem like such a big deal. After all, the only woman I really wanted to see was Heather. And I suppose I had already made the mental jump that I’d see plenty of females now that I was going to interact with the outside world. I know that for some halfway house “clients” (as we were called) this is a major event, but it wasn’t for me.

Eventually the staff member brought me into a large room, which she told me was the visiting room and television room. She proceeded to ask me a few questions, mainly to confirm information she already had in her paperwork, and then she went through my belongings. I gave her the two prescriptions I had been taking, so she could put them in the medical closet and have them officially dispensed to me; they were just Zantac and some antibiotic, but I could understand their desire to keep access to prescriptions limited, as well as the need to make sure they were only taken according to instructions. I didn’t think there would be an issue with any of the personal items I was carrying with me, as they all had come directly from my time inside prison, but as it turned out there were three items she confiscated. The first was my big bag of plain M&Ms. “Clients cannot have food, because no food or drink is allowed anywhere in the facility except for the mess hall and the snack room.” She told me I could have somebody pick them up when they came to visit. I could understand the no food rule; bugs were always a major concern, especially in the warmer Texas climate. But the other two items she confiscated really confused me: my nail clippers and toenail clippers. “These are held up front, and you can come sign them out when you need them.” I wasn’t about to be argumentative on my first day, but it seemed a bit silly that they wouldn’t allow me to keep the same pair of nail clippers I’d had in prison, especially when I had disposable razors which, when broken open, could cause a lot more damage. Oh well; this would not be the last halfway house rule I’d think was pointless or counterproductive.

After having me sign some forms and giving me a list of rules and policies, she showed me around the rest of the facility, which wasn’t much. Down one hallway were the female bedrooms, mess hall, and administrative offices. I guess they felt safer keeping the females (who accounted for about 25% of the population) closer to the powers that be. In the central part of the building, where the two main hallways and the entranceway intersected, you could find the snack room, the medical closet (which was where they dispensed medication from), the library, and the laundry room. This was also the area where the large entrance desk was located, as well as the visiting room. This left one long hallway for me to explore on my own: the hallway with all of the male client bedrooms. The staff member handed me a key, which she said was for my closet, and gave me my room number and bed assignment. It was clear she wasn’t interested in walking down that hallway, or wasn’t supposed to do it without a male staff member, or both. So I set off on my own.

Immediately on the left was a door marked Employment Services, which I’d been told was where the Employment Counselor had her office. Then on both sides of the wall were about eight payphones, each requiring 50 cents per call. These phones were meant to be our contact with the outside world; call phones and phone cards were not permitted. I guessed that the Halfway House got some kind of percentage on the amount of money spent, but I couldn’t be sure. There was one regular free phone “clients” were allowed to use, but it was at the front desk, and meant for phone calls to locate employment only – nothing else. I’d soon learn the was often a line to use that phone, so for simplicity’s sake it would often be worth it to drop the 50 cents into the payphone.

I walked down about half of the hallway, and found my room on the left. Opening the door, I entered an 8-bunk room; 4 pairs of bunk beds. My bed was #7, which was the top bunk immediately on the right. The rest of the room was pretty much empty. There was a small table with a sink in one corner, and some folding chair scattered about. A small television, belonging to one of the clients, sat on a chair between two bunks. I located my closet: it was quite small, but it would have to do. It was meant to hold all of my personal belongings for the duration of my stay. Nothing was to be left out in the open. There were also two other doors in the room; the one on the left led to a small room with two toilets and a sink. The one across the entranceway led to the two small showers and another sink. Every bed was empty, but appeared to be used by someone. So while I’d traded down from a prison “range” with 40+ inmates to a small room with 8, I still wouldn’t be getting any privacy in this place. I shrugged; it was only for six months, and I’d be at work much of the time. How bad could it be?

I’d been informed that a client orientation was being held the following day, so I had nothing to do until dinner time around 5pm. Heather was already at work, so there was no reason to call her. And I didn’t want to fork over the long distance charges to call anybody else. So I did something I’d been dying to do for three days: a took a long, hot shower. I cleaned myself up, shaved, put on some fresh clothes (my choices were limited but I planned on asking Heather to bring me some in the next day or two after work), and climbed into bed. The bunk was a solid metal frame style, with no springs underneath, and the mattress and pillow were very thin. But it wasn’t much worse than what I’d been used to from prison, and the room was quiet. Exhausted from the long journey, emotionally and physically fried, I closed my eyes and quickly dozed off. As I drifted away, I thought about all the things I needed to do over the next few days: get Heather to bring me some clothes, get plenty to eat, find a job – ANY job for the time being, and be sure to obey all the rules of the halfway house. I’d just keep to myself and the rest should be easy.

But, as I had learned to expect, accomplishing goals when involved in the Federal prison system is only as easy as the staff and administration want to make it for you. And I was soon to learn that the rules and attitudes of those around me were not designed to make life simple. In fact, some of them seemed specifically designed to make it impossible to succeed! Like in prison itself, my goals in the halfway house would have to be changed from “achieve goals and progress” to “survive and count the days until I’m out of here.”

Another Living With Women Tip

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Sun, 03 May 2009 02:40:00 GMT

As it turns out, when a woman asks if you're happy with your life together, the response of "Yes my love, I am so much happier since I got home from prison" is not the full-hearted expression of bliss she's probably looking for from you.

Eternal Sunshine #28 Released - May 2009 Issue - Diplomacy Zine

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Tue, 28 Apr 2009 16:04:00 GMT

Eternal Sunshine #28, the May 2009 issue, has now been released!

Inside you will find:

Gamestart for Deviant Dip II, the craziest Diplomacy variant ever
Columns by Jack McHugh and Andy York
Results for the 2nd Eternal Sunshine Movie Quote Quiz
Part Four of Halfway Home at the Halfway House
Diplomacy
Bourse
Letters
Foolishness
And much more!

You can find the latest issue in pdf format in the Eternal Sunshine Yahoo group at:

http://games.groups.yahoo.com/group/eternal_sunshine_diplomacy/

Or in both pdf and html format in the Diplomacy section of my personal website at:

http://www.whiningk entpigs.com/ DW/

Check it out!

Diplomacy World #105 Released - Spring 2009 Issue

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Mon, 06 Apr 2009 03:41:00 GMT

The Spring 2009 issue of Diplomacy World, #105, has been released! Inside you’ll find some terrific articles, including highlights such as:

• An Interview with Diplomacy World Variant Editor Jack McHugh
• Multiple reports in WACCon 2009, from the liked of Jim
        O’Kelley and Siobhan Granvold
• Benjamin Hester on the Austrian Endgame
• Chris Babcock on Diplomacy and Cryptography
• The latest chapter of The Adventures of Fatman and Frottage
        by Rod Walker
• Two-time Australian Diplomacy Championship winner Andrew Goff
        on Taking Your Game to the Next Level
• The 1909 and 1910 seasons of the Diplomacy World Demo Game
• Tom Anthony’s “Ghost” Rating System
• And so much more!

You can find this issue, and all previous ones (going all the way back to #1) on the official Diplomacy World website at

http://www.diplomacyworld.net

You can also find it in the Diplomacy World Yahoo group at:

http://games.groups.yahoo.com/group/diplomacyworld/

And don’t forget to join the Diplomacy World Facebook group, (and our DW Readers Yahoo group at:

http://games.groups.yahoo.com/group/dwreaders/)

to discuss all the articles.

Enjoy, and happy stabbing!

Eternal Sunshine #27 Now Released - April 2009 Issue - Diplomacy Subzine

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Mon, 30 Mar 2009 18:44:00 GMT

The latest issue of Eternal Sunshine, #27 (the April 2009 issue) has all kinds of fun stuff, like:

Columns from Jack McHugh and Andy York
Diplomacy
Hypothetical Question
Another Movie Quote Contest
Bourse
Game Openings
Letters
Movie Reviews
Book Reviews
Prison Stories
and more!

Check it out in pdf format in the Yahoo group :

http://games.groups.yahoo.com/group/eternal_sunshine_diplomacy/

or in html and pdf format at:

http://www.whiningkentpigs.com/DW/

Enjoy!

Movie Review - Sunshine Cleaning

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Sun, 29 Mar 2009 03:45:00 GMT

I suppose it might be a bit of a surprise to base a drama/comedy film on the idea that cleaning up blood and brain matter from crime scenes could make a profitable business, but then again almost every television show these days involved some sort of Crime Scene Investigation unit. So why not the cleaning people who come in when it’s all over?

That’s the new business direction of Rose (Amy Adams), who is a single parent trying to support her seven-year-old son. Making a living as a maid for a cleaning service, while still having romantic trysts with her now-married high school sweetheart, Rose is stuck between the dreams of youth and the life she is now a part of. This new business, suggested by that married boyfriend (Steve Zahn) seems to be her ticket to a real career.

She brings in her rebellious and general screw-up sister Norah (Emily Blunt), and they make a go of it, undercutting the professional competition while Rose figures out what equipment, training, and licenses she needs to be fully legitimate. She also gets help from their father (Alan Arkin, always a treat). Aside from the welcome money, both sisters discover they feel different sorts of ties to their clients. Rose is drawn to the family members left behind, and Norah is pulled towards those who have died (or, as often seems to happen, killed themselves).

There are some good laughs in Sunshine Cleaning, but the drama and emotion is always front and center. It isn’t just the death and the blood; whether the victim is somebody loved, forgotten, ignored, or a “sort of do-it-yourself” death, the heaviness and waste of lives without love and companionship is focused on. And in ways sometimes unexpected, the pain of suicide on those left behind is also apparent. Sunshine Cleaning is not an overly-powerful film, nor a hilarious one. But it’s good, mainly on the strength of the performances (Adams, Blunt, and Arkin make us believe in the honesty of their characters). You won’t be overwhelmed, but I think you’ll enjoy it.

Halfway Home at the Halfway House - Part Two

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Mon, 16 Mar 2009 19:03:00 GMT

When you’re in prison, time passes slowly whenever you bother to think about it. But when you simply use it as a schedule - breakfast at six, work at eight, count at four – instead of a measure of hours, you can find the hours have turned into days and the days into weeks faster than you’d imagine. A regular schedule helps with that, especially if it is one which keeps you busy enough.

On the other hand, when you travel by bus time passes slower than when you’re in “the hole” sleeping on a paper-thin mattress on a cold concrete floor. I think that’s because when you’re serving your prison sentence, the “destination” seems so far away that you lose all sense of it. When you’re down to a month or less left, this changes, but the routine helps to minimize the angst. But on the bus, the destination is clearly mapped out, and you can’t help but watch and wait for it. Every second is measured out like drips from a leaky faucet.

I spent the first few hours of the bus trip trying to get comfortable. As we were still in the general area of the prison, it didn’t seem all that different to me. I tried to soften my anxiety by listening to the portable walkman-style radio which had kept me company throughout my incarceration. I could get most of the same stations, so if I closed my eyes I could almost pretend I was still in my bunk…except the seat was slightly more comfortable. The bus was nearly empty except for myself and the other two inmates, and aside from pleasantries we were keeping to ourselves. The stops in this part of Pennsylvania were shirt and quiet, with one or two people getting on or off. DuBois was the first semi-important bus station we’d be reaching, where the regional bus line we were riding would hook up with another (Greyhound “licenses” certain routes to other companies, so you can go all over the place using the Greyhound system without actually riding in a true Greyhound bus). When we reached it, the landscape was depressingly familiar; the station seemed to be in the middle of nowhere, deep in the woods, just like McKean had been. I didn’t really feel free yet.

This was also the location of our first transfer, so I grabbed my blue overnight bag and walked out into the cold March air. The six passengers and I shuffled our way into the bus station, where we waited for our connection. The two inmates made their way to the vending machines, but I made do with the water fountain and some of the Peanut M&Ms I’d brought along. With two hours to kill in Pittsburgh later that night, I figured I’d grab something there. If their grill was open, great, but if not I knew there would be vending machines with snacks and sandwiches at the very least.

As you might expect, the connection at DuBois arrived late, and was held up even a bit longer because of another connecting bus which had not yet arrived. This type of consideration for late passengers is something you only see on the regional lines. With Greyhound proper, the bus will simply leave; if your connection arrived late, tough. I wasn’t concerned when it came to my schedule, because if we arrived in Pittsburgh later than expected, it simply meant a shorter layover before my transfer. As we pulled out of DuBois around 8pm, I settled in and tried to catch a nap when I could.

The problem with that strategy, aside from how foreign the environment seemed after all those months in prison, was that this bus route included minor stops every twenty minutes or so. That meant that by the time things on the bus calmed down, we’d pull in somewhere else and stop. Each stop would include fidgety children, confused passengers, and a cadre of cigarette smokers who would beg the driver to let them hop off and light one up. Then, when the bus would start again, inevitably some jackass would drop their empty beverage bottle on the floor. The bottle would roll back and forth along the floor of the bus, bumping your feet, until the driver would turn on all the lights and threaten to pull over unless the “guilty party” would pick it up. Obviously whoever picked up the bottle was rarely the one who dropped it, but it mattered little. Suffice to say that I’d gotten no real rest by the time we pulled into Pittsburgh, more than half an hour behind schedule.

Unfortunately for me, the grill was already closed in the bus station, so I bought some chips and a bottle of water in the vending machine and started figuring out where my connecting bus would depart from. This is one of the tricks I had learned from my time riding Greyhound while working for AmeriFleet: don’t sit around waiting for your bus to be announced; find out what gate it is going to load at, and stand there immediately. Because the bus system involves so many lines, so many passengers, and so many tickets, nobody knows how many people are supposed to be on any bus at any particular time. A ticket for a 2pm bus can actually be used on any bus going to that same location, so if you miss a connection you simply get on the next bus. If there is a major change in your itinerary because of this, you can ask for the ticket agent to re-ticket you (so you have a hard copy of where you are going and what changes you need to make), but often most passengers just get on the bus and worry about it later.

With all that uncertainty and all that confusion, it is not infrequent to be told that the bus you want to get on has no room. The station agents will talk to the bus driver, find out how many seats they have, and only allow that many people on the bus. The front seats are supposed to be reserved for bus employees (for security reasons), but sometimes a driver will allow a passenger to sit there. And likewise, if there’s a stop less than 30 minutes down the road, and the driver has some passengers getting off there, he might allow passengers to stand in the aisle between stops…the catch being that if somebody wants to board at that stop, the driver has the same problem all over again. So while it makes for a much more tiring journey, especially on your feet (unless you have a large suitcase to sit on), you do yourself a favor moving to the gate right away (unless you have a layover of over 2 hours; in that case, when there are under two hours left, you move to the gate). As insane as this might sound, if you’re on a schedule that you really want to keep, it is the only way…and usually you’ll find someone else is already waiting at the same gate for the same bus, so you won’t be starting the line, you’ll be joining it. Since I had it drilled into my head that I either had to arrive at the halfway house on schedule, or have proof of why I was late, I couldn’t afford to take any chances.

This time urgency is really unique to long-distance inmate travelers. For inmates with less distance to cover, the opposite is true; they have ways of taking advantage of the layovers. If you’re going to New York, for example, the bus route takes you a round-about way. So if you are able to arrange it through letters or pay-phone calls, many inmates would have relatives, friends, or significant others meet them along the way. If you traveled by car, you could make the trip in much less time, which then allowed you to enjoy some food – or stop by a motel for some physical contact – before you arrived at your final bus destination. Officially this was the same as escape; the inmates were legally bound not to leave the bus or the bus stations…and supposedly some BOP personnel were known to check arriving busses to see if inmates were disembarking when they were supposed to. But to the criminal mind, those risks were small compared to the instant gratification of the steak or burger or intimate encounter. For me, though, this was not an option. I had too far to go, too many miles to cover, and I had no interest in doing ANYTHING which could endanger my status. Some inmates might say that was overly-cautious, and others would say I simply had no balls, but to me it was long-term thinking. There would be time for everything I wanted to experience, but my job now was to get to the halfway house in one piece, and preferably on time.

I managed to get some sleep after we left Pittsburgh, where I said goodbye to the other two inmates (they headed off in a different direction). I rested an hour or two anyway, as there were no stops until Columbus. But once the bus pulled in there, despite it being almost 4am, I had to stay awake. The driver had us all get off the bus for a while, even though we’d be leaving on the same bus again. I thought about calling Heather, but with more than three hours to kill during a layover in Dayton, that seemed to be a better plan…it would be a more reasonable hour then as well. Instead I shuffled around until I collapsed back in my seat. We left, and pulled into Dayton, Ohio only a few minutes behind schedule. I was exhausted, punchy, and hungry, but otherwise I’d survived the trip without any major damage.

The little grill in the bus station was opening at 6am, so I blew eight dollars and had some real eggs and toast and a carton of juice. There was even a place to sit while I ate, which I considered a minor miracle. Then I made my way into the main bus terminal area, in search of a payphone. But I’d forgotten about the time difference (Ohio is still in the eastern time zone, while Texas is in the central time zone), so by the time I called Heather had already left for work. Shit! I didn’t have her work phone number with me, so I figured I’d just have to wait until my layover in Nashville or Memphis to get in touch with her. Typical bad luck and bad planning on my part!

I was lucky that once we left Dayton, despite layovers in Cincinnati and Louisville, I was able to stay on the bus uninterrupted until Nashville. We arrived there a bit late, so I got back on the bus as quickly as possible, figuring to call Heather from Memphis. At every available stop I’d buy one or two bottles of water, and a granola bar or some other vended food item, so between those and ¾ of my big bag of peanut M&Ms I was keeping any real hunger at bay. Finally we pulled into Nashville, and I stumbled off the bus and into the station, which was a madhouse of noisy activity. First things first; I needed to hear a friendly, loving voice in the worst way. So I called Heather, and she and I finally made contact on the phone.

Unfortunately for me, her voice didn’t sound quite so friendly. In fact it was very cold…until I asked her what was wrong, which is when she went off like a grenade. As I explained earlier, I had asked Barbara to send me my blue overnight bag and a set of clothes to the prison (along with my drivers license and Social Security card, which had since gone missing). Everything else that was in the bag she had tossed into a box and mailed off to Heather. That included my portable CD players and some CD’s I’d listened to on the train ride from Dallas to New York a few years earlier, extra clothes, books, my watch, and miscellaneous junk. I hadn’t bothered cleaning out the bag before my trip to prison…I didn’t know what was in there, and it didn’t really matter. This was my only overnight bag, and it was the same one I’d used when travelling on the road for AmeriFleet, and when going back and forth from my apartment in Arlington to Heather’s in Dallas (a drive of 30 miles or so).

So, when I say it didn’t matter what else was in the bag, I mean it didn’t matter to me. It seemed to matter quite a bit to Heather, who had received the package only a few days before. And despite more than 30 months alone in prison, she’d decided to get very angry and jealous over some of the contents, regardless of their innocent placement there. And she chose this phone call, my first time speaking to her since the day before leaving prison (they cut off your phone access the day before, so you can’t arrange anything you’re not supposed to), to start an argument.

“What the hell were these things doing in your bag, huh? Maybe you don’t love me. Have you been lying to me all along?”

I had no idea what she was talking about…especially since I had no idea what had been in the bag.

“Barbara sent me everything that was in there. What the hell were condoms doing in your bag? Were you fucking somebody behind my back?”

I was shaking my head in disbelief. It felt like I had stepped into a Twilight Zone episode. Here I was, in a packed bus station, on a payphone which was hard to hear on, surrounded by loudspeaker announcements, screaming children, and grumpy travelers, and I’d suddenly found myself in an argument with a crazy person.

“Well, Heather, I don’t see how I could have been cheating on you when I’ve been in prison since 2003! But if you’re talking about the Trojans that were in my bag, I’d think it was obvious that they were the ones *we* used to use, which I carried in my overnight bag when I’d come to spend the weekend. Remember? Aren’t they the right brand and the right style that we used to use?”

“Okay, well, then, what about your wedding ring, huh? Why is your wedding ring in here? Huh?”

She was referring to the ring from my marriage to Mara…Mara, my first wife, who I’d been divorced to since 2002, and who had committed suicide while I was in prison. I couldn’t believe that Heather was acting jealous towards a dead woman. So I tried to remain calm, and explained quietly that the ring was on my old keychain (not the one with my keys to the apartment, but the one with old keys like the one to the house in Dallas I once rented but hadn’t lived in for a long time, plus some miscellaneous keys which I didn’t even know what they were for)…and that the reason it was on there was that I’d had it resized twice during our marriage, and then when I lost weight I didn’t bother resizing it a third time, instead carrying it on the chain until my weight stabilized. By the time that happened, we were divorced, and since that wasn’t my primary keychain I don’t think I even remembered it was there. (As a matter of fact, I found myself surprised that I had any idea what she was talking about…but I did).

