San Quentin: My home away from home...

I've been to San Quentin four times. My father rather enjoys telling friends this in passing. Actually, he says his son has been to prison eighteen times. The truth of the matter is, I've to prison thirty-five times, but who's counting.

There are thirty-three correctional institutions in the state of California, and I've been to eighteen of them (three women's, and fifteen men's). And the one place that I've been to the most is San Quentin.



Nestled on the banks of the bay, across from the Richmond - San Rafael Bridge, its quaint castle motif looks more like something you'd find on a studio backlot, rather than the face of a facility that houses 5,247 inmates (675 of them on death row). The fact that it resembles something out of Hollywood is no surprise, given that scenes from TAKE THE MONEY AND RUN and CHANGELING were filmed there.

Of all the institutions throughout the state, San Quentin has the best view. The snack bar is a circular building, with window seating, that overlooks the vast bay against the silhouette backdrop of the Richmond - San Rafael Bridge. It's gorgeous, even when it’s raining.



Despite the history of violence within the prison walls, the people who work at San Quentin are some of the nicest I've ever met. Like this guy:



Every time I've been there, he's always greeted me with a warm smile.

And these guys:



My first time crossing the yard during a prison tour, the same yard where Metallica filmed a music video (not that I'm a Metallica fan by any means - Ministry, my friends, Ministry), was comforted in that these fine gentlemen, and hundreds more, watched our every move.

I've crossed yards at several prisons, and for the record, the biggest and meanest looking inmates can be found at San Quentin. I was later comforted to learn that my five co-workers walked safely behind me throughout our two hour tour. Being a human shield is something I'll need to add to my resume.

The dining hall in San Quentin is a historical work of art. The six dividing walls, each twenty by a hundred feet, were painted by inmate artist, Alfredo Santos, in the mid 1950s.



The sepia toned murals depict a populist view of the history of California.



For paint Alfredo used black shoe polish mixed with coffee. It took Michelangelo four years to paint the 12,000 square foot ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Alfredo painted the same amount of space in half that time, and was only allowed to work at night.



The correctional officer who gave us a tour of the dining hall demonstrated what he would do in case of a riot, because apparently they happen quite frequently. He and four other correctional officers oversee one section of the dining hall. Their section feeds four hundred inmates twice a day. There are only two exits in the dining hall. Although his gas grenade, pepper spray gun and baton were readily accessible on his person, I’m not sure I’d feel as jovial being outnumbered four hundred to five. Despite being totally outnumbered on a daily basis, he had a cherry disposition, even after twenty years on the job.

We were shown the Carson and Doner cell blocks, but not death row.



The tour ended with the execution chamber. The new execution chamber is off limits, but with executions gearing up again, that will no longer be the case.

The old chamber looked just that, old, but not from heavy use. The gas chamber, surprisingly built for two, looks practically band new, despite being constructed seventy-five years ago.



The chamber itself is multifunctional, as the chairs and flooring can be replaced with a dental chair with straps for lethal injection.



It was the shape of the chamber which gave the old appearance. It looked more like a gun turret from an ironclad warship from the civil war than a chamber of death. I could have mistaken it for such had it not been for the pale, lime green color it was painted in. The lifeless, sterile color didn’t seem to fit the purpose of the structure, but then what color would you use, Colonial blue?



I couldn’t help but notice the witness chairs, placed side by side, in a semicircle. There was a raised platform to the left against the wall, where reporters would stand like a choir. The uniformity of the setup left a hollow feeling. The phones against the back wall were also noticeable. The last inmate who was scheduled to be executed made it to the entrance of the chamber just as the governor’s office called for a stay. That was in 2006. And since then it's remained quiet, only to be opened to inquisitive folks like me who were invited for a tour of the prison.



The Correctional Lieutenant who gave the tour was adamantly apposed to the death penalty, which surprised me. “It’s a big waste of money.” The original gas chamber was constructed for the sum of $2,500 by a company in Denver in the 1930s. The new execution wing cost upwards of a million dollars. I agree with his sentiment.

San Quentin is an interesting place. With the way this project is heading, I can see myself going back there again. And frankly, I’m fine with that.

Reed is gone, but his smell remains...

This post is coming to you a few months late, partly because I haven't had the strength to write it. You see, Reed, my part-time farmhand, full-time UC Davis student, and connoisseur of hand lotion, moved out a few months ago - and I just haven't been the same.

