I wake up early. Very, very early. Hearing the alarm clock go off at 4:30 a.m. is not the most pleasant way to start my day, but I have to meet my co-workers at the office before we all caravan down to the state prison at 8:00 a.m.

It’s my first final revocation hearing.

I’m not nervous. I have no reason to be. This parolee is going to get nailed to the wall, and I will enjoy doing it because he has earned every bit of it.

~

His case was transferred to me over a year after he absconded; we’ve had a warrant out for his arrest since November of 2007. A week after I got the case, he was arrested in New Orleans.

He was extradited, no small feat on my part. It took several days of phone calls and dozens of reports faxed back and forth before I could make it happen. I think that the local police dropped his charges -- possession of cocaine -- just so they could get him out quickly.

I interviewed him in the local jail the day after he arrived. I asked him why he absconded; he told me that his sister was shot and killed in a robbery, and he went to her funeral. He was grieving heavily and not thinking straight. Look it up, he told me. It’s on the news. He never came back because he was afraid he would be arrested. He was right. He was also recently been diagnosed with cancer -- I could see a large growth on the side of his face. He was afraid for his health, and for what is going to happen to him. I pointed out that it might be a blessing in disguise that he is incarcerated, because he’d never be able to afford cancer treatments on his own and now it will be taken care of by the jail. He told me that he couldn’t parole out to his family in Louisiana because they had been dispersed by Hurricane Katrina and he had no current addresses for them.

I told him I will do what I can. He broke the law, but he’s human, and life has dealt him a shitty hand. I try to cut him some slack.

I saw him in subsequent visits; his story was the same each time. Every time I asked about his health first. He claims that the doctors don’t know what is wrong with him. I told him that I can’t help him going to a final hearing -- that is the parole board’s decision. All I can do is make a recommendation, and I tell him I can recommend work-release or drug treatment rather than a return to general population. When he asked for a character reference, I explained that I hardly know him and can’t do so in good conscience. All the parole board has is my word, and I can’t give it for a person I’ve only met a few times. He says that he understands.

Things took a turn yesterday. I wasn’t even at the jail to visit him, but dropped in after interviewing another inmate. I tried to explain what will happen at the hearing, and wanted to clarify a few points in the timeline of his parole. He interrupted me with questions about his sentence -- he thought that his parole expired in 2008. I tried for several minutes to explain that “concurrent” does not mean “retroactive.” He got loud and belligerent, and I realized then that he didn’t want to listen to me; he needed someone to be mad at, and I was going to be that person. The sheriff’s deputies poked their heads into the room and asked if there was a problem. He finally calmed down.

I tried once again to clarify some points in his history -- at one point he was kicked out of a Christian ministry. He claimed that he was 30 minutes late one night, but I told him that I knew better because I spoke to the pastor there. He had been entertaining women in the apartment they provided for him, which was a violation of their rules.

“My family drove out all the way from Louisiana to see me! How is that any reason to revoke somebody?” I asked if he knew that having visitors was against the rules. He said yes, but... and I stopped him there. Even if he thought the rule was stupid, he knew it was in place and willingly broke it. He became combative again. “Why am I helping you? You’re just gonna use this to burn me tomorrow! You haven‘t done anything to help me!” He got loud again. He didn’t seem to care when I pointed out that I told him I’d recommend work-release or a drug treatment program. “I don’t have a drug problem!” I calmly reminded him that the last time he told his parole officer that, she drug-tested him and found it positive for cocaine.

That was the last straw, I think. “Why the hell am I talking to you?” And then he walked away. I just shrugged.

When I got back to the office, I dialed the two phone numbers I’d wrangled out of him before he decided that I was the enemy. The first was disconnected. The second worked, and I reached his fiancee in Louisiana. She confirmed the date that he absconded. When I asked her why he said he came back, she stated that he hadn’t seen his family in a long time. No mention of a sister’s funeral.

One last thing, I asked: did you or any of his family come out to see him while he was in Georgia? No, she said. At this point I was fuming.

She gave me his brother’s number. I called him, and his story was the same. No mention of a sister, and no family every came to visit him here. I thanked him and hung up the phone, chewing on my pen for a minute.

Then I called him back. His file is incomplete, I told him. Who are your other siblings? He gave me names -- his “sister’s” was not among them. When I asked if he had a sister by that name: “Uh, no... oh, we had a cousin with that name.”

I thanked him again and hung up. Five minutes on Google turned up the news story of the woman he claimed was his sister -- she had indeed been shot and killed in Louisiana in 2007. In July. Further digging turned up her obituary, listing her surviving brothers and sisters. My parolee is not among them. Even more interesting was the date of her funeral -- July 21.

My parolee skipped town just before Thanksgiving.

Something else dawned on me, and I called the local jail and asked for the medical staff. I ask about any diagnoses and treatment for my parolee.

“Hang on... oh yeah! He had an upper respiratory infection. We gave him Robitussin and Sudafed.”

“So... nothing else? Because he told me he has cancer and he’s been seeing you guys about it.”

“Nothing else.”

I hung up one last time and sat back in my chair. Oh yes, this guy was going up the river. I stayed late, preparing the case.

~

I wait for a long time for my parolee’s hearing to come up, sweating in my constrictive suit; we are the last ones for the day. In the meantime, I sit through two other hearings from my office. One gets revoked and the other sent to drug treatment. One of the five parole board members serves as judge in an informal court-like setting. He is new to the Board, and seems very no-nonsense. He does not take any badmouthing of parole officers or police. I smile to myself. This is going to be easy. I’ll just let my guy talk himself into a hole and then nail him when I’m asked for my opinion.