“Well I just don't understand this. I mean, what if you’re lying to me? What if you lied to me all along, and you really love someone else? How do I know I can trust you?”

This was the woman I had written to EVERY DAY while I was away, a minimum of ten pages per day. I didn’t know what was going on, or why it was happening; I had to assume she was just nervous that we wouldn’t be able to recapture the relationship we’d enjoyed before; maybe she was feeling insecure, I don’t know. All I did know was that I had to end this call before my head exploded or before I went completely insane. So I did the only thing I could do, given the circumstances. I ended it abruptly.

“I don’t know what’s the matter Heather, but I can’t handle this right now. I’ve been riding on a bus for 36 hours with almost no sleep, and I still have move than 12 more hours to go. I love you and I will call you when I’m in Dallas. Goodbye.”

And I hung up.

I could end this chapter right here, and normally I would, but I don’t think it is fair to Heather. So allow me to jump ahead and out of sequence for a moment. While I was in prison, I had my wonderful and supportive friend Lisa monitor my email address on Yahoo for me. She’d check it every week or two, to see if anyone was trying to get in touch with me that didn’t have my prison mailing address, and to keep the address active so I could use it when I got home. Once or twice Lisa printed out email messages and sent them to me, and a few times she sent emails to people in my email address book, asking them to write me. Anyway, with no other way to reach me, Heather sent an apology email to that address the following day (after missing my next attempt at calling her). The apology was rather forceful and blunt – at least as blunt as my abrupt end to our phone call – and I still have it. Here is what she wrote in the email, under the subject line Attention anyone and everyone!!!! I am sorry I was a BITCH!:

Douglas,

If you are able to read this or if Linda? is able to read this, I know she checks your email sometimes, I want you and everyone to know that I am sorry I was such a Bitch to you on the phone! I was being very insensitive and I over reacted! Can you imagine!!!!! I love you so much and I can't wait for you to come home and be able to see you again at last! I was just terrible accusing you or as you so nicely put it, inferring, and asking why your wedding ring was in the stuff Barbara sent! You have never given me any reason to be suspicious of anything like that! I am on my pseudo-period and while that is NO excuse, I hope you and the universe will take that in to consideration and forgive me! This morning I waited to wash my hair until 7am and then you called at 7:02!!! I put the cordless by the tub but it hadn't been charged and I guess didn't ring! I started sobbing when I heard that I had missed your call! I didn't get a chance to tell you again how stupid and sorry I was! What if you are in Hutchins thinking that I deliberately did not answer the phone and I don't love you anymore?!!! I hope you are not thinking that! I worry that you are because that is what I WOULD BE THINKING! You and I are TOO much alike in that aspect!! You' re my best friend and my soul mate and I want to share the rest of my life or lives w/ you! Maybe Linda can get a carrier pigeon and attach this note to it & it would get to you and then you would know how I feel! I had to write this because everyone at work is sick of me obsessing and crying at different points in the day and do not want to talk to me about it anymore! I love you and wish you could be home now!!! Ok! Maybe not now.now! I still need to shave my legs!! and [[other personal grooming items, removed for Heather’s sake]]!

I 'm a JERK! Love, Heather

She really is the sweetest thing, and the day I met Heather remains the most wonderful day of my life. I love her BECAUSE she can be this way sometimes, not in spite of it. Yes, I am a bit odd in that regard…but we’re a perfect match. She truly is my soul mate. I love to tease her about this phone call now, and the email apology. It’s just Heather being Heather, which is all I ever wanted her to be.

Movie Review - The Last House on the Left

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Mon, 16 Mar 2009 19:02:00 GMT

I generally avoid remakes whenever possible (the poster I just saw for the remake of The Taking of Pelham 1-2-3 starring John Travolta and Denzel Washington still has me feeling ill). But since Heather had never seen the Wes Craven version, and considering how low-budget it was, I agreed to give this new version a try. All things considered, it was a decent suspense film, a level above most of the thriller crap they dish out these days.

The story itself is rather simple, a mix of unfortunate coincidences. Vacationing at their remote lake house, a couple (Tony Goldwyn and Monica Potter) and their daughter (Sara Paxton) anticipate a quiet time by themselves. The daughter takes their vehicle to go visit a friend in town, and this is when things begin to unwind. The two decide to accept the offer of a young man they don’t know (Spencer Treat Clark) to return to his motel room for some marijuana. They enjoy themselves, for a while…until the young man’s father, uncle, and uncle’s girlfriend return unexpectedly. As it happens his father (Garret Dillahunt) is an escaped convict, and the trio just murdered two officers in order to arrange his getaway. The girls know too much, or have seen too much, and they cannot be released. You can guess at the direction of the plot from there, except the twist is the gang takes refuge from a storm in a nearby house…the house occupied by the vacationing couple.

The violence in the film is quite graphic, but in some ways made more terrifying not because of the blood splattering on the screen (as in other horror films) but because of the brutality, rawness, and complete lack of remorse from all involved (save the harassed son of the gang leader). There are some quite gratuitous shots early on of Paxton undressing and dressing again that seem completely unnecessary. However, the scenes of violence, rape, and murder carry a less opportunistic feel. They are shocking because the acts themselves are shocking, not because of an over-the-top approach. Director Dennis Iliadis combines shorts cuts with viewpoints of various characters to keep a very human reality to the subject matter. Suspension of disbelief isn’t quite so difficult as in other films of the genre. With that in mind, and because of the somewhat intelligent and understandable actions of the family members (again, compared to the “fall down cowering until you are hacked to pieces” or “leave the gun next to the supposedly dead villain” clichés) you can actually find yourself rooting for the good guys, and against the bad. The monster is no mindless, faceless Jason or dream-based Freddy…the evil and selfish disdain for the lives of others comes from very human characters…the kind who do exist, and who we should be afraid of.

Don’t expect anything momentous, but if you want to enjoy some suspense, with some abundant gore and violence, you can give this film a try. But if blood, knives, rape, and cruelty of man against man are too much for you, don’t bother. You’ll just walk out feeling ill.

Movie Review - The Wrestler

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Mon, 09 Mar 2009 21:31:00 GMT

If you follow movies at all, it is inevitable that you’ve heard quite a bit about The Wrestler, and about how though the film Mickey Rourke has resurrected a career which has been deceased for some time. For a short while Rourke’s portrayal of Randy “The Ram” Robinson was the favorite to win Best Actor at the Academy Awards. He didn’t win in the end, and having now finally gotten around to seeing the film I believe the Academy made a wise decision giving it to Sean Penn for Milk instead. For while Rourke gives a fine performance, it isn’t as earth-shattering as all the hype had led me to believe. And neither is the film as a whole.

“The Ram” is a aging professional wrestler, who in the late 80’s was on top of the sport. Now he is physically deteriorating, broke, and without any contact with his only daughter. Making ends meet by working part-time at a grocery store hauling boxes, and doing appearances on the weekend either to sign autographs or to perform in the ring with younger up-and-comers. The wrestling scenes are truly the highlight of the movie, as we see the incredible physical punishment the “fake” wrestlers take in the name of entertainment. After each fight, Randy has to be taped up, sewn up, and glued up. Broken glass, barbed wire, staples; they’re removed from his flesh by semi-professional medics. And on top of all of that, “The Ram” fills his body with countless steroids and growth enhancers. Without question, he is living on the far fringe of show business, and trying to hang on before he falls off the cliff.

After a heart attack derails what’s left of his wrestling career, Randy tries to cross the bridge into the real world again. He hasn’t spoken to his estranged daughter (Evan Rachel Wood) in years, but at the gentle prodding of a local stripper he has a thing for (Marisa Tomei), he attempts a reconciliation. Those attempts are awkward, emotional, and carry tremendous baggage. Likewise, his desire to move beyond the customer/stripper give-and-take with Tomei’s character “Cassidy” (whose real name is Pam), looks to be hopeless. Even his desire to work full-time at the grocery store, which requires tedious customer interaction, is a draining experience for Randy.

Rourke is, in many ways, telling the story of his own life here, and it his familiarity with the desperation which allows him to give a compelling performance. From swallowing sarcastic comments from his boss to sleeping in the back of his van when he gets locked out of his trailer, none of Randy’s plans seem destined for success. Even the 20th anniversary of his most famous bout, for which a rematch is planned, is a huge question mark. Rourke is himself barely recognizable compared to his early acting days; his face looks like it has seen a few too many punches and surgeons knives.

The performances of Rourke, Tomei, and Wood are all solid, but The Wrestler has a tendency to get too melodramatic, and during those moments the direction of the plot seems obvious. However, the strength of the performances keep the film from leaving a sour taste in your mouth. More than anything, the film delivers in an attempt to show just how sad and full of true despair the aging wrestling community is. They had their time in the spotlight, but now the world has completely passed them by.

The Wrestler is a good film, but not an exceptional one. So lower your expectations a bit, but see it. It’s worth your time.

Eternal Sunshine #26 - March 2009 Issue - Diplomacy Subzine

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Tue, 24 Feb 2009 19:50:00 GMT

Eternal Sunshine #26, the March 2009 issue, has now been released. It's filled with the usual foolishness: Diplomacy, word games, contests, letters, columns from Jack McHugh and Andy York, personal writing (including part 2 of "Halfway Home at the Halfway House"), and even a revealing column from Heather. You can see it in pdf format in the Eternal Sunshine Yahoo group at:

http://games.groups.yahoo.com/group/eternal_sunshine_diplomacy/

or in both html and pdf format on the Diplomacy section of my website at:

http://www.whiningkentpigs.com/DW/

Check it out, enjoy, and think about sending some feedback!!!

Movie Review - Wendy and Lucy

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Mon, 23 Feb 2009 02:47:00 GMT

I’ve heard it said that Wendy and Lucy is a film which, although filmed over a year ago, brings to light the struggles of those caught in the current economic downturn. While I suppose in some ways that could be true, I don’t think the move is one of such heightened measure and importance. Rather, it is a slow and quiet character study of a woman who is struggling to build a life with no outside assistance, but who also isn’t experienced enough to have a Plan B.

Michelle Williams stars as Wendy, who is traveling by car from Indiana to Alaska because she “hears they need people there.” Along for the ride is her best friend and companion Lucy, a 40-pound golden-colored floppy-eared sweetie. Sleeping in her car in a Walgreen’s parking lot while passing through a small Oregon town, she awakens to find her car will no longer run. Soon she loses Lucy, and she spends the rest of the film trying to find her.

Williams does a decent job of playing a woman who is struggling to show no weakness, and to not rely on anybody. Clearly her character is somewhat distrustful and unsure how to handle it when somebody is kind to her. But Wendy is hardly a downtrodden character meant to be a hero to working-class folks, and the other travelers she meets along the way seem to signify the victimization often expressed by people in her circumstances. One fellow gives her advice on where to look for work in Alaska, then follows it up with the story of how he destroyed $100,000 worth of equipment there without a thought of consequence. Another creepy man finds Wendy sleeping in the woods at night, rifles through her belongings, and explains that he is tired of people treating him like trash. Wendy seems to see no problem with shoplifting food for herself and her dog when she has over $500 cash on hand. She seems to be a product of the slacker generation. And maybe that is the significance of her character: she wants to work, to save money, to build a life, but the circumstances of her situation are pulling her down into the underbelly of society. But through her experiences in this small town, and watching how some struggling people are still willing to help each other (even if it is just the use of a cell phone or a few dollars), brings Wendy face to face with life lessons she had not expected.

If there is a message in Wendy and Lucy, ignoring the idealized moral some reviewers have inserted about how society has failed so many, it is that if you want to be a responsible adult, you need to act like one. Nothing is more adult than putting the needs of someone you love, and someone who depends on you, ahead of your own.

Overall I think the film lacks some of the appeal of other quiet character studies; The Station Agent comes to mind as a superior film of the style I mean. Michelle Williams does her best to carry the picture, but there isn’t enough emotion and consistent mood within the film to make it fully worthwhile.

Movie Review - Frost/Nixon

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Wed, 18 Feb 2009 20:01:00 GMT

In today’s world of CNN, microwaves, instant messaging, and the post-“USA Today”-ing of the nation, news has been reduced to 30-second sound bites. If the public can’t learn about it in less time than it takes to brush your teeth, they don’t want to bother. So to many people, the concept of six hours of one-on-one interviews between a reporter and an ex-President sounds about as interesting as watching paint dry, and about as useful as a screen door on a submarine. But in 1977, the David Frost interviews with Richard Nixon (broadcast in four 90-minute installments) were the most watched news program in history. Frost/Nixon has Peter Morgan adapt his stage play for the big screen, bringing to life not just the interviews themselves but the process of how they came together, how they almost fell apart, and how the outcome was in question until the very end.

Occupying the chairs opposite each other, like boxers ready for a title fight, are David Frost (Michael Sheen) and Richard Nixon (Frank Langella, both having played the same characters in the stage version). Nixon is trying to repair his shattered image after becoming the first sitting U.S. President to resign. He and his inner circle (such as Kevin Bacon as Col. Jack Brennan) are attempting to use the interviews as a way to “set the record straight,” to highlight his accomplishments, and to position Nixon as a sympathetic character who did what he thought was best for the country. That, and the hefty $600,000 fee he is being paid, is all the motivation they need. If things go well, he hopes to leave his near-exile in California and somehow begin a new political career in some capacity.

His opponent, David Frost, is the least likely champion for the people. Regarded as a successful but vapid and generally talentless talk show host, Frost is dying to find success in the United States again. His idea for the Nixon interviews originates simply with the publicity; “think of the numbers it will draw.” Despite a lack of financial backing and resistance from the networks, Frost rolls the dice and arranges the interviews, hoping it will all come together in the end. He hires two investigators to help him prepare, played by Sam Rockwell and Oliver Platt. Pretty soon Frost figures out he may have bitten off more than he can chew; advertisers are disappearing and the press looks upon the entire interview as a big joke. Between the realization that in order to succeed he must deliver a hard, solid, difficult interview, and the warnings of his team (especially Rockwell’s James Reston Jr.) that if handled wrong, the man they consider one of the most corrupt politicians in history could actually become sympathetic, Frost struggles to defy all his critics and, optimally, to get Nixon to admit wrongdoing or apologize to the American people.

Ron Howard does an adequate job of directing, as usual, and sprinkles the film with documentary-style interview clips with the “actual” participants (Rockwell, Platt, and Bacon mainly). And Peter Morgan’s script helps draw the similarity between Frost and Nixon to the forefront of the battle: both are making an all-or-nothing go at getting back on top and winning the admiration and respect of the public. The difference seems to be that one of them wants to prove that the critics are wrong, while the other secretly believes that they are right.

Without question, Frank Langella makes the film. His Nixon appears both lost and razor sharp. He is the master of all things, but moments later a terribly unhappy and lonely man. Outside of the politics, he delivers a self-loathing Nixon who has no idea what it feels like to be happy, comfortable, or feel even a moment of ease. For me, the ultimate Nixon moment of the film is after the final interview session; Nixon and his team walk to their cars, but he stops to admire a dog held by a woman in the crowd. But when Nixon approaches the friendly dog to pet it, he taps it on the head and gently tugs at one of its ears…the dog would have gladly accepted some love, but Nixon simply didn’t know how to do that naturally.

All in all, Frost/Nixon is a very good film, and whether you enjoy it on the big screen or at home, it makes the journey back to the 1970’s a worthwhile one. And, fortunately, you only need two hours this time, not six.

Move Review - Doubt

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Wed, 11 Feb 2009 17:49:00 GMT

Directed by John Patrick Shaney, and based on his award-winning play, Doubt was the first in this season’s long list of Oscar-hopeful films to arrive. It was only a combination of factors that made it take us so long to go see it. Built around a very strong cast (Meryl Streep and Philip Seymour Hoffman star), Doubt, when broken down to its essence, looks at how we decide what is true and what is false. How much of our judgments are based on fact, how much on intuition, and how much on falsehoods which we have convinced ourselves are true?

Hoffman plays Father Flynn, who is the priest for a Bronx Catholic church. Attached to the church is a private school, where Sister Aloysius (Streep) serves as the principal. One of the newer, less experienced teachers is Sister Marie James (Amy Adams), who has been put in charge of 8th grade. She is kindhearted and runs her classroom with friendliness and affection, in sharp contrast to the much older (in age and in manner) Sister Aloysius. Aloysius tries to harden Sister Marie James, as she sees her somewhat naïve. “Hang up something framed on your chalkboard, so you can see the reflection in the glass. They need to think they’ve got eyes in the back of your head.” The entire student body lives in fear of Sister Aloysius, and she feels that’s exactly the way it should be.

Friendly and approachable Father Flynn, who also coaches the basketball team, believes that the church needs to be more open, and that the priests and nuns should view themselves as on the same level as the parents and children. In particular, he’s taken an interest in trying to help and protect the school’s first black student. That’s where the trouble starts; Sister Marie James becomes concerned that there may be something inappropriate in that relationship, and she brings her suspicions to Sister Aloysius. Aloysius becomes immediately convinced that Flynn is a pedophile.

It is the basis of that conviction which forms the remainder of the film. Acting on her own, outside the proper channels of the church, Sister Aloysius wants to prove his guilt to those around him, or at the very least drive Flynn to leave the church. Sister Marie James, who is much more like-minded with Flynn when it comes to dealing with the students, isn’t sure what to believe…in a way, Aloysius’ steadfast certainty makes it harder for Sister Marie James to believe that Flynn has done anything wrong. After all, there is no proof, only suspicion.

Doubt serves as a useful title, because the idea of doubt is spread throughout the film. We hear it as a topic in Father Flynn’s sermon, and we see it in every character; they doubt their certainty, they doubt their father, they doubt their eyes, they doubt their decisions. Only Sister Aloysius shows no doubt…but is she as strong as she seems? While Hoffman and Adams do justice to their characters, it is Meryl Streep’s acting which really sparkles. Only an actress of her caliber could take what is written on the surface as a one-dimensional oppressive principal, and allow all the detail and depth to come forth. A change in tone, a tightening of her mouth, a raised eyebrow…each move carries great meaning. Streep’s portrayal gives all the other actors something to build on and play off of. As it stands, it is a very good film – albeit not quite a terrific as I had been led to believe. But it is worth seeing.

Halfway Home at the Halfway House - Part One

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Tue, 27 Jan 2009 18:12:00 GMT

For many Federal inmates, the tail end of your incarceration does not take place in prison. Instead, in an effort to reintroduce you to society (and to keep overflowing population levels down), you are often directed to spend the last one month to the last six months of your sentence in a Federally-designated Halfway House; some of the rules have changed since I came home, but back then you were only permitted to spend 10% of your sentence in the halfway house (up to a maximum of six months), so if you had been sentenced to 36 months you could expect to spend the last 3 in the halfway house. There were exceptions to this rule; in fact, if you were a participant in the Residential Drug and Alcohol Program (RDAP) in prison as I had been, it was mandated that you spend as close to six months as possible in the halfway house regardless of how short your sentence originally had been. So in my case, despite having been sentenced to 46 months, I knew I would be spending my last five or six months in the Dallas-area halfway house.

To some inmates, the idea of a halfway house is a big step up from prison. While technically still the property of the Bureau of Prisons, you get to move around in society, find a job, plan for your final release, receive visitors on the weekends, and even request full 24 or 48-hour passes to spend at home. Then, when you were down to only two months left, you could also apply to be switched to home confinement, where you’d be able to sleep at home every night. To me, that sounded like heaven.

Other inmates, especially some that had been locked up for more than five years, told a different tale. They described unworkable rules worse than we lived under in prison, a more confused bureaucracy, and a multitude of hassles that simply were not worth the trouble. The main thrust of their argument seemed to be that it was easier to stay put for a few extra months, survive with the daily routine they’d become completely accustomed to, and then be released directly from prison to home. These inmates made the halfway house sound more like a teasing taste of freedom, without most of the joys but with nearly all of the headaches. In prison they had all their meals prepared, clothes provided, a generally consistent living situation (surrounded for the most part by the same neighbors day after day), and only a few hours of work (or pseudo-work). The last thing they wanted was a new batch of wardens telling them what to do.