Of the three flatmates that I've had here in lockdown Sacramento, Reed was the most interesting. He would be gone for days at a time, a week even, and then suddenly he'd show up, cook a meal big enough to feed a small Guatemalan army, and watch the Giants game on the tube while in his underwear. Despite leaving the home months ago, there is a slight hint of his culinary essence that remains. The fact that any aroma can linger in a home filled with so many different air fresheners not only speaks to his ability as a chef, but in his menu choice as well. Case in point, the tuna casserole:



This little beaut of a meal was prepared a week before he moved out. The kitchen still reeks of tuna. And in case you were wondering, yes, this is what was left in the pan after he ate a large portion, which was washed down with a long neck Budweiser. The leftovers remained in the pan until morning, which gave ample time for the stench to permeate the kitchen walls and linoleum floors.

Now I know some of you out there might enjoy a good tuna casserole now and then. Hell, you might even purchase Tuna Helper at the grocery store. But tuna casserole, bad tuna casserole, is something that my mother always made for dinner. And for the record, my mom couldn't cook. A good many years of my life were spent trying to come up with inventive ways of disposing tuna casserole on a thin paper plate without my mother catching me. The "I'm finished!" routine of rolling up a soggy paper plate filled with casserole and heading for the garbage can never worked. And neither did hiding gobs of it in a glass of milk. My mother was too keen on these tactics, and would force me to sit at the table and eat everything on my paper plate. So it's no wonder, after seeing Reed's delectable tuna dish, why I spent the remainder of the evening rocking back and forth in the fetal position, alone in my jail cell.

Reed moved out two months ago, but he did leave behind a nice parting gift on the bathroom sink:





As you can clearly see, the bottle is empty. I won't jump to conclusions, but I will say that Reed has some of the softest hands of any flatmate I've ever met (even if they do smell of tuna).

Reed's sudden departure left me in a depressed state. I've been living here for over ten months. I've seen three flatmates come and go, and yet I'm the only one stupid enough to remain behind. I'm beginning to think my landlady sees me as her live-in boyfriend or something. Just the other day she bought me a t-shirt that said, "I heart Suzie 4-ever!". I'm thinking of giving it to my son for Christmas. My wife tells me to find another room to rent. Trouble is, once I take the time to pack up my room, I'll be tempted to head north on I-5 and never come back. If I'm going to move, I might as well move back home for good - where I belong. In a loving home that doesn't reek of tuna casserole.

New housemate, more lotion...

My previous chronic masturbating housemate moved out a few months ago. His departure was quite sudden. I believe his mother was diagnosed with terminal cancer, so he moved back to San Francisco to be closer to her. He seemed like a nice enough guy, even though we didn't talk much. I did shake his hand on his way out, and found it be to incredibly soft and smooth. I can only assume he's right handed.

His room sat vacant for a month or so, which was a nice break. I didn't have to work my laundry and bathroom time around the schedule of someone else. Quite a few people came to see it, which meant my landlady put up a nice front by having the home warm, inviting and nicely lit.

One middle-aged woman almost moved in. She inspected the room on two occasions, the second with a measuring tape. She wanted to see my room, insisting that mine was bigger, and asked if we would switch rooms. Sorry, sister, both rooms are 9.5 feet by 9.5 feet. Then she wanted to trade my kitchen cabinet space with the vacant one over the stove, feeling my location was better suited to her cooking style. WTF? She then explained how she needed to talk to her church pastor to make sure if was okay to rent a room with a man (myself) across the narrow hall from her. I'll admit, I do put off a serial rapist vibe now and then, but come on.

To my landlady's credit, she saw this train wreck coming a mile away and told her "thanks but no thanks" and handed her security deposit back to her. Needless to say, I dodged a bullet. No, make that a mullet. I dodged a middle-aged woman with a mullet and emotional baggage the size of South Dakota.

The room sat empty for another month, and then Reed moved in. And with him came a familiar sight:



Yes, my new housemate likes lotion. Only he's a struggling college student, which is why he uses a generic brand, so I can't fault him for that.

I should take a moment to once again explain that I do not automatically assume someone masturbates like a fiend simply because they own a large, pump-action bottle of hand lotion. However, I can make that assumption when someone has next to nothing in their toiletry arsenal. Like this:



For the record, I didn't plant those Snoopy toothbrushes. Those really are his toothbrushes.

Other than an electric shaver, some shampoo and body wash in the shower, and the Peanuts gang toothbrushes and toothpaste, that's it. Oh, and a gigantic bottle of lotion. With quick release, hand-pump action.

In his defense, should his mother be reading this, he spends very little time in the bathroom. He is courteous, respectful and polite. He keeps the bathroom and kitchen clean, as much as any twenty something year-old college student can. He's also very quiet. So quiet in fact that I don't even notice when he's not here. Which happens to be just about every night, since he's sleeps at his girlfriend's place.

Whoops.

Sorry if I blew your cover to your parents, Reed.