For my part, up until a few months before my release I was completely gung-ho about it. I had a job promised – working for the same transportation company I’d been employed by when I’d first come to prison – a stable living situation, and a woman waiting for me who I knew without question I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. I couldn’t imagine what problems a halfway house could throw in my way. Besides, the way I figured it, just being able to see Heather again in person - to gaze into her blue eyes and feel the warmth her spirit radiated towards me – was an experience I’d been thinking about day and night for years. That was worth any level of hassle I could imagine.

My enthusiasm was dampened somewhat when I learned the job I had been counting on for a few years suddenly was no longer available. As it was explained to me, the company management had changed, and they no longer wanted to hire anyone who had a criminal record. I did find that a bit funny, since I knew that one of their dispatchers in California had multiple DUI convictions, and some of their drivers had experienced scrapes with the law. While I understood that this was their policy (and perhaps it had something to do with their insurance rider which covered all the vehicles and drivers, although I’m just guessing) I felt rather blindsided by the news, as I’d checked numerous times during my incarceration to make sure they wanted me back. If I had known, I could have tried to line something up along the way, which would have been entirely possible. Instead, there wasn’t time to deal with it anymore from the inside; I would just have to search for a job when I’d arrived in Dallas. More than anything, this had soured my outlook on going to the halfway house. All those months when I could have been writing letters, asking people to make contacts, having Heather photocopy and print ideas for me…they’d been lost, because time after time I was reassured not to worry, a position was waiting for me whenever I was ready for it.

It wasn’t just the lack of time left which prevented me from doing any last-minute job hunting. A new complication had arisen: I had no idea where the Dallas-area halfway house was located. I’d heard rumors that it was somewhere in south Dallas, but someone had suggested it might actually be south *of* Dallas. Heather had been searching on the internet for information, and eventually was able to locate a phone number. But when she called to get an address so she could give me an idea of the location in relation to the Dallas transit system, they wouldn’t tell her…for “security reasons.” What kind of crap was that? How is someone supposed to find the place without an address? Fortunately she was eventually able to find the address on the internet, and print out some maps for me. My former boss Patty also printed some maps, showing the closest transit location…which wasn’t very close. As it turned out, the halfway house was located in Hutchins, which is a good ten to fifteen miles south of the southern reaches of Dallas. Being able to move around was suddenly looking a bit more difficult. I’d just have to wait and get the lay of the land when I arrived.

First, however, there was the process of actually getting there. Personally, I hate to fly. And I think I make everybody else on the plane even more nervous than I might be. The last second to last time I flew it was suggested that perhaps I should consider not flying anymore; I did wind up taking a trip to Atlanta which I won on the radio in a Strip Trivia contest (photos still available on request), but I haven’t flown since then. So when presented with the option, I chose to take the bus from Pennsylvania to Dallas. I would have preferred to take Amtrak, but that was not an option they offered, due to the infrequency of trains. If something went wrong with the bus, there was always the next one.

Anybody who has traveled long-distance on a bus knows that it is not the most comfortable mode of transportation…I had plenty of experience from my days with the transportation company, so at least I knew what to expect. First of all, the bus is almost always packed tight, which means you’re sitting next to someone. On occasion there will even be people standing in the aisle, waiting for seats to open up at the next major station. Most of the passengers on the bus are loud and thoughtless, and a good percentage of them haven’t showered in a while; this isn’t necessarily their fault, as they may be stuck on the bus for two or three days depending on how long the trip is. Any children on the bus are bound to be loud, or cry, or run around, or kick your seat, or spill things, or drop their empty soda bottle on the floor so it rolls from the front of the bus to the back over and over. If it’s too hot, the air is stale and thick….if it’s too cold, there is a constant draft as if a window is open. And, worst of all, too many of the passengers want to pass the time by making “single serving friends” (to steal a line from Fight Club). In some ways, a cross-country bus ride makes prison seem like a vacation.

Before the trip was to begin, however, there were a few things I needed to do. Most important among those tasks was the procurement of clothes for the journey. When I’d come up from Texas on Amtrak to report to prison, I’d taken my blue overnight bag, one change of clothes, some CD’s, a portable CD player, and other items with me. Then when my father drove me to prison, they gave him my clothes, watch, and driver’s license to take back with him. If at all possible, the prison system wants you to have some street clothes sent in to wear when you’re released; if not, they provide a pair of jeans, some slip-on sneakers, and a shirt. So I asked that my clothes be washed and sent in, along with my driver’s license and social security card. This included my overcoat, since it was generally a balmy 30 degrees or colder in Pennsylvania, and my blue duffel bag which I’d carried with me to New York. A couple of weeks before my release, I received a notice in the prison mail that my clothes had arrived. So, I was basically set. I bought a few travelling supplies at commissary: two big bags of M&M’s (one plain, one peanut) to snack on, a few new pairs of socks, stuff like that. And I packed up some underclothes which were nearly new, as well as personal hygiene necessities. I’d already mailed back the letters and books I’d collected over years (that’s an experience in itself – trying to put something like $30 in postage on a box using 30-cent stamps), except for a paperback or two for the bus ride. Everything else – food, coffee, tea, my heavy landscape pants (a prized possession which while BOP property were passed on within the Landscape Crew from inmate to inmate) – I’d given to a few friends. I was all set.

I knew the bus trip was going to be a long, tedious, tiring one. I’d had my friend Patty mail me the itinerary so I could have a general idea of the stops and layovers. The BOP doesn’t provide you such material, because they don’t want you planning unauthorized rendezvous with anyone along the way. You’re supposed to travel directly, without deviation, from the pick-up spot to the halfway house. We were told that the halfway house will expect us at particular times, and if we fail to appear or explain our delay (with proof) we could expect to be sent right back to prison. I was suspicious about that, as you might expect, especially given the complexity of my bus schedule. Delays, missed connections, overbooked buses, mechanical failures, and the like are rather common on Greyhound, and adjustments are constantly being made. The trip I was planning for looked roughly like this:

Location Arrival Departure Layover
WILLIAMSPORT, PA 03:40pm
LOCK HAVEN, PA 04:10pm 04:10pm
BELLEFONTE, PA 04:45pm 04:45pm
STATE COLLEGE, PA 05:05pm 05:09pm :04
PHILIPSBURG, PA 06:00pm 06:00pm
CLEARFIELD, PA 06:25pm 06:25pm
DU BOIS, PA 07:05pm
DU BOIS, PA Transfer 07:25pm :20
SYKESVILLE, PA 07:35pm 07:35pm
BIG RUN, PA 07:45pm 07:45pm
PUNXSUTAWNEY, PA 07:55pm 07:55pm
INDIANA, PA 08:40pm 08:40pm
APOLLO, PA 09:20pm 09:20pm
VANDERGRIFT, PA 09:25pm 09:25pm
MONROEVILLE, PA 09:50pm 09:50pm
PITTSBURGH, PA 10:20pm
PITTSBURGH, PA Transfer 12:10am 1:50
COLUMBUS, OH 03:35am 04:30am :55
DAYTON, OH 05:50am
DAYTON, OH Transfer 09:00am 3:10
CINCINNATI, OH 10:00am 11:00am 1:00
LOUISVILLE, KY 12:45pm 01:25pm :40
ELIZABETHTOWN, KY 02:15pm 02:15pm
BOWLING GREEN, KY 02:25pm 02:25pm
NASHVILLE, TN 03:40pm 04:45pm 1:05
JACKSON, TN 06:55pm 07:05pm :10
MEMPHIS, TN 08:40pm 10:10pm 1:30
LITTLE ROCK, AR 12:25am 12:45am :20
SULPHUR SPRINGS, TX 04:30am 04:45am :15
DALLAS, TX 06:15am

Looking over the ticket, the layovers or transfers in Pittsburgh, Columbus, and Dayton were likely to by the worst of the journey. Late night or early morning transfers suck; the bus stations are dirty, there is nowhere to sit comfortably, and you have to force yourself to stay awake or else you might either miss your connection or find yourself without a seat. Sometimes you have to switch buses, or disembark only to get on the same bus again, at some of the non-transfer layovers. I knew the drive from Memphis to Dallas was pretty much a straight shot, as that was a primary Greyhound route. We’d travel one bus during that portion, and we were only hitting the big stations at that point. So I should be able to get a few hours sleep the second night. Other than that, it was all up in the air…things could go smoothly, or they could be a horrendous mess. I’d just have to wait and see.

The night before my departure I did not sleep as much as usual, but I did manage a decent number of hours overall. I’d taken my “vacation” from Landscape duty starting a few days beforehand, so really I was quite bored and counting the hours until I could leave. About 70% of the RDAP classmates left before me (your date of departure was generally in order of how much time was left in your sentence; those who had less time left would leave first, with some exceptions because of space limitations at halfway houses, outstanding state charges, and things of that nature), and my routine – which I’d used to survive prison all this time - was completely out of whack. Plus my mouth was in decent pain because of the ½ of a tooth the dentist had taken out a week earlier (and the ½ a tooth he’d left in). So on the big day I woke up, ate breakfast, said a few final goodbyes, and sat in my cube reading a paperback and twiddling my thumbs until I was finally paged to the front office. It was, at last, time to leave.

I made my way to the front office, with my box of belongings in hand. Everything else had been turned in. I was ready. A few handshakes with buddies here and there first, and into the R&D room I went. Here they gave me my street clothes, coat, and travel bag. I changed, and for the first time in years I looked like a normal person instead of an inmate. But, as usual, a few problems surfaced. The biggest was that nobody could find my driver’s license and my Social Security Card. They’d been received and signed for weeks earlier, but now….nothing, no sign of them. This meant I was about to embark on a cross-country journey, as property of the BOP and effectively still a prison inmate, with no identification whatsoever. I figured that they’d let me keep my prison ID at least, as apparently this is a form of legal identification. Nope, no such luck. The R&D officer told me that I should just use my one-page paper form with my reporting instructions as ID if an emergency came up. “Or have whoever it is call us, we can verify who you are.” Wonderful.

Then there was the issue of money. I’d saved up about $400 in my inmate account through work, a bonus for completing my RDAP program, and trying not to spend 100% of what was sent in by my VERY generous family who’d been sending me $60 to $80 a month for some time now. This was going to be the money I used to live on until I found myself a job, and to buy any new clothes or other personal items. I could only assume that I’d be paying for public transportation, which isn’t cheap either. But this was the moment when the R&D officer informed me that they were going to give me $150 in cash. The rest would follow “at a later date” to the halfway house, in the form of a check made out to me. I wasn’t thrilled about this development either, especially since I knew it was going to cost $50 or $60 to catch a cab from the Dallas Greyhound station to the halfway house (assuming I could find a cab willing to take me out there). “Oh don’t worry about that, just ask at the Halfway House, they’re supposed to cover the cab fare.” The R&D office *did* provide me with some sort of Federal requisition form which I was supposed to be able to use to buy the bus ticket without cost to myself. And I had confidence in that part of the process, if only because inmates left the facility a few times a week and they MUST have worked the kinks out of the system by now.

So I was on my way. I didn’t have any identification; I was low on cash; I was worried about the trip, my job prospects, my aching tooth, and fitting into society as a human being; and I was anxious about the slightest misstep sending me straight back to prison. But I was on my way. I caught a ride with the work van to the Front Circle, my old stomping grounds with the Landscape crew. I went inside, signed a few more forms, and was told to wait in a holding area with two inmates from the Medium Security prison who were also being released that day. I guess we waited an hour - but it felt like three – before the “town driver” van came to drive us to the local bus station. Bernie, an inmate I knew, was the driver that day, and he took us out onto public land, driving the local roads like regular people, until we came to a gas station/convenience store where the bus stop was located. Bernie helped all three of us to make sure our vouchers were processed in exchange for the bus tickets, wished me luck, and headed back to the prison. The other two inmates talked, and enjoyed the first cigarettes they’d had in months. I just stood outside in the cold, waiting and feeling nervous. I really had no idea what the Halfway House would be like, or what would be waiting for me when I got to Dallas.

All I did know was that I was headed back. And back home Heather was waiting for me…and even my cat Tigger, who was now nearly 20 years old, and who I had assumed would have died long before I walked into our apartment again. So as anxious as I was about the future, I was also psyched about it. I wasn’t a free man, not yet, but I was going home. Or, at least, to the Halfway House. And that was a lot closer than I’d been in a long time.

(Stay Tuned for Part 2 Coming Soon)

Eternal Sunshine #25 Released - February 2009 Issue - Diplomacy Subzine

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Tue, 27 Jan 2009 18:04:00 GMT

Just released: the new February 2009 issue of Eternal Sunshine, my Diplomacy subzine, filled with all manner of foolishness. Included in this issue:

Jack McHugh patting himself on the back for his Super Bowl prediction
Andy York wondering why I intercept all his letters
Diplomacy results
The first turn of our Bourse game
By Popular Demand
Letters
Book and Movie Reviews
Heather’s Latest Mis-Step
Part One of Halfway Home to the Halfway House
And other crap.

You can check it out in pdf and html format on my personal Diplomacy page at:

http://www.whiningkentpigs.com/DW/

or in the Eternal Sunshine Yahoo group at

http://games.groups.yahoo.com/group/eternal_sunshine_diplomacy/

Happy stabbing!

Movie Review - The Reader

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Mon, 12 Jan 2009 22:44:00 GMT

If you have enjoyed the book The Reader by Bernhard Schlink, this film review is not all that important. Suffice to say that, with the normal limitations you might expect, Stephen Daldry’s direction and a strong cast do justice to a difficult subject. The differences between the book and the film are not so jarring that they pull you away.

However, if you haven’t read the book, I hope this excellent film will give you the incentive to do so. The Reader tells the story of Michael Berg (played during his adult years by Ralph Fiennes). Jumping back and forth in time between adulthood and his teenage years, we’re brought into postwar Germany. The 15-year-old Michael (played quite well by German native David Kross) is stricken with scarlet fever. Becoming ill on his way home, a trolley ticket taker (Kate Winslet) helps him. Months later, when he is recovered, Michael brings her some flowers in thanks. Just beginning to feel his manhood, Michael returns another day, and an affair begins. It isn’t until his third visit that the secretive and suspicious Hanna even reveals her name to her young lover. She educates his in lovemaking, and he (at her urging) reads to her. From The Odyssey to Huckleberry Finn, she is deeply moved by his oral renditions. Then, one day, she disappears from Michael’s life, leaving no word and no reason.

A law student in college, Michael takes part in a special seminar where a small group of students attend the war crimes trial of six women accused of horrific acts as guards in concentration camps. To his amazement, Hanna Schmidt is one of those defendants, and there is no denying that she took part in terrible wrongs. But Michael has seen the humanity and emotion inside her guarded skin, so he finds it difficult to fully comprehend why she took part or how much blame she should shoulder. Then, when the trial takes a turn against her, he realizes things about her which had eluded him earlier – facts which could have a bearing on the case and might lighten her sentence…yet he is afraid to reveal them, as it is clear Hanna has her own reasons for keeping them hidden.

I think that if you haven’t read the book, the film plays better if you know less about the plot in advance, so I am avoiding revealing very much information. The acting really is superb, with Kate Winslet able to combine sexuality, hardness, and ashamed confusion into a believable character. Ralph Fiennes has a quiet manner about him, as he often does, but in this case that serves his character well. And again, I need to single out the very strong and believable performance of David Kross. We see him progress from unsure boy to man in a very natural way, but one which ties almost seamlessly into the Fiennes adult version.

Almost every review for The Reader I’ve seen has been glowing, and I see no reason to disagree. There are so many issues and ideals within the film, but one important one is the beauty – and power – of the written word, for good and for evil. So after you’ve seen the movie, do yourself a favor and personalize that message by reading the book too.

Diplomacy World #104 Released - Winter 2008 Issue

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Tue, 06 Jan 2009 02:41:00 GMT

Diplomacy World #104 is out! Among the 86 pages you'll find:

The Austrian Hedgehog by Joshua Danker-Dake
Spotting a Stab by Alfred Nicol
Going Where No Dot Had Gone Before by Larry Peery
In Memorial: Tom Tweedy 1948 – 2008 by Stephen AgarThe French NDC:
These Bags Under My Eyes Are Heavy by Toby Harris
The Adventures of Fatman and Frottage by Rod Walker
Dots of the Dead: A Zombie Apocalypse Variant by Chris ShamThe
Development of Known World 901 by David E. Cohen
Tournament Tales: In Search of Common Ground at the Corner Bar by Jim O’Kelley
The Three Day War: My First Diplomacy Tournament by Matt Dunnam
Worldwide Diplomacy – Birth of a Variant by Michael Penner
German Hit Parade – I’m Two SC’s for 01; Wrong, Said Robert by Robert Lesco
Luck in Diplomacy by Robert Vollman
Vampire Recruiting by Edi Birsan
Some Notes on Worldwide Variant Designs by Jack McHugh
Grand Prix Watch: ..and It’s Haver By a Couple of Lengths by Jim O’Kelley
Intimate Dip: A Series Replay Rematch by Douglas Kent and Jack McHugh
Publish or Perish – Why I Decided to Start My Own Zine by Philip Murphy
Thoughts on Gunboat Openings by Joshua Danker-Dake
Sounds Like We Made It by Jim O’Kelley
Should Obama Have Won? by Mark Zoffel
Logical Fallacies for the Diplomacy Player by Chris Sham
An Introduction to My World War 2 Variant by Nick Higgins
Join the Club by Conrad Woodring
Running a Diplomacy Tournament in a Gaming Convention by Jim Burgess
The Central Powers System by David Webster
Diplomacy World Demo Game “After the Rapture” – Spring 1907 through Winter 1908
and more!

Check it out in the diplomacyworld Yahoo group at

http://games.groups.yahoo.com/group/diplomacyworld/

or on the official Diplomacy World website at:

http:// www.diplomacyworld.net

Drop me a line and let me know what you think. Comments, letters, and articles are always welcome!

Eternal Sunshine #24 Released - January 2009 Issue

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Wed, 31 Dec 2008 18:06:00 GMT

The new January 2009 issue of Eternal Sunshine, Issue #24, has now been released. You can see it in both html and pdf format at:

http://www.whiningkentpigs.com/DW/

Included in this issue are:

Letters
Humor
Book Reviews
Movie Reviews
A Movie Quote Quiz, With Prizes!
Hypothetical Question of the Month
New Game Openings
By Popular Demand
Diplomacy
Diplomacy Bourse
Andy York's Out of the WAY
Jack McHugh's Brain Farts
Heather's Tricks and Treats
and much more!

Enjoy!

Movie Review - Milk

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Mon, 08 Dec 2008 20:21:00 GMT

If you go to the theater to see Milk, the new Gus Van Sant film starring Sean Penn, it is not necessary for you to know anything about the real Harvey Milk. If you are educated about the first openly gay man to hold a major political office in the United States, you’ll still find the movie powerful. After all, it was only three decades ago that Harvey Milk was assassinated. Yet the days of such outright and accepted hatred and bigotry against the homosexual community seem further removed than they really are. Van Sant helps to paint that focus by opening the film with a montage of newspaper clippings and news video from the era, with police raiding bars and arresting homosexuals simply for being in such an establishment. And the violence is not isolated to the prelude, as we see police (with their badges covered) in San Francisco with organized attacks on homosexual patrons after Milk (Sean Penn) has moved with his lover Scott Smith (James Franco) to the Castro district.

Even in an area with a large homosexual population, the reception from follow proprietors is less than warm when the two decide to open a camera store. Milk realizes that if the community bands together, they can help homosexual-friendly businesses thrive (not solely those owned by homosexuals; simply those that welcome them into their stores), and put those who hate gays out of business. This organization leads to his desire to run for city office, to give the community someone to speak for their needs and to their issues. A series of failures follows, through which Milk learns he needs to mix more hope with his message. Eventually he succeeds…which is only the beginning of the battle, as soon California is facing Anita Bryant and Proposition 6 (which would require the dismissal of all homosexual teachers, and anyone who supports them).

Through it all we are exposed to the contagious charm of Harvey. Despite being hours away from turning 40, he is able to convince a younger Scott to spend the night with him after seeing him on New York subway station steps. And one by one, Milk wins over those who oppose him. We also learn what a personal toll his career took in addition to his eventual assassination. His relationships have to take a back seat to his campaigning, and he and Scott are unable to weather the storm. But as he explains to the city politician who will eventually pull the trigger and end his life (Josh Brolin), these are not just political issues he and his supporters are fighting for. They are fighting for their very lives.

Sean Penn gives a commanding performance, weaving a convincing and complete character study. We know what makes Harvey tick, we feel his pain and we share his triumphs. Penn does this not just with words, but mannerisms, laughs…his eyes, hands, a tilt of the head. I’m told those who knew Harvey Milk personally are quite taken both with the film and with Sean Penn’s portrayal. I suppose there isn’t a batter recommendation for the film than that. Anyone who take the time to find the film (it is in limited release at the moment) are sure to be rewarded for the experience.

Eternal Sunshine #23 Released - December 2008 Issue - Diplomacy Subzine

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Tue, 25 Nov 2008 17:50:00 GMT

I am pleased to announce that the latest issue of Eternal Sunshine has now been posted to the Eternal Sunshine Yahoo Group and the Diplomacy section of my website. You can get it in pdf format from the Yahoo group at:

http://games.groups.yahoo.com/group/eternal_sunshine_diplomacy/

or in either pdf or html format at:

http://www.whiningkentpigs.com/DW/

Included in this issue are:

Wouldn't it Be Nice Spring 1904 Results (with our first NMR)
The final round of the By Popular Demand game, with a new one starting
Book and Movie Reviews
Christmas in Prison
Issue #2 of Andy York's Out of the WAY
Issue #1 of Jack McHigh's Brain Farts
Gamestart for our second game of DiplomacyGame openings in Diplomacy, Deviat Dip II, and Chaos Dip II
Hypothetical Question of the Month
Letters
and lots more!

Check it all out, and be sure to send me an email with comments!

Christmas in Prison

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Sun, 23 Nov 2008 16:55:00 GMT

Prison is a very lonely place in general, as you might imagine. Those inmates who are lucky enough to get visits every week or so seem to handle it a little bit better, but the trade-off is they also psychologically feel as if they should have more input and control into the lives of their family. The rest of us are so cut off from those we care about, it is easier to accept that we have absolutely zero control over anything in the outside world. So you lose either way, although most would prefer the visits I imagine.

For me, I think the thing I missed most was physical contact. No hug, no kiss goodnight, no hand to hold, nobody to gently touch the back of your neck or rub your back. Nobody I wanted to have touch me, anyway. There were those who, regardless of their expressed sexual preference, would take comfort in other men secretly. And there were others who did so and advertised the fact, albeit the rendezvous were still clandestine; sexual contact of any nature was a violation of prison rules. But I wasn’t a part of any of that…so I was simply lonely.

As miserable as the general inmate population is generally, the Christmas holidays are twice as bad. To begin with, there is the problem of holiday cards. The prison chapel has a very small supply, from which a few inmates can get one or two cards each. The rest of the population is left with the option of buying cards at the commissary. However, there are two problems with that idea. First, the only cards they sell are Christmas cards, so if you happen to be of a different religious persuasion you’re shit out of luck. More importantly, the available quantity is rather small, so by the second or third day after they are out on sale they’re completely sold out…and since each inmate has a specified day of the week to shop at commissary, there is always a large segment of the population which is left with no cards to send (forgetting the fact that some inmates may not be able to afford the cards, or the stamps to mail them, or by the time they can afford them it’s too late). Inevitably this causes a great deal of stress among the inmates. There’s resentment towards inmates who managed to buy some (or who bought more than one); there’s also the fact that many inmates have multiple children by multiple women (or simply have a wife and a girlfriend) so they need more than one card. In a few cases, these women know about each other, so even if an inmate CAN acquire enough cards, there’s a problem if the women realize they each received the same card. I guess some of these women think the inmates get to shop at a prison Hallmark store, choosing the best card available, but that’s more than a little unrealistic. Some inmates with artistic ability would make their own cards, or cards to sell to other inmates for a few meats each. But limits on their supplies and their time kept that a small market indeed. At my first prison I ordered a few cards for Heather months in advance, especially Halloween cards. And at McKean I paid an inmate to draw Heather a one-page Happy Halloween poster. But it was only because my requests were off-season that I was able to do that. You can add to that the issue of inmates wanting to display the cards they received, which could cause arguments from their own bunk mates about space usage, or resentment from others who hadn’t gotten any in the mail.

Back to artistic ability, there was also the problem of gifts. Unless you had people on the outside who could send your loved ones holiday gifts (unless you thought a box of q-tips or some used paperbacks would be appreciated), the only gifts available in prison were those you made yourself in ceramics. First you had to be approved to participate…then you had to be able to afford the expensive supplies (and the postage to mail the project to the intended recipient)…and then you needed the time to make whatever project you were interested in. Again, some inmates would supplement their cost by making and selling extra projects, but that strategy was complicated by the fact that you were not allowed to ship packages with ceramics in them if you were not registered in the ceramics program...and some overzealous CO in the mail room might realize that inmate A was shipping to inmate B’s home address. So the process had to be a circuitous route, from the prison to a neutral third party, who would then ship it for you to the final recipient. What a pain. If there was room in the program an inmate could join ceramics to eliminate this problem, but then if he hadn’t purchased any supplies it was too obvious he hadn’t made the item in question himself. Since prison rules dictate it is illegal for you to receive ANYTHING from ANY inmate (which eliminates the whole argument of “he gave that to me” when accused of stealing or gambling), the origin of any project was always important.

So cards are a pain, gifts are impossible…at least you can call on the phone. But the phone is and always will be a major source of tension. The lines are horrendous year-round, but more so during the holiday season. Part of this is because of the extra hour of phone time the BOP allots you for December. They allow those extra minutes because they know how many phone calls inmates need to make, especially those with multiple families. The problem is this means the lines are eternal all month long; each call can last up to 15 minutes, and it isn’t uncommon to find 8 or 10 inmates on line in front of you. Fights about who was where in line, who missed their turn, and who suddenly “remembered” that their friend was behind them happen all too frequently.

Being prison, the phone system is rather unstable. You come up to the phone area and ask “Who is last?” If anybody knows who is last in line, you find that person and confirm there is nobody behind them, and then announce you are now last. In theory that’s all it takes. But in practice it can be much more complicated. By prison rule, you don’t need to be there in person on line when you’re waiting, you just need to be nearby and make an appearance. You can’t lay in your bunk, but if you need to use the bathroom or get something from your locker or make some coffee, that’s fine. So the confusion arises when somebody somewhere in front of you disappears. Let’s say it’s the guy who was immediately before you. Now, do you know who was before HIM? If not, your turn may come up and you’ll never know it. And since a lot of inmates don’t know every body, you could be told you’re after “the tall guy who coughs a lot and lives on B-range.” Who the hell is that? You’d better figure it out.

Of course, the worst situation is to be told “Branch is last,” but you can’t find him. So you announce you’re after him, and you stand there waiting. Three guys get behind you. Finally Branch appears, but when you tell him “hey, I’m after you” he tells you “no, because Demond is after me, and Lashawn is after him, and I think somebody is after him” When or where this happened is always in question. But if you think tou’re pissed off, what about the guys behind you who now discover they may be four more places back in line, when there’s only an hour to count time…at which point the phones get turned off for the night. Or maybe it’s an earlier count, which means the phone line is likely to start reforming all over again when we are cleared to move (populated by those who live closest to the phones). On a normal month the phone situation is only really bad during the first few days (when everyone is allotted new minutes), or just after payday (when broke inmates can make a few calls without inflicting their relatives with the insane collect-call charges). But in December, it is one non-stop cluster fuck.

Adding to the fun we have inmates who wait two hours for their turn, get up to the phone, and find nobody home. Or the line is busy. Or their party misunderstands the electronic instructions and instead of accepting the call by pressing one, they press 2 to deny it, or press whatever the code is to block all future calls (my father used to panic and just hang up, so he could get Barbara to answer and push the buttons). If you call once or twice that’s fine, but after you’ve dialed the phone unsuccessfully five or six times, if there is a long line behind you the rumbling starts. “She ain’t home man, give it up. Move along.” Now the inmate is faced with a choice: move to the end of the line, or “fake talk” as if someone was there, and hope nobody notices that he starts redialing a few minutes later. But if they do notice, there will be hell to pay.

So if the call never goes through, you often have a VERY pissed-off inmate, especially if he is calling at a semi-pre-arranged time. Of course, there cannot be any true time arrangements, because you never know when your turn is going to come up, how long the line is, when the phones will be turned on, or if they are working at all! If this is a rocky relationship to begin with, you get someone on the outside world all irritated because they were expecting the call an hour ago…or you get an inmate who thinks his girlfriend is cheating or has abandoned him because she’s not home when he thought he would be.

Then what if the call DOES go through? Well, the phones are in a very active part of the housing units, so there is plenty of noise…not to mention the ten or more inmates standing there waiting for their turn. So it’s hard to hear. And so many inmate relationships are strained, more so around the holidays than any other time, the odds of an argument on the phone rises dramatically. If it gets too vulgar, the CO monitoring the phone call (they are ALL monitored and recorded, but you never know if someone is listening as they switch from one line to another) can disconnect it. If the inmate or the person they are talking to makes a threat, or says something illegal, the call can be terminated and the inmate can be called to the front, possibly even thrown in the hole. I remember one inmate had his six-year-old son say something about “I wish I could come there and bust you out, Daddy” and it was only the inmates quick, forceful reprimand of the child (and the luck to have a semi-understanding CO on duty) which kept him from getting locked up.

On the other hand, if the call goes well, the inmate is just as likely to be sad or depressed or crying. Given the fact that most of these inmates are terrible at expressing emotion, and feel tears are a sign of weakness, all sorts of trouble can brew, depending on who is around, who says anything, and how self-conscious or insecure the inmate is. I never had problems with that; I was willing to cry whenever I felt like it, and since I was regarded as some kind of nut-job-oddball-freak by most inmates that was tolerated. And if an inmate tried to give me a hard time about it, my complete lack of anger at their ribbing killed the enjoyment for them. Surprisingly though (to me anyway) my fair, honest, friendly, and respectful treatment of most of the population gave me some rather powerful friends, in all groups. And the knowledge of those associations kept me from having too much trouble. Guys knew I wouldn’t screw them over in the phone line or the laundry line, and that I didn’t let people cut behind me in chow line (and I didn’t cut myself)…so I wasn’t often a target for these holiday explosions.

The other thing which made holidays so depressing was the fact that you couldn’t receive any gifts either. Aside from money being deposited to your account (which you couldn’t do much with except buy some food or make phone calls without calling collect), the only thing people could send you were books. Paperbacks could be sent from anywhere, but hardcover books had to come directly from the seller (such as Amazon). Space limitations in your living area made receiving books a problem for some inmates, as they had no place to put them (or already had more than five, which was supposed to be the limit). And a lot of inmates didn’t like to read anyway. Magazine subscriptions made good gifts too for many inmates. But that was about it. Nothing else was possible.

The prison system had one small solution to this problem. On an afternoon a day or two before Christmas, there would be the “holiday bag” distribution. All the inmates would be called back to the housing units for a special count, and then we’d be released to move towards the chow hall. You’d stand in a long line, and move slowly. Eventually you’d make it to the normal food area, where you’d get a couple of homemade cookies that the Cooking Class had baked the night before, and a sealed plastic “gift bag” which contained a few Hershey’s Kisses of single candies, a bag of Famous Amos cookies, some crackers, and other miscellaneous treats. This would be followed by a handshake from the Warden or Assistant Warden, and a “Happy holidays” greeting, with a look on their face as if they wished they could use hand sanitizer as soon as possible. You then retreated back to your bunk, where inmates traded whatever they didn’t want or hoarded for later enjoyment (I was a hoarder; in particular I liked to hoard the cans of soda we’d get with our boxed meal on holidays…six months later I’d be the only guy with a can of root beer or grape soda in the entire prison). That was it. Happy holidays: a bag of expired cookies, candy, and chips.

And the worst part was you were actually happy to get it. I mean, as shitty a gift as it was, it was still a gift, and it still commemorated the holidays in some fashion. In a small way, it made you feel like a human being for about 60 seconds. And when that wore off, it could hurt just as badly as a punch in the stomach.

Movie Review - Synecdoche, New York

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Mon, 17 Nov 2008 19:42:00 GMT

The Charlie Kaufman film Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind is currently my favorite, moving ahead of Albert Brooks' Defending Your Life. His film Adaptation is also on my favorites list. I have been a fan of Charlie Kaufman ever since I laughed my way through Being John Malkovich. So when I first heard about this film moving into production, I was immediately interested. My only trepidation was caused when I learned that Spike Jonze, who directed Adaptation, was not going to be associated with this film after all because he had signed on to direct Where the Wild Things Are instead. Charlie Kaufman made the decision to step behind the camera and direct Synecdoche, New York himself – his first attampt. And therein lie the problems with the film, as far as I can tell.

In a somewhat David Lynchian feel, the film follows the character of Caden Cotard (played by Philip Seymour Hoffman), a theater director who is finding his work unimportant and his marriage failing. His wife (Catherine Keener) takes their daughter and goes to Germany for an exhibition of her microscopic paintings, leaving their relationship in question. At the same time, after directing an uninspired adaptation of Death of a Salesman, Caden finds he has been the recipient of a generous grant to produce honest work. With that grant, he hopes to achieve something lasting and true, but has no clear vision of what that work will be; it is a work in progress.

In many ways portions of the film also remind of the Daniel Clowes comic book Eightball. Caden is stricken with an odd nervous condition, removing his ability to salivate or cry. Sores break out on his legs and face, but we see other repulsive sores on characters such as his therapist. Time moves to and fro; Caden thinks that a week has passed, while we’re told a year has. He hits it off with the box office girl (Samantha Morton) but after a guilt-covered failure in bed, the relationship dies. Eventually he marries the female lead in Salesman (Michelle Williams) and begins work on this tremendous project: building the entire city of Schenectady within a warehouse, with every person within its walls part of his play.

From here, the film begins taking dizzying turns and jumps. Everyone has an actor playing them, including Caden (although in some cases the actor and the subject are one in the same). Conversations jump from character to actor to everywhere in between. Rooms, walls, and buildings rise and fall. Caden’s condition gets worse, and better, as he and the actors spend years on this project. Caden also longs to see his daughter Olive again, who he refers to as his “Real daughter” (despite having one with his second wife). Through it all, there are some tremendous laughs, a lot of head scratching, and plenty of room to consider the vast themes Kaufman is touching on.

Unfortunately, in the hands of an experienced director, I believe the film would have found a much more profound focus. I think 20 minutes should have been cut from the final print, defining and limiting some of the subject matter. Without that, the film begins to drag badly two-thirds of the way through…which, perhaps, it is meant to do. Because clearly a large part of the film is a metaphor for life itself: life is always a work in progress. We look for meaning, but often find none. We wish for a director to tell us what to say and what to do. Even emotional moments can seem fake and contrived; being ourselves (and being true to ourselves) can be the most difficult task we will ever encounter. So we put on the character we think we are supposed to play, and say and do the things we think we are meant to do. We suffer terrible regret, and feel great pain when we believe we have disappointed those we care most about. And then, just when we think we’ve figured something meaningful out, we die.

If you’re a bit unobservant, as I was, you won’t realize until after the film that the title is *NOT* Schenectady, New York. Kaufman purposely uses synecdoche, which is a word that means using a part of something to refer to the whole (such as “a new set of wheels” to refer to a car), or the opposite, the whole of something to refer to a part (“use your head” instead of “brain”)…among other meanings. Life is a stage, and each of us must play his part. But despite what we may think, we are not special…this is not our movie or our play, it is a stage crowded by billions of actors, all playing the lead in their own production. Too bad none of us really know what we’re doing, and only a few more understand the character they are playing.

Heather's Favorite Anniversary Gift

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Sun, 02 Nov 2008 15:37:00 GMT

October 31, 2008 was our first wedding anniversary (plus it was Halloween, Hather's favorite holiday)! Aside from some books and stuff, Heather's favorite gift was pretty obvious. In her honor, our cats Toby and Sanka decided to sponsor Olivia, a blind cat who lives at the Blind Cat Rescue and Sanctuary in North Carolina. This is a rescue group (and non-profit organization) which gives love, life, and a home to blind cats. Some of the cats were blinded by disease, or born that way. But when you see the videos you are amazed at how well they get along. If you'd like more information on the blind cats, you can visit www.blindcatrescue.com. Meanwhile, here is one of their videos, showing two of their blind kittens playing:

Awesome! Remember, and contributions to the group are tax deductible. If you want to see Olivia, the one we are sponsoring, her page is:

http://blindcatrescue.com/Olivia.html

Eternal Sunshine #22 Released - November 2008 Issue - Diplomacy Subzine

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Tue, 28 Oct 2008 15:56:00 GMT

The November 2008 issue of Eternal Sunshine has now been released. It contains the usual foolishness, games, contests, photos, letters, stories, updates...and the new subsubzine Out of the WAY by Andy York. So check it out! Openings in Diplomacy, Woolworth II-B, and Facts in Five, with a new game of By Popular Demand about to start too.

You can find it in pdf format in the Eternal Sunshine Yahoo group:

http://games.groups.yahoo.com/group/eternal_sunshine_diplomacy/

or in both html and pdf format in the Diplomacy section of my personal website at:

http://www.whiningkentpigs.com/DW/

Enjoy...if you dare!

Grab a Shovel - Part Three

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Thu, 16 Oct 2008 21:00:00 GMT

I don’t want to give the impression that it snowed every single day during the winter. In fact, it probably only snowed about one out of every four days in total. The problem would ne when we’d get hit with these long, heavy “lake-effect” snowstorms. Those would dump as many as four inches of snow an hour during their most powerful periods, and could alternate between that and a few flakes, back and forth, until the storm finally ended. Sometimes that would mean three days or more in a row!

During those periods, the routine was the same. I’d wake up around 530am (as I always did on weekdays), and through the bathroom window I could see the flakes falling thick and fast. Wash my face, brush my teeth, get dressed (including my heavy coat and clown-style snow pants), and off to breakfast I go. This would be where I could see how terrible the snow really was, as the Landscape 3 crew would have been forced to wake up an hour or so earlier and – at the very least – clear a one-person-wide path from the housing units to the Admin building. If the snow wasn’t so bad, the sidewalk would be pretty clear and there would be lots of dirt thrown around…the “lazy man’s” approach which Landscape 2 and Landscape 3 specialized in. But if they were using actual shovels, and working, I knew we were in for a long day.

After breakfast, which at this point in my BOP career had been reduced to cold kids’ cereal and weak coffee (hot breakfasts having been eliminated months earlier for budget reasons), I’d have just enough time to go back to the housing unit, collect my work gloves, and make a bathroom stop. Then I hightailed it to behind the mess hall to wait for the van to come and pick up the offsite workforce (Garage, Power Plant, Warehouse, and of course Landscape). This was one of my least favorite times of day, because you had no choice but to stand around in the cold and snow, stomping your feet, trying to keep warm…and hoping that you’d be able to fit in the van when it arrived, instead of being forced to wait for the next round-trip. Fortunately, I often didn’t have to wait for the van at all, because I’d jump in the back of the Landscape truck when Krackle would pull up.

Krackle was sort of the head Landscape inmate. He wasn’t a boss to anybody, but he was given the responsibility of driving the truck and bringing inmates to and from the areas they needed to work at (regardless of the season), Burger could count on him to do as he was told, work hard, and take the job seriously. Like me, his days went faster when he was working. Krackle wasn’t generally in favor of ratting an inmate out to Burger if they weren’t doing their job; he wasn’t that kind of guy. But if somebody was screwing around or leaving his area to the point that Krackle could conceivably get blamed or in trouble himself, he would do what he needed to in order to be sure he wasn’t held responsible. So as long as you didn’t screw with Krackle or endanger his slightly-privileged position, he was fine with you. Burger would put the two of us together in specific work areas quite often, because he knew we’d get the job done by ourselves. In fact, he learned that jobs were completed faster and to a higher degree if he didn’t saddle us with any of the deadwood.

Anyway, back to the snow. My area was always the Front Circle, which was the circular driveway around the front of the main complex Admin building (the entrance to the Medium Security prison next door to us). It included the circle itself, the sidewalk all the way around the outside of the circle, the parking spaces along the circle (which often had cars in them), the flagpole area in the center of the circle, and – most importantly – the huge paved sidewalk area directly in front of the building entrance. The paved circle itself (the cul-de-sac) was handled by the snow plows when the snow was heaviest, but the sidewalk had to be kept clear at all times.