Life on the road

Between the last week of April and all of May, I've been on the road visiting various state institutions. From Crescent City to Corcoran - I visited sixteen state prisons in five weeks. Name some of California's most notorious killers and celebrity inmates, and chances are I've been to the prison where they are serving out their time. Phil Spector has been befriended by the black inmates at the Substance Abuse Treatment Facility in Corcoran, and now has cornrows. Lyle Menendez and Suge Knight are both at Mule Creek State Prison in Ione. Charles Manson's multi-volume central file is partially stored in a locked cabinet in the Secure Housing Unit at Corcoran, and in an Amish styled, pine jelly cabinet with floral porcelain handles in main records. And Scott Peterson? I saw him catching some rays on the blacktop section of a segregated yard at San Quentin. I missed Sirhan Sirhan by eight months, who is now at Pleasant Valley in Coalinga.

And what have I learned during these past five weeks on the road?

Chowchilla means shit in Yokutsan.



Not really, but the place sure smells and looks like it.

The road to Jamestown is beautiful in the spring.



It can snow in Susanville in late May.



The Sage Hen is a great French inspired restaurant, and is Susanville's only good restaurant worth mentioning. (The roasted chicken is excellent.)



San Quentin is a lot like Disneyland, save for the lethal injection part.



Folsom is still the coolest prison I've ever seen.



Babe the Blue Ox has some serious blue balls.



Crescent City is a charming coastal town which is home to some of the worst gang leaders who are incarcerated at Pelican Bay.





And the best part was when my wife and kids came down from Salem to visit me in Crescent City.



It was hard when we parted, me to the south, and they to the north.

Being away from them sucks. I'm lucky to have a job in this economy, but the quality of life is starting to get to me. True, it's an interesting project, but please. There are only so many prisons a person can see before they feel the urge to kill someone. I was home only once in the month of May. And it'll be another 18 days until I get home again. I'm surprised my kids remember who I am. The dog sure doesn't remember me. Which is why I often feel the urge to pack my 9.5 foot by 9.5 foot cell, load up the car and head north - especially after I see this road sign.



Note to self: Must update profile on Monster, must update profile on Monster, must update profile on Monster...

Baby Shake

Sacramento is a strange place. I'll admit my feelings toward the state capitol of California are without personal bias. Personally, I find the place distasteful on many levels. On the other hand, my real home of Salem, Oregon is no gleaming city on a hill either. I'm reminded of this whenever I make the long trek home every other weekend. Just this past weekend I was driving down Lancaster in Salem and it dawned on me that Salem truly is a pathetic capitol city. With it's homely historic downtown, limited dining establishments, and art deco, paint can-like capitol building, complete with gold Oregon pioneer on the dome. The building resembles more of a Mormon temple, rather than a structure of state government. Even still, despite her warts and highly populated obese residents who wear spandex in public, Salem does have her charms. The little city that could along the Willamette River does hold a place in my heart. The Elsinore Theater. The Riverfront Park. The Mission Mill Museum. The Ladd and Bush Bank Building. Willamette University. Bush Pasture Park. Straight From New York Pizza. Word of Mouth Cafe. And yes, even the Capitol Mall.

As for Sacramento? Well, they have Baby Shake:



I passed a similar billboard while driving west on US-50. Speaking of roadways, US-50, between CA-99 and Folsom, is probably the biggest piece of crap stretch of road in the existence of modern travel. The uneven surfaces, the poorly painted lines, and abundance of road kill, tire fragments, and car parts from accidents litter the pavement - it's the road that time, local government and CAL TRANS forgot. And the gleaming new billboard along US-50 only adds to the local flair.

"Don't Shake Your Baby"

I can't get that damn slogan out of my head.

"Don't Shake Your Baby"

It's like a song from Justin Bieber. A really sad, and depressing one.

"Don't Shake Your Baby"

Is this really a problem in Cow-town? So much that a large advertisement is necessary to persuade parents from harming their children? Do the residents in Rancho Cordova really shake their kids, especially poor helpless ones with big brown eyes like this? If so, then this city has bigger problems than the horrid stench along Watt Avenue.

If this billboard wasn't enough, the one just past it is an advertisement for a strip club.

"Don't Shake Your Booty"

Oh, the irony.

My new roommate likes lotion...

I am not one to judge a person in their quest to achieve hydrating nirvana. I understand the need to relieve dry, chapped hands, elbows and kneecaps. I'm all for the use of lotion, when used in moderation. It's soothing powers can both tone and rejuvenation damaged skin cells, and in the very process, elevate a damaged soul. I am well aware of the power that can come in the form of a friendly 16 oz. hand-pumped bottle of joy. But this... this is ridiculous.