So we’d stop in at the Landscape shop, get checked in as present (always very important, because otherwise you were officially “out-of-bounds” and likely to be headed to the Hole), and immediately be sent out to our individual areas…in my case, as I said, the Front Circle. If I was lucky, most of the parking spots would still be empty and I would have a chance to clear the most important ones – those of the Warden and the Administrator – before they arrived. Otherwise, it was delicate work, trying to clear between cars with a cheap metal shovel, the snow wet and heavy, knowing that if you slipped up and scratched one of the cars you were going away for a while.

I actually found it rather peaceful out at the Front Circle, when the snow was falling and nobody else had showed up to work yet. Everything would be covered in a blanket of white, which swallowed up most of the sound as well. No fights, no farting, no snoring...just peace, solitude, the hypnotic pattern of the snow falling in the dark sky, and the bare branches of the forest reaching upward. For a minute, you could forget that you were in prison, and simply enjoy nature. But you couldn’t do that for too long; once other inmates showed up, you’d hear constant bitching and moaning…and regardless, you had to get to work because to stay still meant to freeze; the secret to being warm was to keep moving!

The snow was almost always of a heavy, wet variety, so initially clearing the sidewalks could be back-breaking work. It was impossible to do it by lifting and throwing the snow – there was too much area, and too much of the white stuff. So you had to use your warped, rusted shovel as a mini-plow, pushing the snow into piles on the far sides of the area, and then trying to scoop it up and throw it over the growing mound. Then you’d turn around, look behind you, and the area you had just shoveled would be completely white again. So you’d start all over again!

On occasion, even with all that snow, you wouldn’t have to shovel, because if the visibility became negligible they’d do a “snow recall” and order all inmates to return to their living area for an emergency standing count (a “fog recall” alert would happen 10 to 15 times a year as well). The bets news you could hope for was the “snow recall” at around 2pm. By the time they finished with the count, it would be too late to go back to work, which meant the Landscape 2 crew would get stuck for a change. But that wasn’t a likely occurrence.

During one “snow recall” I found myself fin a rather frightening situation. I had been dropped off at the Front Circle after lunch, and I started shoveling, trying to get ahead of all the snow which had accumulated during the meal. So I worked for 30 minutes or so, and suddenly realized that nobody else had been dropped off…and the snow was coming down a LOT faster. I couldn’t see more than a few feet in front of me. It dawned on me that we could very well be in the middle of a “snow recall” and that I might have been forgotten. That would not be a laughing matter, because that would make me guilty of “interfering with a standing count.” Despite my innocent intentions, being out of place during the count guaranteed that I’d be stewing in the hole for at least a few days, if not longer. I knocked on the front door of the Main Entry building, and called to the CO manning the desk. He confirmed my fears: a “snow recall” had been ordered. His only advice was to start running; if the van had already taken the last load of inmates back, the staff would not allow it to return to pick me up. I took off as quickly as I could, and when I was halfway back to my unit I saw a pair of headlights making its was along the road behind me. It was Krackle, racing back to the unit. I jumped in the back of the truck, and we made it back with about three minutes to spare. A close call. That’s what you get for showing up on time for work!

(watch for Part Four in the next week or two)

The Difference Between First and Second Marriage

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Mon, 13 Oct 2008 15:25:00 GMT

1st Marriage: The woman thinks she needs to fart. She goes to the bathroom, closes the door, runs the tap to disguise the sound, wads up some toilet paper, and uses the paper to muffle any additional noise. Then she sprays air freshener in the event of any odor, and leaves ther bathroom with nobody the wiser.

2nd Marriage: She gets up, goes to the bathroom, leaves the door wide open, and says "Excuse me" in response to the sound of a tugboat making its way through your apartment.

In the 3rd marriage, I'm guessing she doesn't bother getting up at all...and might not say excuse me.

Diplomacy World #103 Released - Fall 2008 Issue

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Sat, 04 Oct 2008 19:56:00 GMT

The Fall 2008 issue of Diplomacy World, #103, has been released! 104 pages of articles, photos, news, variants,

convention reports...but that's just the beginning. The theme this issue was Science Fiction and Fantasy in

Diplomacy, so you will find plenty of articles relating to that -- but much more too!

You can download the new issue (in pdf format) from the official Diplomacy World website at:

http://www.diplomacyworld.net/

or from the Dipllomacy World Yahoo group at:

http://games.groups.yahoo.com/group/diplomacyworld/

Incidentally, there is now a NEW DW Yahoo group intended for open discussion among the readers of any Diplomacy

World issue or article. The forum will include polls, contests, and who knows what else? Join now at:

http://games.groups.yahoo.com/group/dwreaders/

Among the articles you will find in Diplomacy World #103 are:

* Frank Oosterom and Joushua Danker-Dake on Austrian Strategy

* Gerald Todd's Star Trek Diplomacy variant

* Lewis Pulsipher's Fighting SUNS variant

* David Hood on DixieCon

* David Webster, Jim-Bob Burgess, and Rick Desper on DipCon in Bangor, Maine and the aftermath

* Benjamin Hester's The Dark Ages variant

* The Hobby's First Scandal: 1964C

* Steven McKinnon on Star Trek and Diplomacy

* More of Rod Walker's "Fatman and Frottage" lunacy

* and too many other articles to list here!

Check the issue out, and be sure to send some feedback along, either in an email or in the new DW Readers Forum!

Eternal Sunshine #21 Released - October 2008 Issue - Diplomacy Subzine

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Mon, 29 Sep 2008 21:26:00 GMT

I've just uploaded the new issue of Eternal Sunshine to my website in
both pdf and html format. You can see them at:

http://www.whiningkentpigs.com/ DW/

This issue contains the usual foolishness, book and movie reviews,
hypothetical questions, classic Diplomacy press, By Popular Demand,
letters, and another chapter of Grab a Shovel. It also has game
openings in Diplomacy and in Woolworth II-D.

You can also find the pdf version in the Eternal Sunshine Yahoo group at:

http://games.groups.yahoo.com/group/eternal_sunshine_diplomacy/

Enjoy!

Movie Review - Chris and Don: A Love Story

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Mon, 22 Sep 2008 16:21:00 GMT

I am generally ignorant of the writing of Christopher Isherwood, author of such works as “A Single Man,” “Christopher and His Kind” and “I Am a Camera.” Certainly I know the musical “Cabaret,” which was based on his books, but that’s all I know. And I was even more ignorant of the drawings of Don Bachardy. But neither ignorance lessened my enjoyment of Don and Chris, because as the title states, this is more a story of love, and of building a successful long-term relationship despite the odds.

Isherwood, having moved to California from his native England, meets Bachardy on a California beach, and over time they develop an openly gay relationship. Despite their different social classes, the anti-gay attitudes of society, and most importantly their age difference (Isherwood was 30 years Bachardy’s senior – and he was a mere 16 when they first met), the two became friends, lovers, and a couple. Surviving Hollywood at a time when many actors lived life in the closet, the two rode out rocky periods and remained together until Isherwood’s death from prostate cancer in 1986.

Mostly told from the point of view of Bachardy (who is now in his 80’s) through candid interviews, we follow their triumphs and tribulations. In many ways, Bachardy was molded by Isherwood, to the point that a year into their relationship Bachardy had unconsciously adopted Isherwood’s mannerisms and even his English accent. But eventually Bachardy had to grow into his own person, and through Isherwood’s urging and support he found himself to be quite a talented portrait artist. In fact, this success was what would lead to the rockiest period in their relationship, as the self-aware Bachardy now in many ways wished to break away from the confines of the relationship.

Besides the interviews with Bachardy and some friends, we are treated to portions of Isherwood’s personal diaries (read by Michael York who starred in “Cabaret” alongside Liza Minelli and Joel Grey), and of cartoon segments based on two characters the couple created to illustrate themselves in their relationship: Isherwood as the old stallion, and Bachardy as the playful kitty. The ebbs and flows of their affections are very touching, but nothing is as powerful as the last section of the film. This is where Bachardy recounts Isherwood’s last year, and displays some of the countless sketches he did of Isherwood as his body deteriorated. Finally passing away one morning, Isherwood’s body lay in his bed while Bachardy continued to sketch him.

A very early shot in the film shows their living room, and the two armchairs they had occupied for so many years, side by side. No focus is made of this at the time, just a subtle picture of the empty space left behind when two people who had meant so much to each other, for so long, are finally separated by death. Above all else, Chris and Don is a tribute to that love.

Grab a Shovel - Part Two

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Sun, 14 Sep 2008 02:37:00 GMT

Even though I had volunteered for Landscaping, Burger kept me on a short leash initially. I did have two inmates who vouched for me, which meant Burger was willing to generally give me the benefit of the doubt: there was Smiling Sal, the New Jersey con man and thief who had some ties to organized crime, and Chuckie, a very funny and loud little guy who was in prison for white collar securities fraud of some sort. Chuckie lived across the aisle from me in our building, and he was the inmate who gave me the nickname “Lucky.” Unfortunately for me, he didn’t mean that as a compliment, but as a backhanded insult. Chuckie and I would play gin quite often, for “meats.” “Meats” were pouches of tuna, mackerel, and salmon which were one of the accepted currency forms in the prison system (besides stamps). They cost about $1 each at the time, and anybody on a weight-lifting or workout program, or a protein-heavy diet, would eat a ton of this stuff. They’d mix it with mayo, or with instant rice, or even make tacos out of it. You could always find somebody willing to buy meats off of you for 70 or 80 cents on the dollar in piles of ten pouches; you give them the meats, and they would buy you what you wanted from commissary in exchange. I love fish…except for mackerel, tuna, and salmon, that is. So I never ate the stuff; I would just buy it for currency, or to trade or give a barber for a haircut.

Chuckie considered himself a very good gin player. I happen to be one as well, a skill which my father proudly taught me. I have some very fond memories of playing gin with my father for a penny a point. He never took it easy on you or let you win, but he would point out when I started playing in predictable fashion or making really stupid moves. So by trial and error I learned to play quite well. But for some reason, I didn’t NEED to play well against Chuckie, because I was always so incredibly lucky against him (hence the nickname). It didn’t matter who was dealing, or what the stakes were. On two out of three hands I would seem to get dealt a beautiful gift of a hand, and instead of being greedy I would always try to knock quickly and rack up some easy points. It was quite demoralizing for Chuckie to deal a hand, and after we’d each played a card or two stare in disbelief while I knocked with three. “You’re not even a good player!” he’d scream at me. “That’s just fucking LUCK!” then he’d retreat to his cube and hurl the meat pouches at me one at a time as hard as he could, hoping to smack me in the face. Sometimes he’d take his deck of cards and rip them up, tossing them out the window or in the trash. “Fuck you Lucky, I am never playing gin with you again. You fag! Faaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaag! I’m just kidding, I’m just kidding…..you faaaaaaaaaaggggggg!”

But, time and time again, he’d come back to play…usually within 10 minutes. “Okay Lucky, that’s it, let’s double the stakes this time. I’m going to kick your ass, you fag! I’m just kidding, I’m just kidding.”

“I’ll knock with six.”

“You motherfucking lucky bastard! Fuck you!”

…and the cards fly out the window again.

Smiling Sal, on the other hand, carried himself like a true Wiseguy. He never got depressed and rarely got angry (he preferred to get even). There wasn’t a single racket going on in the prison which Sal wasn’t somehow involved in. Cigarettes had been banned for some time, but somehow there seemed to be a constant supply for those who were willing to pay for them (upwards of $4 for a smoke). I am certain Sal was involved, but I never asked in what way. He would have told me though, because he trusted me to keep my mouth shut. Sal was also the main prison bookie, willing to take bets on any pro or college game, for meats or stamps. On occasion he’d have to get rough with somebody for not paying, but usually the people who bet were regulars and paid eventually. Every once in a while they’d drag him up from to the Administration Office to accuse him of one infraction or another, and to let them know that they were on to his scams. But Sal never backed down, and never admitted anything, because he knew that if they could prove anything, they wouldn’t waste time talking to him about it. He went so far once to deny knowing anything about gambling or being a bookie, and then as he walked out the door, offering the staff 3 to 1 odds that he wasn’t involved in that kind of thing. Sal was a good guy, and full of funny stories.

Despite the dusting of snow we’d received the day I signed up for Landscaping, as luck would have it the real snow wasn’t going to start for a week or two. In the meantime, we spent our days raking leaves. There were always tons of leaves to rake, and if we couldn’t find any on the compound itself, Burger would send us into the nearby woods to rake them from the ground. In many ways this was mindless busy work, but I didn’t mind it at all. I was getting fresh air, exercise, and time away from the housing units. Plus there was the added bonus of listening to the lazier inmates bitch and moan about what a waste of time this detail was…and enjoying Burger’s responses to their complaining, or when he caught them slacking off.

Sarcasm was Burger’s favorite weapon, or outright insults if that didn’t work. During one of my first days raking leaves, it had started to rain, but Burger wasn’t showing any signs of bringing us back to the Landscape garage. After a few minutes, one of the grumpier inmates piped up.

“Yo, Burger, it’s raining!”

“Well, how about that, you figured that out all by yourself without a college education?”

“Well how hard does it have to be raining before we can stop raking these stupid leaves?”

“A hell of a lot harder than this!”

Insults were usually reserved for special occasions, but sometimes he liked to mix sarcasm and insult together. One day he was yelling at an inmate, telling him to get his “lazy Mexican ass out of that chair and into the truck!”

“Yo Burger, I tell you, I not from Mexico, I no Mexican. I am from Guatemala!”

“Okay then…Southern Mexican!”

Pretty soon, the inevitable snow arrived, and the real fun began. In the winter, the Landscape detail gets divided into three pieces. The regular day shift basically stays the same, but they also create work details (by pulling inmates off of other details like Orderly or Rec duty) called Landscape 2 and Landscape 3. Those details, hated as they are, are still just about the easiest jobs in the whole place. If you’re on Landscape 2 or Landscape 3, you’re assigned to a particular area like Front Sidewalk, Front Circle, Unit E Walkway, Unit F Walkway, and Staff Parking Lot. If it is snowing heavily, or icing up, and the staff at the Medium Security facility decides to call out the snow crews, a CO comes by and finds you (or wakes you up). Landscape 2 was responsible for snow and ice from 4pm until midnight, and Landscape 3 from midnight until 8am. But with counts every few hours at night, the worst these guys could expect would be to get called out once or twice in an vening, and even then only once or twice a week…and, with no CO’s watching them, they could do the absolute minimum amount of work, push a shovel or a street broom around, throw down some dirt, and go back to bed. And that was it; they had no responsibility during the day at all. But MAN did they bitch and mown when they had to work for ten minutes!

Actually it was Landscape 2 that had it easiest, because Landscape 3 had a habit of being called out right after the 5am count, so they could clear the walks and put dirt down before the day staff started to arrive. And Burger lived only a few miles away, so he had a nasty habit of showing up at 630am and – if he didn’t like the job they had done – having the Landscape 3 crew called back out to work again. Still it was a joke of a job. They didn’t get paid anything (12cents an hour for hours Burger thought they actually were called out to work, which meant a buck or two a month), but they didn’t have to DO anything either. They’d spend their days at Recreation, watching TV, or doing anything else they felt like.

Landscape 1, the day crew…we were the real workhorses. 8am to 4pm, seven days a week if necessary, we were the ones they called on to deal with the snow and the ice…and there was a LOT of it!

[[Watch for Part 3 in the next few weeks]]

Movie Review - America the Beautiful

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Mon, 08 Sep 2008 17:18:00 GMT

Writer and Director Darryl Roberts opens his documentary on the American fascination with beauty, and how it is defined, by admitting that he had been dating a wonderful woman, but had never asked her to marry him because he always felt he could find a woman who was just as wonderful, but more beautiful. With his former love now happily married to another man, he looks back and wonders what made him weigh about the superficial aspect of the relationship so heavily. Who decides what is beautiful, and who is making money off of that definition?

With this lofty question, he sets out to learn the answers, and the result is the film America the Beautiful. Roberts spends a good deal of time introducing us to Gerren Taylor, a 12-year-old runway model who for a time was all the rage in Los Angeles fashion circles. Watching her strut in clothes designed for women twice her age, with the swagger of a sexually-active adult, gives the audience some of the same uncomfortable chills that portions of Little Miss Sunshine might have. With the typical controlling, aggressive, live-through-her-daughter mother, Gerren is a child thrust into an adult’s world, and we all know it can’t end in a positive way. Someday, either during or after the film, she is going to be set up for a fall from grace.

Roberts touches on a number of other topics throughout the documentary: our obsession with unhealthy, thin models; the cosmetics industry, and how some of the products may contain toxic materials; bulimia and anorexia, and how advertising and society can be a contributing factor; plastic surgery, to the extremes of surgery for pets, and the “designer vagina” fad; a web site devoted to “beautiful people” who need to be voted in to become members; and much more.

If the film has a flaw, it is that it tries to cover too much ground and discuss too many topics. An interview with an “expert” who has a theory on why society prefers lighter skin could have been eliminated completely; it serves no purpose other than to paint the expert as a nut, but his theory is never really explained. And some topics could be an entire film in themselves, such as the culture on Fiji and how drastically it changed – including its views on beauty – when television was introduced. But America the Beautiful does provoke thought and discussion. So, in that regard, the film is successful. And I think the overall point of the topic can be summed up by a woman who works with a national eating disorders group, where she said (and I am quoting from memory “If people build a time machine and come back to look at this society, they’re going to see a 90 pound girl over here, spending $30,000 a month in a hospital getting treatment for an eating disorder, and they’ll see another 90 pound girl getting paid $30,000 a month as a model, and they’re going to be unable to figure out what the differences in the girls are.”

Movie Review: In Search of a Midnight Kiss

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Tue, 02 Sep 2008 00:17:00 GMT

I’ve never been to Los Angeles. While I do hope to successfully get a screenplay produced someday, it isn’t something I hold out real promise for. Maybe if my life had gone differently, if I’d been free to give that a shot in youth, I could have been a character in this low-budget but insightful and inspired film.

Alex Holdridge wrote and directed this black-and-white look at the fringe show business element; the actors and screenwriters who came out to the west coast with their eyes open, realizing they could easily fail, but still hoping to somehow succeed against the odds. For Wilson (Scoot McNairy – yes, that’s not a typo) things did not start out so well. He rolled his car on the way from Texas, he had his laptop stolen (along with his screenplay), and now he’s living with his roommates, moping and smoking pot while he laments his bad fortune.

With New Year’s Eve about to arrive, they convince his to post an ad on Craigslist to try and find someone to spend the evening with. “It’s too late for Myspace or Match.com, Craigslist is your only hope” his pal tells him. Through this ad he meets Vivian (Sara Simmonds), a sharp-witted and slightly unbalanced woman who is “interviewing” a number of men before deciding who to spend New Year’s Eve with. The process of elimination leads to Wilson, and they begin spending the day (and night) together, in a journey through Los Angeles by foot, subway, and car.

At first, while the dialogue is effective and random, we’re not sure where this story is going to take us. But soon we’re led through the characters hopes, their ability to unhappily face reality (in some cases), and their desire not to completely give up on their dreams. I imagine Los Angeles, and the desperate multitudes watching year after year slip by without any progress, to be very much the way these characters are portrayed.

The black and white imagery works especially well. A building can look beautiful one moment, and decrepit the next, as can the characters. And unlike in many typical films, each character has far more history and back-story than we will ever learn, and those memories can be driving forces in their choices and actions. Just like real people. As Vivian says, “Sometimes you just have to let the shit storm come, take out your umbrella, get out there, and dance.” Life has no rewind button, and it takes a lot to find the right person; or to know when you haven’t.

I am unsure if In Search of a Midnight Kiss is in national release yet, but if it is, go see it. I believe the experience will be better on the big screen than on DVD.

Eternal Sunshine #20 Released - September 2008 Issue - Diplomacy Subzine

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Tue, 26 Aug 2008 17:05:00 GMT

I've uploaded the latest issue of my newsletter Eternal Sunshine to the Diplomacy section of my website, at http://www.whiningkentpigs.com/DW/ . This is #20, the September 2008 issue, full of Diplomacy, movie and boook reviews, personal writing, classic press, and all the usual follishness. It is available in both pdf and html format. Check it out!

Movie Review: Boy A

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Sun, 24 Aug 2008 22:54:00 GMT

Before we went to see this film, I started to read a favorable review of it. In its first paragraph, the review stated that in order to properly experience Boy A, you really need to only have the slightest notion of what it is about. Any description of the plot, any knowledge of the things which may or may not happen, will cause you to spend too much time trying to figure out what WILL happen, instead of just experiencing the moment.

This happens to be a major problem for me with many movies. If I’ve seen a trailer, I remember the scenes and part of my mind uses those scenes to try and determine the course the film will take. And having seen Boy A, I happen to agree with that reviewer. The experience of the film is better if you know little about it.

The simplest, most generic synopsis I can give Boy A is Andrew Garfield plays Jack, a young man who is being released from prison for a crime he committed as a child. But in order to protect his anonymity, he is creating a new identity for himself. That name, Jack, is the first piece of the identity.

Boy A touches on a number of emotional or complicated topics, ones in which there is no true right and wrong, no black and white: rehabilitation, punishment, redemption, the value of a human life, forgiveness, revenge, hatred, blame. Are we what we did, or are we what we do now, or are we what we feel, or a combination of all of those things? Are we how we feel about ourselves, or are we how others see us and how others feel about us? If we love, and if we receive love, are we worthy of love? If we are hated, are we deserving of that hate?

The cinematography and direction of Boy A is quite well done. Each scene carries with it the light and dark of life. A nightclub can at one moment be exciting and full of energy, and at the next a mass of bodies cramped together. Peacefulness can seem like loneliness. A functional room can be claustrophobic. A hero can be a villain. And a friend can be an enemy.

Boy A is already disappearing from theaters, so if you miss it, watch fir the DVD. And don’t read the back of the box. Just rent it and watch it.

To Forgive or Not to Forgive - That is the Question

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Sun, 24 Aug 2008 22:38:00 GMT

Where does somebody learn the concept of forgiveness and how to use it? Is it something we learn in childhood, or is it a genetic or chemical reaction? Something to do with the way our brain is wired? I wish I knew, because I have a very flawed sense of forgiveness. I seem to have very little trouble forgiving anyone else for things that they do, if they are sorry and express remorse…and often even when they don’t. If I am slighted, forgiveness is rather simple, since I put myself on such a low level anyway. Those who offend my friends and loved ones may have a harder time gaining my forgiveness, but it is possible.

The problem is, I cannot forgive myself. I simply do not know how…or else I do not believe I am worthy of that forgiveness. To forgive myself would, in effect, be letting me off the hook. And using whatever warped measuring stick I have in that brain, I have not yet earned that forgiveness…not for anything.

Memory is a tricky thing. Why we remember one thing or another, but forget most of what we say and do is beyond me. But I seem to have a knack for remembering things I wish I could forget. Big things, small things, embarrassing things; regrets clog my mind for years at a time. I cannot forget them, and I have not learned how to forgive myself for them.

It could be once when I kicked my brother Jon in the side as kids, in anger, and watched him cry. Or, it could be nearly cutting my finger off with another brother’s pocket knife and claiming I fell on it (which is stupid, because I know that my father did not believe that story; he yelled at my brother for leaving it where I could get at it, but I still have not forgiven myself for lying and blaming him). For stealing a comic book from a friend when I was eleven. For pulling a dog’s hair (even though he bit me for it).

Then there are the big things. All the moments I see as failure in my relationship and marriage to Mara, moments where I look back and wish I had said or done something different. Sometimes I wasn’t kind enough, sometimes I was too kind and too accommodating…eventually becoming her enabler, all the while carrying the burden of her deadpan statement that if I ever wanted a divorce, just to let her know so she could kill herself. So many decisions I wish I could redo…thousands of them. Even not being strong enough to break up our marriage years earlier; that too is something I have not forgiven myself for.

Not going to college. Not succeeding in business. Not making more money. Not having more friends, being more popular. I blame myself for feeling like an outsider all the time, as if I chose to not fit in. For having no fashion sense. For being oblivious to social rules and life lessons that somehow I should have picked up on.

And, of course, for committing a federal offense. For putting my family, and Heather, through the pain of me being in prison. For being a burden to anyone, anywhere, anytime. For not being there when my father died. For not being there when Mara killed herself. I even hold open a spot of blame for things I don’t know I did, or damage I may have caused unknowingly.

For others, I easily accept that they are human. They make mistakes. They err. They’re just stumbling through life, doing the best they can, sometimes making poor or selfish or just unlucky choices. Mara cheats on me? Okay. No problem. Andrea forgets my birthday, or gives me nothing on Valentine’s Day – not even a card? It’s okay, I forgive you.

The only one I demand perfection from is me. And as that never occurs, I am eternally a failure. I am responsible for all bad things; I am powerless to provide any good. And when I do, like when I love Heather and treat her well, or when I am charitable, or when I care for animals…well, I get no credit, because those were my natural inclinations. It’s like Schindler’s List. I could have done more. With this ring, I could have saved one more life. Nothing is ever enough.

Or, as Rip Torn explains in Albert Brooks’ masterpiece defending your life “If I change your flat tire for you, and three years later I lose your garden hose, by your logic I get no credit for the tire. I’m just the dumb guy who lost the hose.”

That’s me. I’m the dumb guy who lost the hose…a million times.

Grab a Shovel - Part One

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Sun, 24 Aug 2008 17:29:00 GMT

In the Federal prison system, at least at the security levels where I was, you had to work. Everybody had a job. Those with medical problems were given tasks like wrapping tableware in napkins, but everybody else had a true job. At Allenwood I started on the painting crew, and soon was moved to the plumbing detail (the CO in charge ran both details). When I transferred to McKean, I took a job on the orderly detail, where I stayed until I got tired of all the rackets being run there (see “The Sunglasses” and other stories in a prior Eternal Sunshine for details on that experience). That’s when I decided to sign up for Landscaping.

At Allenwood, the “punishment detail” was called CSS (Compound Sanitation Service). They walked around the compound, using brooms, mops, and dustpans to clean up any trash they found; the inmates called it Goose Shit Patrol, because that was really what they had to do all day – sweep up goose shit from the sidewalks. Allenwood was overrun by wildlife, from geese to starving deer to stray cats to lots of other various birds and animals. The job sucked, and nobody wanted to do it, so all the troublemakers got moved to CSS.

At McKean, Landscaping had the same reputation. If you were fired from your job, or caught stealing food or some other offense, that’s where you were sent. It was considered a terrible assignment, mainly because the inmates on Landscaping actually had to work. McKean was in the middle of the Allegheny National Forest in Pennsylvania, so there were literally tons of leaves to rake up, lawns to mow, lawn trimmings to bag or crate, bushes to trim, and branches to collect. But in the winter, the REAL work started. Aside from the typical snow you expect in that part of the country, we were close enough to Lake Erie to be subject to “lake effect” snow, which could dump multiple inches on us every hour, all day long and night long. Some members of the crew (or members of the Garage crew) would plow and salt and sand the roads, but who do you think had to manually shovel all the sidewalks and stairs, and spread sand, everywhere from the main office all the way to the Admin building at the Medium Security facility? You got it: the Landscaping crew. The “front circle” (which was the entrance to the Medium Security prison) was where you spent most of your time. There was a large front sidewalk area, plus sidewalk ¾ of the way around the circle, and a long steep stairway up a hill to the staff parking lot. There was also a short sidewalk in front of the flagpole, in the center of the circle. The snow could literally fall so fast that by the time you pushed a shovel from one side of the front sidewalk area to the other, you’d turn around and find the path covered in white powder all over again. Shoveling snow at McKean was a losing battle.

Even when it wasn’t snowing, winter work on the Landscape crew was a real pain in the ass. If it was icy (which it often was) you had to crack the ice buildup on the roads and sidewalks and shovel the ice away. Use of salt to melt the ice was extremely limited, partially to save money and partially because of environmental concerns from being in a national forest. So you were expected to spread dirt only, in order to give people a bit of traction, but that was it. So we had ice chippers which we’d crack ice with, then shovels to try and move it. Or, if it had warmed above freezing, you had the pleasure of using big brooms to sweep up all the dirt and gravel that had accumulated on the roads during the last storm, which we then shoveled into trucks. There was always something to do, and if there wasn’t, Burger found something.

Burger was the CO in charge of Landscaping, and was regarded as a real hard-ass. He loved to berate his inmates, and had no tolerance for laziness or shitty attitudes. Since almost everyone on the detail was there because of punishment, the lack of effort most crew members demonstrated was rather apparent. But Burger took his job very seriously. Winter weather was no joke to him; he wanted to keep everything clear in any area where staff members had to drive or walk. If the inmate areas were a bit badly attended to, well, that could almost be tolerated. But I suppose that was more because he couldn’t see their condition as easily from his pickup truck, which he drove around all day long checking on all the crews working in spread-out areas. You never knew when Burger’s truck would sneak up on you, so it was best to keep moving.

For me, none of this was really a problem. My time in prison went faster when I was busy, which is why I had done so well on the plumbing detail at Allenwood. My CO there learned quickly that I’d do my job properly, fix what I could, report to him when a job was beyond my capability. He treated me very well, and I know a lot of that was because I understood he had placed trust in me and if I abused that trust I was showing HIM a lack of respect. Much of my plumbing work was unsupervised, and often involved going into restricted areas. I could also be awakened at any hour of the night, or called upon at any moment on weekends, if an emergency arose. But my days would move by quickly, which was the real goal anyway. That, and the fact that I was paid a lot more than 12 cents an hour because of the quality and quantity of my work.

All of this entered into my decision to be one of the only two people I knew of to volunteer for Landscape detail at McKean. The other guy had been refused by Burger; he knew anybody who volunteered for his crew had to be a little nuts. But with me, partially on the recommendation of two guys already working for him, he was willing to roll the dice. Obviously I had to be a little twisted, especially as this job change took place the day after we’d had our first light dusting of snow. Why would anybody want to spend their days pushing a shovel around when they could be inside the housing unit, cleaning floors and finding ways to avoid work? The look I got from the manager in the Administration office when I brought him my job change request after Burger had signed it was priceless. I asked him if anything was wrong, and he shrugged his shoulders as he countersigned it, saying “No, I’m just wondering what the fuck your problem is, volunteering for Landscaping. But if you want to kill yourself, go ahead.”

With those words on encouragement, he handed me the BP-8 form back, and I marched out of the office and back to the chow hall, where Burger was waiting. I was now officially on the Landscaping detail…for better or for worse. And I knew that it was life joining the Mafia: once you were in, there was no way to get out. You were a member for life, until death do us part.

Movie Review - Henry Poole Is Here

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Mon, 18 Aug 2008 20:02:00 GMT

Luke Wilson films can be hit or miss. Some of his broad comedy falls flat, but when he plays the decent, human character he can be terribly effective. In “Henry Poole is Here,” the new film written by Albert Torres and directed by Mark Pellington, we’re fortunate that Wilson has found some middle ground. It isn’t a monumental film, but a sweet one.

Wilson plays Henry Poole, who is buying a house in a quiet California neighborhood. He doesn’t want to haggle over the price, have any repairs done, or anything else. He simply wants to buy the house, move in, and be left alone. As he tells the real estate agent (Cheryl Hines), “I won’t be living here that long.”

Like Finbar McBride in “The Station Agent,” Henry just wants to be left alone. Unless you learned it from the trailers, the reasons for his melancholy state and desire for solitude are revealed to us bit by bit. But solitude is the one thing Henry is not permitted. On one side of his house is a troubles child who does not speak, and her mother (Radha Mitchell). Millie, the daughter, likes to tape record the conversations that take place in Henry’s yard. Henry clearly is attracted to Millie’s mother, but he is not willing to pursue the relationship.

The brunt of the activity, however, comes from his neighbor on the other side of his house, Esperanza (Adriana Barraza). A close friend of the former owner, Esperanza discovers what she believes is the face of Jesus in a water stain left in the stucco job on the side of Henry’s house. She invites over the local Catholic priest (George Lopez) and soon has a number of believers invading Henry’s yard. Aside from the interruptions, Henry is enraged by the blind faith of the group. “Your hope will not save you!” he yells.

Overall the film has some laughs, some drama, and some lessons. It also has some insightful comments on the way we think, the way we validate our own beliefs by having others believe them, and the human desire to fix the present by reliving the past. As I said, Henry Poole is not a terrific or important film. But it’s decent entertainment.

Movie Review - American Teen

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Mon, 04 Aug 2008 19:57:00 GMT

When I first saw the poster for American Teen, I immediately lost all interest. It looked like some sort of updated parody of The Breakfast Club. After seeing the trailer, however, I felt quite the opposite. This documentary by Nanette Burstein gives us an insider’s view of Middle America, and life in High School. Instead of trying to draw any judgments or conclusions about the teenagers featured, American Teen simply lets their actions speak for themselves. The good, the bad, and the ugly; we see it all.

Major players in the film, set in Warsaw, Indiana, are Jake (the geeky Band nerd); Hannah (the rebel/artsy girl who feels completely out of place); Colin (the jock); and Megan (the class Princess). There are other teenagers who make there way in and out as minor players, but those four are the center of the action. Amazingly, while no teenager is one-dimensional, all of them fall generally into the stereotypical categories you might expect. But, as in The Breakfast Club, each deals with their own pressures, their own insecurities, and their own demons.

Hannah hates Indiana, and dreams of going to film school in San Francisco. But she is terrified of developing the mental illnesses her mother suffers from, and she’s basically living on her own, without a solid support system. Jake can’t find a girl, and feels utterly insecure and beaten-down. As he puts it, he “sucks at life” and is looking for a “sock to be paired with.” He has terrible acne, is short, and spends most of his time playing video games. Colin cannot afford college, so he needs to shine on the basketball court and get a scholarship. Otherwise, its probably the army for him. And Megan constantly tries to derive power over, and support from, her circle of friends, while agonizing over whether she’ll get into Notre Dame (where her father and all but one sibling attended college).

There are many sweet moments in the film, and some which leave you scratching your head wondering if these teenagers will look back at their actions in shame. To those of us who grew up in a different time, the lack of real connections between most of these kids is frightening. They break up by text message, or sit and text message other romantic interests right in front of their boyfriends and girlfriends. When one girl sends her boyfriend a topless photo, it quickly is seen on every area cell phone, and eventually on its own web site. Yet later in the film, that same poor girl is sitting happily at a table with the girls who distributed it. Everything means everything, and yet nothing means anything.

American Teen has gotten rave reviews, and I’m happy to join in the group of those who thoroughly enjoyed the film. Go see it.

Heather's Birthday

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Sun, 03 Aug 2008 21:18:00 GMT

Happy Birthday Heather!

Here are a few photos, one of her cake, and one of a ceramic cat witch mug I got her, with a big goofy grin.

Eternal Sunshine #19 Released - August 2008 - Diplomacy Subzine

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Tue, 29 Jul 2008 17:33:00 GMT

Eternal Sunshine #19 has now been released. It contains game results, letters, book and movie reviews, and the usual nonsense. You can find it in pdf and html format at:

http://www.whiningkentpigs.com/DW/

Happy stabbing!

Move Review - The X-files: I Want to Believe

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Sun, 27 Jul 2008 16:37:00 GMT

Heather and I have been working our way through each season of the X-Files over the past six months, including the first movie Fight the Future placed in its appropriate spot. So when we learned that there was a new X-Files movie about to be released, reuniting Scully and Mulder, we were quite excited about it. It didn’t have to be some major global-conspiracy-alien-invasion movie…just a good monster of the week.

Judged on that basis – as an episode from the series – it is middle-of-the-road. But as a feature-length movie, it doesn’t hold up all that well. I wouldn’t classify it as a failure; it just isn’t that good. No longer with the FBI, Scully (Gillian Anderson) now works as a doctor, while Mulder (David Duchovny) lives in solitude, a bearded recluse who still clips articles from newspapers and tacks them to his walls. When an FBI agent goes missing, and a psychic pedophile former priest is somehow able to supply the FBI with information, the Bureau approaches Scully to ask her for help in getting Mulder to assist on the case. Exactly why Mulder is required is never fully explained…the typical “ignore the phony psychic” company line at the FBI is just a bit too predictable.

Eventually the plot bogs down into a combination of religious conviction, stem-cell experimentation, and black-market organ donation. The once razor-sharp Mulder/Scully chemistry has dulled quite a bit over the years, and those unfamiliar with the last few seasons of the series may have unanswered questions about where their relationship is now, and how far it progressed in the past.

Despite all of these misgivings, I wasn’t completely disappointed by the movie. Perhaps it was just a recognition that I don’t seem to be properly wired for most of the new releases these days. Comparing I Want to Believe to the coming attractions I had to sit through beforehand, aside from the upcoming Coen Brothers film (with George Clooney, Brad Pitt, and Francis McDormand) I’d rather sit through this X-Files film again than see any of them for the first time. But that is less a recommendation of The X-Files as it is a condemnation of Hollywood.

Peanuts for Breakfast

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Sat, 26 Jul 2008 16:17:00 GMT

Growing up, we all got used to my mother being in the hospital. I knew that whenever she was pregnant and about to have a baby, she would disappear for a week and then return with my little brother or sister. But there were other times that my father would tell us Mom was “in the hospital.” I’ve tried very hard to remember, but I simply have no memory of ever asking (or having it explained to me) why she was there. She was simply “sick.” I also don’t recall worrying about whether she would get well or not. Perhaps it was my father’s attitude (both openly and unconscious) which removed any fear that she was terminally ill. Or maybe I just didn’t care. But on at least four occasions while we lived in Connecticut, she would be “in the hospital” for a few weeks at a time. It wasn’t until my teenage years that I realized those trips to the hospital were to mental wards.

There are a few which stick out as more memorable than the others. One would be the time when my father was working in Chicago and had been admitted to the hospital with an unknown illness (later to be diagnosed as both hepatitis and diabetes). I came home from school and was told by a neighbor that mom was “in the hospital.” For the next 10 days or so, the Kent children basically were on our own – with some occasional outside assistance from the neighborhood. Quite a few classic memories took place over those 10 days. But those are stories for another day.

Instead, in this particular instance, my father was home taking care of the six of us the best he could. He was still working 50 hours a week or more, plus commuting into New York City. Mom had been “in the hospital” for a week or so, and when the weekend rolled around, he decided he’d go visit her and bring the children with him. As I recall, Paul (the oldest) has some prior obligation, or else he simply didn’t want to go. And I think the hospital would only permit one child to visit at a time. Not wanting to leave us at home alone, Dad figured him and my youngest brother Jon would go to the hospital, and in the meantime he’d drop the rest of us off at a nearby movie theater to see Superman, which had been out for a while by then. In my childhood eyes, it seemed like we were in some major city such as New York, but I have a sneaking suspicion with was simply a more urban section of Danbury, Connecticut.

Left to our own devices, it was common practice to search the house for whatever food was available. Treasure hunts in the pantry usually resulted in unsuccessful experiments (learning that food items such as baker’s chocolate or dry flour were not very edible on their own), but sometimes you’d stumble on some old cookies, cereal which wasn’t stale, or some other prize. It was through hunts like this that I developed the habit of eating brown sugar by the spoonful out of the box. Eventually I learned to take the entire box to my room and keep it there. Molasses was another source of sustenance, by the spoonful or poured over anything readily available. Bread was generally moldy, crammed into the metal bread box with all of the other moldy loaves until nothing else could be packed in there (why it never occurred to any of us to throw the moldy bread away, I have no idea). In the freezer you might find a frozen waffle or frozen pancake – sort of like winning on a scratch-off lottery ticket. Old ice cream of a less popular flavor, or some sherbet with serious freezer burn, was usually around. Eggs and milk were best avoided, unless they were of a recent vintage; better luck was usually found with processed cheese slices, as they did not age quite so fast. If the cheese was old, you could break off the dried edges and just eat the center portion. Cans of soup were rare, but powdered Lipton’s soup mix (Giggle Noodle being the favorite) came in handy, and had eternal shelf life.

On this particular morning, I think I went without breakfast altogether. I figured we’d be given a couple of bucks for popcorn, and with any luck Dad would stop at McDonald’s on the way home (my brother Andy and myself could each put away five of the single-patty hamburgers without a problem, when given the opportunity). My youngest sister Allison, however, seemed particularly hungry on this morning, and found herself an orange can of salt-free dry peanuts in the pantry. Somehow she managed to consume the entire unce can, stuffing it into her three-year-old’s stomach. The rest of the family made do with what they could find, and then we dressed in near-clean clothes and prepared for the trip to the hospital.