My new roommate likes lotion. So much that it's starting to concern me. I mean, how much lotion does a person really need in a standard work week?

My new roommate is from San Francisco. He's working on a solar panel project at Siemens in Sacramento. He rents the room that Kid Rock once inhabited. He's here during the week, and spends his weekends at home in S.F. He doesn't intend to make this a permanent living situation. His room is limited to a floor lamp, a folding tray table, and a blowup mattress. Now before you accuse me of being a snoopy roommate, I will inform you that I only know this because he leaves his room door open all the time. He also wears Calvin Klein underwear. I'd rather not explain how I know this.

The new roommate is the polar opposite of Kid Rock. First off, he showers - daily. Second, he's doesn't have long, greasy hair, so there's no hairballs waiting to jump out out me in the bathroom sink or tub. And lastly, he doesn't work at Cheveron - so there's no gasoline and motor oil odors to compete with.

My new roommate is, by all accounts, the perfect roommate. He's courteous, isn't noisy, and doesn't leave a mess in the bathroom or kitchen. There is one thing that has me puzzled - his three bottles of lotion. Why would someone, who lives here only during the week, and who has only the barest of living necessities in his room, need three brand new bottles of lotion in his bathroom? I've thought about this for sometime, and have come to two simple conclusions: Either he suffers from dry skin, or he's a chronic masturbator.

Now, I know chronic masturbators. My brother, Brad, was the master at masturbating. The poor family who bought my parents' home in Northern California a few years ago have no idea on the amount of semen stains that exist in every nook and cranny of that 4,500 square foot home. My mother always said that our home was a temple, and my brother desecrated every inch of it. A CSI team with a UV light would need a month to go through the place. But even in my brother's heyday, he would never need three bottles of lotion. Think of the landfill that would require that amount of tissue. Which is ironic, given that my roommate works for a "green" company.

The more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that my roommate isn't masturbating in the bathroom late at night. At least, I hope not. Because the bathroom is right next to my room, and that would be really gross. Just another question to keep my active mind from drifting to sleep each night. Questions like:

"Is my landlady trying to poison me?"

"Does the godawful smell of this place follow me to work?"

"Why in the hell is Aaron in the bathroom this late at night?"

"Who keeps changing the toilet paper roll from over to under?"

"Why do people watch Dancing with the Stars?"

The answers to these, and so many other questions, will forever elude me. Much like that final pump of lotion, that teases you, as it lies at the bottom of your nearly empty lotion bottle.

The Case of the Air Fresheners

The other night, after coming home from an eventful day spent with my boss continually throwing me and my co-worker under the bus in front of the customer, something dawned on me: there's a crap load of air fresheners in the home where I'm boarding at. So many in fact that it's starting to get me worried. Why would my landlady buy so many different scented plug-ins? Why are they placed so close together? What smell is she trying to hide? Does she wash herself and use deodorant on a regular basis? Does she douche? How many bodies are secretly buried in the tight confines of her crawlspace? Are they former pathetic out-of-state commuters, like myself, forced to work in California's second gold rush on stupid state government contracts?

You might assume that I'm over exaggerating here. Hopefully the following pictures can erase that misconception:


This beast of an air freshener is in the hall, directly outside my bedroom door. Its nauseating scent creeps into my room through the gap between the door and the carpet.


This plug-in is five paces away, on the corner wall of the family room.


And this kitty-cornered little bastard is only four feet away.

But wait, there's more:


This son-of-a-bitch is placed near the front door. Notice how the air fresheners are not the same. Were you to physically smell them, you'd also notice how they smell nothing alike. One is tropical, and the other a spiced cinnamon. The scent combination alone is enough to drive you to snort enough coke to burn off your olfactory receptor.


And finally, this one is in the kitchen. Which I find ironic, given the smorgasbord of air freshening delights that permeate within the home.

The home where I am boarding is a 3 bed, 2 bath, single story rambler that's roughly 1200 square feet. The six air fresheners are in the entry, kitchen, family room and hallway. I'd estimate that those areas together would make up 500 square feet of living space. Am I just being paranoid, or does that seem like a crap load of air fresheners for such a small living space? And more importantly, just what in the hell is my landlady trying to hide?

Before you jump to conclusions and place the smelly blame on me, let me contest that these air fresheners were placed long before I arrived, so I am clearly not the reason for their purchase or placement. I have trouble sleeping at night, as my creative mind races, conjuring up various scenarios, as my nose tries to deflect the ever present fragrance of the plug-ins. And I can only come up with two conclusions: either my landlady has tremendous gas, or there's an array of rotting corpses beneath the floorboards.

I'm thinking of checking out the crawlspace one of these days, but I'm afraid of what I might find.