We climbed into Dad’s Dodge Aries-K and started off. This was a new car for him, and in particular I though the plush red interior looked (and felt) quite luxurious. For all I know it could have been a used junker, but I thought it was a very beautiful automobile. There was the typical squabbling in the car on the way, but in general we all seemed rather subdued. Looking back (and using childhood photos as a guide), I can only imagine what a sight we were to “normal people”, with mussed stringy hair, mismatched clothes, and dirty faces. But for us it was just another day, more exciting than most.

Dad dropped us off at the theater, buying us tickets and having the usher bring us inside. At the last minute he gave Andy – the oldest of us at the movies – the phone number of the hospital, in case of an emergency. Then Dad and Jon left, leaving myself, Andy, Allison, and Antonia there to enjoy the show. At the time, Superman was regarded as a terrific movie, and I really liked it. The parts in the beginning with Marlon Brando were boring, but once Christopher Reeve donned his Superman cape and started flying around, it was great fun.

About halfway through, as Superman and Lois Lane are flying around in the evening together, Allison announced that her stomach hurt. We were sitting in the front row of the theater, but as this was an early weekend matinee of a film that had been out for some time, I think there were only five or ten other patrons scattered throughout the other rows. We shushed Allison and tried to go on watching the action on the screen, but her squirming and moaning became a distraction.

Suddenly her entire body tensed up and her mouth opened wide. Like something out of The Exorcist, a steady stream of vomit spewed from her head and landed three feet away on the cinema floor. Of course, some of it wound up on her clothes; the smell from this evil brew of apple juice, peanuts, and stomach acid was quite something to experience. Incredibly, once Allison stopped crying, we remained in our seats to watch more of the movie. But one of the other patrons had alerted the usher, who herded us out to the lobby and demanded we arrange to get ourselves out of there before Mount Allison had another eruption.

Andy went to the phone booth and called the hospital. Not yet a teenager, he nonetheless displayed the anger, intolerance, and impatience the Kent males have made famous in the decades that followed. After some difficulty getting the payphone to accept his dime, he dialed and connected with the hospital.

“I need to be connected with Susan Kent’s room right away. Her daughter is sick and needs to be picked up.”

“I’m sorry, we don’t have a Mrs. Susan admitted here at this hospital.”

“Not Susan. Kent! Mrs. Kent!”

“Let me check. No, we don’t have a Mrs. Lent here, I am sorry.”

“No! Kent! K-E-N-T. K as in Kite, E as in Edward, N as in Nice, and T as in Timothy!”

“I’m sorry, I’m checking, but we don’t have a Mrs. Kite here.”

“Is there somebody else there I can speak to? Somebody who understands English and isn’t a moron?”

Amazingly, they didn’t hang up on him for that remark, and after being switched to another operator, he managed to locate my mother and tell Dad about what happened. Fifteen minutes later, he arrived, with Jon in tow. The hospital visit had to be cut short. We climbed into the car and headed home.

Along the way, however, another memorable scene played itself out. Allison’s clothes had dried out a bit, but they still smelled awful, so we were driving with the windows open despite the shill in the air. Allison, sitting in the back seat directly behind my father, announced that she was going to be sick again. I looked at her, amazed; I couldn’t imagine there could be anything left in her stomach after she had left a gallon of toxic waste at the movie theater. Unfortunately, we were on a busy road with no place to turn off, and no shoulder. Besides, there was no time. She was ready to blow.

“No Allison, not in the car!” my father cried out. I guess he realized from the stench on Allison’s clothes that if she erupted, the smell would never come out of the plus upholstery, to say nothing of the acidic stain it would leave. So he did the only thing he could think of in that moment of panic. Gripping the steering wheel with his knees, he twisted his body around, cupped his hands, and magically caught nearly every drop of her vomit, with the few drops he missed falling harmlessly onto her already-soiled clothes. Twisting forward again, all in one fluid motion that had taken no more than four seconds, he shook the peanuts and stomach acid off of his hands out the open window. The car was saved, Allison’s stomach was empty, and we went on home. I felt kind of gypped, because we didn’t get to go to McDonald’s after all, and because it would be a few years before I was able to see the end of Superman. But that didn’t matter. How could the end of the movie be any more exciting then what I had just witnessed?

New Texas Rangers Blog

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Sun, 20 Jul 2008 17:39:00 GMT

I've started my own Texas Rangers baseball blog, in order to keep my baseball comments in one place (and out of the way of those of you who have no interest in baseball).

That blog can be found at:

http://rangersblog.whiningkentpigs.com/

I welcome your readership, comments, and input!

Diplomacy World #102 Released - The Summer 2008 Issue

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Tue, 08 Jul 2008 17:44:00 GMT

Diplomacy World #102, the Summer 2008 Issue, has just been released. The pdf is available for download in the diplomacyworld Yahoo group file section, or on the Diplomacy World website at:

http://www.diplomacyworld.net/

There's plenty to enjoy in this issue, from the conclusion of Jack McHugh's article on Modern Diplomacy to Edi Birsan on how to run a stand alone tournament to another two years of the latest Demo Game and so much more! Humor, con reports, tournament updates, puzzles, and the list goes on and on. Check it out, and be sure to let us know what you think of the issue!

Movie Review - Savage Grace

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Mon, 30 Jun 2008 19:33:00 GMT

At times, taking a voyeuristic look at a wealthy and twisted family can be a terrifying but hypnotic experience; you don’t want to look, but you cannot turn away. Savage Grace, the new film applying that microscope to the wealthy Baekeland family – and the eventual murder of wife Barbara (Julianne Moore) by her son – carries with it tremendous promise. But its attempt to remain detached from the otherworldly fog that hovers over the family keeps the viewer completely detached as well. And the movie suffers for that.

Barbara is a former department store clerk who has married into the family, to Brooks (Stephen Dillane), who is going to inherit the estate. From the very beginning we see how highly she values the social circles the family travels in. While Brooks shows disdain for social trappings (and mentions feeling like a “monkey” for being scheduled to participate without consultation or approval), Barbara delights in them, and is constantly trying to manipulate one person or another into building a successful dinner or party. Touched on only briefly is how Brooks’ grandfather was more interested in creating wealth and producing, while his father was the one who became bogged down in the world of European travels and glorified royalty.

Add to the mix their only child, Tony. At first a spoiled momma’s boy, his burgeoning homosexuality drives his father away nearly as quickly as does his mother’s fragile mental state. Eventually Brooks abandons the family in every way but financial, setting up house with a young Spanish woman who had originally been attracted to a teenaged Tony. This crushes Barbara, more from the threat of losing her social standing than anything else. Tony, meanwhile, continues to search for the fatherly approval he has never felt.

As the plot spirals downward into social taboos and insanity, we’re left feeling very little – if anything – for the family or its members. By trying not to dig too deeply, Savage Grace misses its mark.

Eternal Sunshine #18 Released - July 2008 Issue - Diplomacy Subzine

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Tue, 24 Jun 2008 16:45:00 GMT

I've released the July 2008 issue of Eternal Sunshine. This issue contains the usual foolishness, personal writing, Diplomacy word games, classic press, book and movie reviews, and all the other crap you've come to expect. You can see get the pdf version in the Eternal Sunshine Yahoo group:

http://games.groups.yahoo.com/group/eternal_sunshine_diplomacy/

or you can get either the pdf or html version at my web site:

http://www.whiningkentpigs.com/DW/

Happy stabbing!

The Unusual Suspects - Part One: Rudy

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Mon, 23 Jun 2008 15:16:00 GMT

During the drive we took to prison on the morning I was surrender, my father suggested to me that in some ways I might find my time as an inmate interesting. “It will probably be like my time in Basic Training during the Korean War,” he told me. “You’ll meet some very unusual and different people.”

He was right about that. I met some true characters in prison. Some were absolute scumbags who would steal from their best friends. Some were really nice guys. Most, as you’d expect, fell somewhere in between. But a select group was truly unforgettable. I’ve introduced you to a few of them, like my first roommate…but there are a few more classic individuals which deserve honorable mention, if not their very own chapters. So my next few essays will describe them one at a time. I call this group my Unusual Suspects.

I’ll lead off with one of the oddest people I ever met in my life. We’ll call him Rudy Silverton. Rudy was a career criminal, although he preferred to refer to himself as an “outlaw.” Well into his late 50’s, he’d spent the last decade or more behind bars after enjoying the high life as one of the nation’s premier marijuana smugglers and dealers during the 70’s. He traveled extensively, spending a good deal of time in Europe and Southeast Asia. Rudy’s tales of living next door to Mick Jagger, and the sexual perversion of 1980’s Bangkok were legendary within the prison.

Of course, simply having been some kind of anti-establishment drug dealer would not be enough to make my list of Unusual Suspects. Rudy had a number of other unique traits. Most obvious were his eating habits. Rudy was very selective about what he ate from the mess hall, preferring to gorge on things like cornbread or fish, but avoiding many of the more popular dishes like chicken. He ate all of his meals the same way: with a wet washcloth hanging from his neck like a bib, and with a pair of chopsticks that he had managed to procure at some earlier time during his incarceration. By the way, that wet washcloth was the same one he blew his nose into during the day. Very appetizing, don’t you think?

Rudy’s locker was stuffed with stolen or smuggled food. Jars of wheat germ, spices, soy sauce, and horrible-smelling additives took up most of one shelf. It was publically known that he had all this contraband, but the facility staff never tried to confiscate it. I have always felt they preferred to look the other way simply to avoid having to deal with his other oddities.

My first experience with Rudy was when I got up to use the restroom at 3am and found him sprawled on the hallway floor, flailing and twisting around. In my half-asleep state I thought I was dreaming. Then, after shaking my head, I thought he was having a seizure or a heart attack. It wasn’t until I got close that I could see he was practicing some sort of contortionist yoga moves…at three in the morning…in the dark. I later learned he did this every morning, after the 3am bed check. Some of the crab-like shapes he was able to bend himself into were straight out of a circus…or a freak show. But that wasn’t the freakiest thing about him.

Rudy had one oddity even more drastic than those. I’d heard rumors, but I chose not to believe them until I saw it with my own eyes. You see, we didn’t have a lot of personal space in prison. If you were drinking coffee or water or Tang you’d carry it around with you in a large plastic mug, complete with a lid to keep it warm or cold. Everybody had one. If you walked into the bathroom to use the urinal, for example, you’d leave it on top of the urinal, or on the sink counter next to you, relieve yourself, and pick it up again. Simple enough. So seeing somebody with a mug in the bathroom was not at all uncommon and no reason for alarm.

Because prison is such a dirty, germy place, you notice things. Maybe more so in my case, since I worked as a plumber for my first year, and I was sensitive to how people used the bathroom. Not flushing was a real pet peeve of mine. Why the hell wouldn’t you flush the toilet or the urinal? So one morning Rudy used the urinal next to me, and walked away without flushing, I was about to turn around and confront him…

…until I saw there was nothing in the urinal but clean water. And that’s when I saw Rudy had his mug in his hand, and was putting the lid onto it. But I didn’t remember him placing it on top of the urinal before relieving himself. At that moment, I realized the rumors were true:

Rudy drank his first urine of the morning.

I never really asked for a full explanation from Rudy. In conversations when the topic was lightly touched upon, I inferred that he “sterilized” it my microwaving it, or by mixing it with boiling water, or something. And that it was always just his first urine of the day – no other. I think he felt that was the one with the nutrients in it. Rudy tried not to talk about it, for fear that if the staff learned about this particular quirk, he’d be sent to the hole, or a psychiatric unit, or who knows where. But that never happened. Rudy made it through his sentence through the Drug and Alcohol program, and back out into society, where he could eat with chopsticks or do yoga or drink his urine in privacy.

His freedom didn’t last very long, however, as Rudy’s “outlaw” tendencies continued to direct his actions. The last I heard, he had been arrested for marijuana possession. As the story went, he’d had a quantity in a box (with his name and address printed on it) hidden inside a storage locker. The problem was, the locker was in a building adjacent to one which housed the offices of a local drug task force. One of the agents walked by the lockers one day and recognized the unmistakable odor, and the rest was history.

I hope he’s doing okay, because if nothing else he was a very funny and open person. I just like to think he’s changed his eating and drinking habits.

(Watch for the next installment of The Unusual Suspects in a week or so).

Movie Review - Baghead

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Wed, 11 Jun 2008 18:53:00 GMT

Our favorite local theater had a free screening of Baghead last night, which my wife and I decided to attend at the last minute. We were both pleasantly surprised to enjoy a decent, mildy scary, and occasionally funny film by the Duplass brothers (who did Puffy Chair, which we haven't seen).

Baghead centers around four friends in Los Angeles. Stuck in the fringe section of Hollywood, as extras in low-budget films which are shown at places like the fictional "Los Angeles Underground Film Festival", the pals (Matt, Chad, Michelle, and Catherine) decide to spend a weekend at Matt's uncle's cabin where they plan to brainstorm and write a movie. This movie, which would star the four of them, would hopefully be their ticket to move on to greater things.

The early portion of the plot deals mostly with the inter-relationship conflicts. Matt and Catherine (Ross Partridge and Elise Muller) are on-again-off-again romantic partners. Matt's friend Chad (Steve Zissis) has the hots for Michelle (Greta Gerwig), but she is more interested in Matt and views her friendship with Chad as platonic.

Unable to come up with any ideas, the couples bump heads and desires until Michelle has a dream that spawns Matt's idea for their movie: a killer who wears a bag over his head. And the films (theirs and ours) are off to the races from there.

Some funny moments, usually intentional, are scattered throughout, along with a few old-style jump-in-your-seat-and-scream scares. Shot on a very low budget, the eccentric camera angles and focus oddities are glaring for the first ten minutes, but by that point you've been sucked into the film, and they no longer matter.

Due to be released July 4, Baghead is one film you should look for. It isn't Citizen Kane, but it's lengths above much of the typical summer film selections. And, as the brothers pointed out in an after-screening Q&A session, the Hollywood horror picture has become nothing but blood and softcore porn and gore and torture. Baghead is a treat by comparison. Check it out!

Where Are the Good Movies?

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Sun, 08 Jun 2008 15:38:00 GMT

Sorry to have been so silent the last week or so. Work has taken a lot of extra time, and there simply hasn't been that much to write about here. We haven't seen a movie since The Counterfeiters, and none of the big releases do anything for us at all. Sex and the City? Kung-Fu Panda? Indiana Jones and the Curse of the Wheelchair? Adam Sander? No thanks. There have been a couple of hidden gems we wanted to see, but they seem to disappear in a week, and if we haven't made our way to the theater by then we're out of luck. Netflex DVD's have been our main source of films in the last few weeks. Lake of Fire was the last one we watched, a gripping documentary on abortion.

Things don't look much more promising this weekend. Instead, I think we'll likely go enjoy a farce stageplay at a local theater.

On the personal writing side, I'm going to try and start a minor series of vignettes on some of the minor colorful prison characters who weren't important enough to receive a full chapter on their own. I hope to have the first in a couple of days, so keep your eyes open!

Eternal Sunshine #17 Released - June 2008 Issue - Diplomacy Subzine

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Tue, 27 May 2008 15:39:00 GMT

I've uploaded the new issue of Eternal Sunshine (#17, the June 2008 issue) to the file library in the Eternal Sunshine Yahoo group:

http://games.groups.yahoo.com/group/eternal_sunshine_diplomacy/

as well as made it available in both pdf and html format in the Diplomacy section of my website at:

http://www.whiningkentpigs.com/DW/

The issue contains letters, movie and book reviews, part two of "My First Day", Spring 1902 results for Wouldn't it Be Nice, the latest By Popular Demand and By Popular Opinion results, and much more. Check it out!

Movie Review - The Counterfeiters

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Mon, 19 May 2008 00:31:00 GMT

This German film is based at least partially on true circumstances. During the late stages of World War II, Nazi Germany seizes upon a plan to print tremendous quantities of counterfeit British Pounds and U.S. Dollars, in an effort both to finance their own war efforts and to cripple the economies of the opposition.
At the Sachsenhausen concentration camp, a group of hand-picked Jews is segregated from the general population to work on “Operation Bernhard.” Among them is Salomon Sorowitsch (Karl Markovics), regarded as one of the greatest counterfeiters of his time. The film explores the motivations and desires of the Jews, and the struggle between collaboration in exchange for survival, and the need to resist in order to maintain some principles and dignity. It’s a very strong film, but one which does not attempt to pull at the heartstrings in a Hollywood fashion. Instead, it simply lays the story out, these privileged Jews who are reminded by the world all around them ow close they themselves are to the gas chambers and obliteration. It may not be around theaters much longer, but look for it, or watch it when its available on DVD. English subtitles.

My First Day - Part Four (Conclusion)

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Sat, 17 May 2008 16:58:00 GMT

The rest of my first day was a lonely game of Follow the Leader. Nobody knows who you are, but everybody knows you’re a new arrival because of how you’re dressed. The only people wearing the shoes and off-color clothes like the ones I had are new inmates, or inmates who were just released from “the hole”…and obviously, they’re known by everyone. So in a way, you’re wearing a sign around your neck identifying you as a newcomer (unless you’ve been transferred, in which case somebody in the new facility has heard about you in advance through the grapevine). Being singled out as new is both a good and a bad thing. You’re generally ignored, which is lonely but gives you time to get your balance. And, as a newcomer, provided you try to stay the hell out of everyone’s way, you’re given the benefit of the doubt if you do something stupid or disrespect someone unknowingly. Screw up, and you’ll get a warning and an explanation. Provided you take both politely and with an apology, there is no harm and no foul.

I hung around my bunk for an hour or so, taking occasional walks through the halls and reading material on the bulletin board. I had showered that morning at home, and didn’t have any toiletries to use or clean clothes to change into, so there wasn’t much else for me to do. Around 3pm they had mail call, which was a bunch of inmates crammed into one of the larger TV room/Classrooms as a CO shouted out names. I knew I wasn’t going to get any mail yet, but I watched anyway just to get the feel of how it worked, and to kill time.

Back in my bunk a bit later, I heard a CO shout “Stand Up!” Everybody else stood and kept quiet, so I figured that’s what I was supposed to do too. Sure, enough, this was my first encounter with the daily “Stand-Up Count.” At this time every day, every inmate is to be counted and accounted for, standing in his living area. The only exceptions are inmates who are working at their assigned job during that time, and they are also counted standing but by their work CO instead. If the numbers don’t add up, they recount. If they STILL don’t add up, they come through with their inmate books and do a true census, one inmate at a time, until they figure out who is missing. If you’re not in your living area, or if you move from that area before the count is cleared, you could be in for a heap of trouble, ranging from sanctions and extra duty to going to the hole for who knows how long. You don’t screw with a stand-up count. There are other counts during the night, but they’re not stand-up. But this count, once a day (with an extra stand-up count on weekends and holidays around 10:30am), is deadly serious with the staff.

Of course, it depends on the staff and the inmate. Sometimes an inmate might be asleep, and if he doesn’t wake up and stand in time, he might get in trouble, or he might just get a warning of some kind. You’d expect an inmate’s bunkmate would watch his back and get him up, but sometimes they hate each other, or sometimes the bunkmate is such a piece of crap that he won’t do anything to help ANYBODY. But you just never knew. One hard-ass CO was famous for severe punishment when somebody messed up his count. He came through one day, and saw an inmate was sleeping in the top bunk. He kicked the bed to wake him up, moving on with the count. I assume he planned to come back and yank the inmate out afterward. But this inmate woke with such a start that as he tried to climb down from the top bunk he lost his footing (there is no easy way to climb down) and fell face first onto the floor in a terrible crash of body, metal chair, and other items. The CO finished this section of the count and walked over to find the inmate groggily trying to recover. All the CO could manage that day was a semi-sympathetic “Dude, are you okay?” Seeing the inmate wasn’t bleeding, he moved on. I guess busting your ass (or face), to the amusement of the CO and other inmates, is sometimes punishment enough.

Dinner came next. I was pleasantly surprised that the food was not as terrible as I had feared. The portions of protein were somewhat limited, but there was plenty of lettuce and some other items on the salad bar, water or soda from the dispenser, a dessert item, and a side item. Desserts or other limited items could be traded among the inmates, or simply given away to friends if you didn’t want them (I don’t like bananas, so those I always gave away freely). Unfortunately, the quality and quantity of food served would decline as I continued by prison experience. I was told by a staff member late in my sentence that the amount of money spent per inmate per day on food within the Bureau of Prisons had dropped from over $3.25 to close to $1.00 between when I arrived and when I went home. Believe me, you could tell the difference. Growing populations, budget limitations, and rising food costs took a heavy toll. In fact, as more and more crimes became Federal crimes, the rapid growth in population would take a toll on just about every aspect of prison life by the time I left.

Overall, my first day was tolerable, and helped me accept that I could survive this experience without killing myself or being killed by others. But the night had one last surprise for me. This was early November, in the Pennsylvania countryside, so it was bound to get quite cold at night. Lucky me, as it turned out, the heat in our living quarters had not been working for a day or so (I felt cold all day but figured it was just me). So we had to sleep with no heat. For most inmates this wasn’t a huge problem; they just slept with long johns and maybe two pairs of socks. Not me! I didn’t have any long johns yet, and the one pair of socks I had been given were old, thin, and had holes in them. Even my blanket was thinner (and you only get one blanket). So I had the pleasure of spending my first night in prison freezing my ass off, listening to the sounds of 60 men sleeping in the same room. I did get some sleep, in between the snoring and the farting and the coughing…and the chattering of my teeth. A nice reminder, if nothing else, that there would be surprises waiting around every corner!

(Watch for new stories in the future)

My First Day - Part Three

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Tue, 13 May 2008 18:06:00 GMT

Back in the general population, I met my bunkmate and tried to keep to myself while I waited for dinner. A few inmates made it a point to say hello. One very friendly guy named Jorge kept telling me how quickly my time will go. “It’s crazy!” he kept telling me, with a big smile on his face. “It’s crazy!” He was also the first inmate who asked me a question which I would hear repeated over and over again until my time as an inmate was finally completed:

“What’s your out date?”

I didn’t know what that meant, and even if I had known, I wouldn’t have known the answer yet. But that question was on the lips of everyone I met. “What’s your out date?” “What’s your out date?”

I have since learned that this sort of question is completely out of bounds in any higher-security facility. But when you are somewhere which offers the Residential Drug and Alcohol Program (RDAP), it’s all anybody cares about.

This is the way it works: in the Federal system, you’re sentenced to a specific number of months. You’re then credited with an assumed 15% off due to good behavior and good conduct. You can lose that time off, but you’re given it in advance as far as computing your estimated release date. That estimated release date is your “out date.” You might be released from prison before then, but only if you’re sent to a halfway house. Time spent in the halfway house counts as time in prison, because you are still under the jurisdiction of the Bureau of Prisons. But the “out date” is the day you are estimated to no longer be under their jurisdiction. Most Federal inmates still have to serve a term of “supervised release” (known as “paper” among the inmates, which is overseen by the Probation Department).

Generally, you never ask another inmate how long they’ll be incarcerated, because it’s the last thing they want to think about. The only way to make it through a sentence of even a moderate length is to live day by day, build a routine, and let the days turn into weeks, and the weeks turn into month. If you think about the time, you’ll go crazy. Or if not crazy, at least you’ll be constantly miserable.

However, in an RDAP facility, your “out date” is priority number one. That’s because there is always a waiting list for inmates to be admitted into the drug program, and that list is ordered based on who is going to be released first. It doesn’t matter how long you’ve been an inmate, and it doesn’t matter how long you’ve been on the waiting list. What matters is how much time you have left. A new class of inmates is selected every two months, and they then begin the nine-month drug and alcohol program. As each class of twenty to twenty-five inmates is chosen, those qualifying inmates with the shortest amount of time left on their sentence get in…the rest have to wait.

The reason this is so important to people is that you can receive up to a year off of your sentence for successful completion of the program (although if you “violate” in any serious way while in the halfway house, you have to serve the time off that you earned, and you’re sent back to a prison facility). But how long you ACTUALLY get off is determined by how much time you have left when you graduate. For example, let’s say you have an “out date” of January 1, 2010. Regardless of your sentence length, for completing the program you are eligible for six months in the halfway house (instead of the standard 10% of your sentence UP TO six months). As in most cases being in the halfway house is preferable to prison, that’s a good thing. Anyway, if you completed the program with no time off your sentence, you’d be eligible to go to a halfway house around July 1, 2009. How much time off you receive in addition to that depends entirely on when you graduate the program. If you graduate on June 1, you’re saving about a month. If you graduate on March 1, you’ve saved four months, and so on, up to a year. So the idea is to get into the drug class as quickly as you can…the sooner you get in, the sooner you graduate, the more time you get off your sentence, and the faster you get home.

What happens in one of the RDAP facilities is that everybody makes it their business to stick their nose into everybody else’s business. As the time for a new class to start approaches, they’ll run around, collecting information, trying to figure out if they’ll make it into the next class or not. The nervousness grows, the tension builds, and anxiety becomes overwhelming. Some of these inmates are trying to hold their family situation together, working feverishly to get their wife or girlfriend to stick by them and wait until they get home. So it isn’t uncommon for promises to be made; “I’m going to be home by July. I promise!” But if the inmate doesn’t make it into the next class, those promises instantly become broken.

If you promise your wife and kids that you’ll be coming home, and suddenly it looks like it will be another two (or four) months, that can be the straw that breaks the camel’s back. An inmate may find out he’s got an empty house to come back to…or no house at all.

I learned all of this later on. Having just arrived, and not understanding anything going on around me, all I could do when people asked me about my out date was say “I have no idea.” Not surprisingly, that was met with a great deal of skepticism by some of the inmates who approached me. They’d look suspicious, and sometimes almost hostile, as if I had some secret I refused to share…a secret which could stand between them and their freedom. No wonder it takes a while to settle in!

(Watch for Part Four in a week or so)

Freakshow - Why Heather and I Belong Together

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Mon, 12 May 2008 15:50:00 GMT

Heather and I went to see a play at the Bath House in Dallas on Saturday. The play is called Freakshow, written by Carson Kreitzer. It deals with the life of a travelling freakshow, and some of the troupe members. It also touches on reasons why those shows no longer exist.

The show was pretty good, and a few members of the cast were excellent. In particular I want to single out Morgana Shaw as Amalia (the woman with no arms and no legs), Lulu Ward as Judith (the Dog-Faced Girl), and Kent Williams as Mr. Flip (the Ringmaster and owner). This production only plays through May 18th, so if you're interested I urge you to hurry and get your butt out there. You can get more details at:

http://www.dfwtheater.com/

Anyway, as we left the play, Heather was looking a little downcast.

"Didn't you like it?" I asked her.

"Yes, it was okay," Heather responded. "But I thought it was going to have real freaks in it. They were just actors. I wanted it to be real people, a real woman with no arms and legs. So I'm just a bit disappointed."

How could you not love her?

Successful Living With Women - Tip #8

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Wed, 07 May 2008 18:45:00 GMT

When a woman is eating dinner and a tiny dot from a broccoli floret falls on her chest, it is probably not a great idea to wipe it off for her and then pretend it was a booger.

I mean, it's FUNNY...but it's not a great idea just the same.

Eternal Sunshine #16 Released - May 2008 - Diplomacy Subzine

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 14:35:00 GMT

I've uploaded the new issue of Eternal Sunshine to the file library in the Eternal Sunshine Yahoo group:

http://games.groups.yahoo.com/group/eternal_sunshine_diplomacy/

as well as made it available in both pdf and html format in the Diplomacy
section of my website at:

http://www.whiningkentpigs.com/DW/

The issue contains letters, movie and book reviews, part one of "My First Day", Winter 1901 results for Wouldn't it Be Nice, the latest By Popular Demand and By Popular Opinion results, and much more. Check it out!

Wedding Photos Posted

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Fri, 25 Apr 2008 20:29:00 GMT

We finally got our CD's of the wedding photos, and I've begun to add them 8 at a time to the Whining Kent Pigs website. So if you want to see some of the Halloween fun, along with the hideous groom and beautiful bride, you can do so at:

http://www.whiningkentpigs.com

Just look for the links in the navigation bar at the left; there are two pages of photos so far, with many more to come.

Have a nice day, you stinking pigs!

My First Day - Part Two

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 17:58:00 GMT

I wandered up a path to another building, where I found some inmates who directed me to the Unit Manager’s office. The prison seemed to be rather laid-back compared to what I had expected. There were four or five inmates sitting at a metal picnic table, smoking cigarettes, and a few were off in the corner playing cards. The temperature was a bit chilly to me, especially as I’d just spent the last 9 years living in Texas; the worn clothing I’d been given wasn’t helping matters either. So I hurried inside to warm up and find this Unit Manager’s office.

The Unit Manager talked to me in his office for about two minutes. He was an ex-Marine type, but seemed pretty straightforward. His instructions were rather simple: follow the rules, stay the hell out of his way, behave myself, and if I had any questions I should direct them to his clerk (an inmate) first before I bothered him with anything.

“You’ll be able to pick it up as you go along. The rules are rather simple. Follow the lead of the people around you, but be careful who you associate with until you figure out the lay of the land.”

Apparently an orientation for new inmates had taken place a day or two earlier, and the next one wasn’t scheduled for two weeks. But Mr. Faulkner, the Unit Manager, strongly suggested I take an abbreviated, ad-hoc version so I wouldn’t have to sit in my bunk for two weeks and could instead be assigned work right away. Also, it seemed obvious that for me to refuse the “suggestion” would be causing him a minor headache, so of course I agreed. I didn’t much want to spend my time sitting by myself doing nothing anyway; I had quickly realized that for me to make it through this sentence, the busier I could keep myself the better. I hadn’t considered that I’d be assigned a job, so this was actually a pleasant surprise. I just needed to go through a few 5-minute orientation meetings and get medical clearance.

The medical clearance part was my first hurdle, as I was quickly summoned to the medical department so I could meet Dr. Walker, the head Mental Health professional (and, as I learned soon after, the guy who ran the Residential Drug and Alcohol Program – RDAP for short). Dr. Walker was troubled by two of the answers I had given on my forms in the R&D paperwork. First, I’d answered “Yes” to whether I felt depressed, and second I’d marked “Yes” to whether I had ever experiences suicidal thoughts.

I couldn’t understand why the first answer was such a surprise to anyone, as I explained to Dr. Walker. “Of course I’m depressed. This is my first day in prison, and I’ve got a 46-month sentence!” But he was quickly able to determine I was not a danger to myself or others, and that the suicidal thoughts were from years ago. It was at this point, however, that I first learned of the complete disconnect between the outside world of criminal justice and true life under the jurisdiction of the Bureau of Prisons.

Let me go back a few months in the story. After I had pled guilty in court, I had to undergo what is known as a Pre- Sentence Interview (PSI) with an appoint court official. This interview, in conjunction with other material gathered from my Pre-Trial officer, my lawyer, my family, my prosecutor, and forms filled out when I was first arraigned, would be used to write up my PSI Report. That report (barring any objections by my lawyer or the government) would be used to determine how long of a sentence I received, what security level facility I should be designated to (if space was available), and any other important information relevant to my time as an inmate.

When I went to have this PSI, my lawyer (a public defender) went with me in case they asked questions he didn’t think I should answer. He told me the woman who would be conducting the interview was very professional and understanding, and that he’d worked with her on prior cases with no problem.

“Before we go in there,” he told me, “I need to explain something to you. There is a Drug and Alcohol Program available in some Federal prisons, and it is entirely voluntary. If you successfully complete the program, you are eligible to get some time off your sentence, from a few months to almost a year. But here’s the deal: if you want to be eligible for this program, you need to tell this woman about your alcohol and drug use today. Evidence of your problems needs to go into the PSI for you to be eligible. The BOP doesn’t want inmates trying to qualify for the program after they get to prison and find out they might be able to get a few months off their sentence. So you need to decide now whether you are interested. There’s no answer you need to give today about whether to want to actually sign up, but if you want to be eligible at all, you need to go in there and be open about your past. She won’t mention the RDAP program to you, but anything you say may affect your ability to qualify when the time comes. Speak now or speak never, basically.”

So we went inside, and I figured, what the hell…I may as well tell her my whole life story. And I did, at least in an abbreviated form, and as directed by the questions she asked. I talked about my parents’ alcohol use, how I started drinking when I was ten, my drug use, my mother’s mental disorders, Mara and all the problems she’d been through (and the ones we went through together), my divorce, my depression, and anything else that came to mind. I cried a bit, but that was to be expected, as I hadn’t talked to anyone about a lot of these things in years (if ever).

As we left the interview, my lawyer looked sort of pale. “Did you make any of that up?” he asked me. I told him that not only was it all true, but that there were plenty of details and stories I didn’t bring up wither because she didn’t ask or there wasn’t enough time. “Wow,” he said. “I had no idea.”

The next morning I got a call from my Pre-Trial Officer, asking me to come in for a meeting. I arrived the next day, and he explained to me that the woman I had interviewed with was very concerned about my mental state and my overall well-being, and that she had requested that I be put into some kind of therapy or counseling immediately.

“Look,” the officer told me, “you’re going to be in prison in six weeks anyway. By the time we get the paperwork done, find you some program to go to, and get the judge to approve it, you’ll have time for maybe one appointment. Are you doing okay? I think it’s best if we just wait until you get to whatever facility you are assigned to, and you can get counseling and treatment there. Just tell them what you need; they have all kinds of programs for that. Are you okay with that plan?”

It was all find with me, since I wasn’t feeling any worse than usual anyway. The urgency was coming from the woman who gave me the PSI, not me. So I waited.

Now jump back to my first day in prison. After Dr. Walker was convinced that I was okay to join the general population, I briefly told him about my experience with the PSI, and how I had been told to make it a point to ask for counseling appointments or whatever other mental health support might be available for me.

All I got in return was a blank stare for a moment, and then a confused reply. “We don’t have counseling or therapy or anything like that here. There’s nothing we can do for you. You can go back to the Unit now.”

I just shrugged my shoulders and left. Welcome to the BOP!

(Watch for Part 3, sometime in the next week or so)

Successful Living With Women - Tip #7

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Sun, 20 Apr 2008 17:24:00 GMT

Phrases They Never Warned That You Might Hear After You Got Married

Part One

1. "I forgot that in a ballet they don't talk."

2. "I have something in my butt. Help me get it out."

Wedding Photos

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Sat, 19 Apr 2008 16:11:00 GMT

Just a quick note to let you know we finally got the printed copies of the wedding photos, and the digital ones should arrive next week. We'll post a number of them here to the blog and to the web site at

http://www.whiningkentpigs.com

So be quiet back there or Mom will send you to your room, you stinking pigs!

PS - The next part of "My First Day" will be posted sometime in the next week...I hope...

Guiness Book of World Records

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Fri, 11 Apr 2008 23:55:00 GMT

Does anybody have a copy of the latest Guiness Book handy? Do me a favor and check to see if there is a listing for "Grumpiest Woman in the Universe." It might also be under "Whiniest Woman in the Universe." Let me know, because I have a candidate that can beat anybody else for the title....

My First Day - Part One

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Thu, 10 Apr 2008 18:19:00 GMT

Once I stepped from the ordinary parking lot into the cold, brick building which contained the “R&D” department, I was officially a Federal inmate. I believe R&D stands for Reception and Diagnostics, but in effect in is the department which handles the initial intake, release, and transfer of inmates. In some facilities this can be a very complicated process, including housing an inmate in a segregated facility for up to 30 days as a form of “quarantine”. Fortunately for me, the process at Allenwood was generally much simpler.

The two R&D officers who were there to process me could have been brothers or cousins, based on looks and attitude. Each of them was terribly overweight, almost apple-shaped, with grey hair and moustaches. And they both carried a sarcastic, arrogant sense of humor which might have intimidated some people. I didn’t find their attitude being a problem for myself, though, since my personal sense of humor was very similar. But that wasn’t about to give me the idea that I could mouth off to either of them. On the contrary, my Dad’s advice stayed in the back of my mind at all times: behave yourself. I was still pretty much numb to the entire experience anyway, so my mind wasn’t quite as sharp as it would normally be.

In this room I learned my first lesson about the CO’s I was going to be dealing with for the next few years: they size you up very quickly, and it takes some time to do anything to contradict that first impression. In my case, they saw I was nervous, compliant, respectful, but not in a patronizing way. I simply treated them the way I wanted to be treated, and it seemed to work.

As they had me filling out a few forms, one of them started in on me with an aggressive attitude, which I
suspected was simply a front. “Why they hell are you here at noon? We don’t normally like to process new arrivals until two. You’re screwing our schedule up!”

I could have apologized, but instead I looked him in the eye and calmly told him the truth. “Well, when I called here for driving directions a few days ago, whoever I spoke to told me I had beet show up early, because if I made them stay late they’d beat the shit out of me.”

The other R&D CO laughed. “Yup, that sounds like something you’d say!”

He just laughed. “Yeah I think I remember that conversation. Okay, let’s get through this, it’s no big deal.”

Surprisingly, he was right. The process was very simple. I filled out a few forms, gave them the cash I had on hand (about $150, which was deposited in my inmate account for future use), and had fingerprints and a photo taken (the latter was for my inmate ID card). Then I stripped, and collected my clothes in a plastic bag. These were carried out to my Dad so he could take them home with him, along with my watch and my Driver’s License. They checked for contraband, having me open my mouth, lift my legs one at a time to reveal the soles of my feet, and spread my ass cheeks. Finally they gave me some terribly worn clothes: a blue t-shirt, a pair of whitish socks, brown pants with a drawstring, worn white briefs, and a pair of slip-on blue sneakers. They also handed me a bedroll and a worn brown coat. That was basically it…the two CO’s pointed me in the direction to go, told me to look for someone in charge, and sent me off with a simple statement: “We don’t want to see you down here again until it’s time for you to go home.” I didn’t have the experience to really understand what they meant, but I correctly surmised that if I got in any kind of serious trouble I’d be sent back to R&D someday. As I learned later, before being transferred to a higher-security facility or to the “hole” (the SHU – Special Housing Unit or Segregated House Unit) I’d have to be processed by these two gentlemen. So the vague warning they gave me was meant for my own good…and for theirs, since the fewer people they had to process the less work there was for them to do.

That last item turned out to be a very common motivating factor among the staff; if they could find a way to avoid work, they would. That wasn’t necessarily a negative for the inmates either; it worked both ways, depending on what kind of work you might be dealing with at the time. One thing was for certain – if a CO was going to do a lot of work because of you, either you’d really pissed them off, or you were about to.

(Watch for Part Two sometime in the next week or so).

Diplomacy World #101 Released - Spring 2008 Issue

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Sun, 06 Apr 2008 17:16:00 GMT

Diplomacy World #101, the Spring 2008 Issue, has just been released! This issue has a major (but not exclusively) Diplomacy variant focus. Among the numerous articles in DW #101, you'll find:

* An interview with Conrad von Metzke
* A review of the new Avalon Hill Diplomacy set
* Jack McHugh on Modern Diplomacy
* Chris Dziedzic on 1900
* An Intimate Dip Series Replay
* The winners of the latest Diplomacy World Writing Contest
* Jim O'Kelley on the 2008 Grand Prix
* The return of Pontevedria, a Game Opening Service, by W. Andrew York
* New humor by Rod Walker
* Two reports on WACCon 2008
* Stephen Agar on his life in Variants.
* and MUCH much more.

Diplomacy World is freely available in pdf format. You can download it from the Diplomacyworld Yahoo group, or directly from the official Diplomacy World website at:

http://www.diplomacyworld.net/

Check it out, as well as all the back issues, classic articles, and other Diplomacy-related material. While you're reading it, think about what article or articles YOU might want to submit for publication. Don't be shy, give it a try!

And for GOODNESS SAKE - if you're not going to write an article, at least drop me an email or a Letter to the Editor to let us know how you liked the issue. What did you enjoy, what could you have done without, what do you want to see more of? If you have comments, questions, or ideas, we want to hear them!

Happy stabbing!

April Fools Day

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Tue, 01 Apr 2008 16:47:00 GMT

I choose to ignore April Fools Day. Why lie and play jokes on people when they expect it? So instead, I screw with people the other 364 days of the year (I usually take February 29th off).

New Whining Kent Pigs Items

doug@whiningkentpigs.com (Doug the Whining Kent Pig) — Sat, 29 Mar 2008 16:12:00 GMT

Just wanted to mention that I've added a few new Whining Kent Pig items to the Cafepress selection. And we continue to add Helpful Kitty stuff all the time. You can check it out at:

http://www.cafepress.com/helpfulkitty

The Whining Kent Pigs stuff has its own section - just click on the Log Cabin picture to see that.

More is on the way soon! Tell your friends to buy something for you, so you can proudly wear official Whining Kent Pigs clothes or drink your coffee from a Whining Kent Pigs mug...

"Put a little more cream in this before I get sick, would ya? (cough cough)"