It is finally my turn. I am sworn in, and I state my name for the record. The board member introduces himself to the parolee, and gives a short speech about taking responsibility for one’s actions. Then my parolee’s violations are read aloud to him. There are seven listed.

“On count one, how do you plead?”

“Guilty.”

“On count two, how do you plead?”

“Guilty.”

I glance over at my co-worker. Are you hearing this?

He pleads guilty to every single charge. The point of a final hearing is when a parolee has contention with his charges and wants to go to “court” over them, as it were. It is a trial. He has just wasted two months of my time. I wait for my chance to speak.

The board member turns to my parolee and asks for his story. I wait for him to mention a sister. He does not, but mentions how good it was for him to be back around his family again. He says that they had been on the outs, but they reconciled with a “forgive and forget” attitude.

I interrupt him and start to bring up the story of his “sister,” not to mention that this admission also means that he lied about the reason he didn’t have any family to parole out to in the first place, and about his “family visit” that got him kicked out of the ministry.

Before I can get two sentences out of my mouth, the board member cuts me off. So I wait. He’ll hear it all when he asks for my recommendation -- how every single word that has come out of my guy’s mouth has been a lie, and the proof that I have to back it up. How he has not earned a break because he has done nothing but make up stories to garner sympathy since the day he was transferred back here. How the "good environment" he was in at the time includes the crack dealer with whom he was arrested.

The board member turns again to the parolee, and explains that he will stick his neck out for him and put him in a work-release program. If he graduates from it, he will apply for a transfer to Louisiana.

Then he adjourns the hearing. He does not ask for my thoughts or recommendation, as he had done with all of the previous hearings.

The parolee plead guilty to every single count and got exactly what he wanted in the first place.

Too shocked at what just happened to protest, I walk over and shake the board member’s hand, and tell him it was nice to meet him. He apologizes for cutting me off during the hearing, and condescendingly tells me that “they all lie.” I bite my tongue, because he doesn’t know the half of it, and that I was not just pointing out one little white lie but trying to get an opening to explain that his entire story is fabricated.

I have gotten the, “Aw, how cute. Little lady thinks she’s a parole officer” attitude enough from convicted felons. It is insulting and stupid, and they learn very quickly that I don‘t put up with it. Now I’m getting it from a man in the highest office of the organization that employs me, and I simply have to take it.

He then tells me that I am new, and that I’ll learn. I smile and laugh, and do not point out that I have been a parole officer longer than he has been a board member. Not do I say that if he had bothered to take me seriously, he would not have bought the bullshit that he was just fed by my parolee.

I leave, seething, and thank my lucky stars that I don’t have to stay in the office for the rest of the day. I spent the entire hearing staring at my parolee when he spoke. He didn’t look me in the eyes once.

For those not in the know, several weeks ago I came down with a fever, nausea, and a sudden excruciating pain in my right side. I went to the ER, thinking that I had appendicitis. It turned out to be kidney stones.

I spent approximately three and a half hours there, one of which was in the waiting room. Once they actually got around to checking me out, the doctors gave me intravenous antibiotics, painkillers, and two pills because my potassium levels were low. They did two CT scans on my abdomen. I got a separate bill from the radiology department for the CT scans, which came to $424. Not as bad as I thought it would be, but still a pretty penny.

Yesterday, I checked my health insurance statement online. The hospital bill, not including the CT scans?

$8,272.

Can somebody explain this to me? Because unless the facility charges at least a couple of grand an hour, I'm not understanding how a few injections of Dilaudid can rack up a bill like that. What the fuck were those antibiotics made of, anyway? Did the nurses charge me $3000 each time I poked my head out of the room they stuck me in and begged somebody to please give me something for the pain because I was two seconds away from stabbing myself in the eyeball just to distract myself a little bit, and then wrote off the other two grand as bloodwork? Because I spent an hour on a little bed in a tiny exam room sweating, shaking, and crying before anybody came to do anything about it (this was before I was diagnosed, mind you. The medical staff were operating under the assumption that I had an appendix that was about to burst).

Or maybe the doctor's going rate is $165,440 an hour, because he spent approximately three minutes with me. I could be wrong, though.

Seriously, fuck Eastside Medical, and thank christ for health insurance.

"Because I couldn't go for three."

Woody Hayes, Ohio State football coach, when asked why he went for a two-point conversion against Michigan despite a 36-point lead.

I love competition. I've written about this before, about how I can turn the most mundane task or silliest board game into a STEEL CAGE MATCH TO THE DEATH~! I love competing, love winning even more, and take pride at the things I'm good at because I worked hard to get that way. I won state titles in gymnastics because I busted my ass in training. I'm good at trivia because I paid attention in school and like to, y'know, read.

I hate losing, too, especially at things I'm supposed to be good at. Nothing chaps my ass more than seeing somebody else nail the final question/answer on Jeopardy! when I couldn't.

With things I'm not especially good at, like soccer, the competitiveness doesn't go away but righteous indignation at losing does. I don't get burned up about a loss when the opposing team is clearly better than ours, or when I can't defend a really awesome forward all that well – hell, he's probably been playing since he was five years old, he's 6'1, and probably runs five miles a day. It'd be ridiculous to get angry with myself when I get smoked by a player like that.

Which brings me to Micah Grimes, the coach of Covenant School 's girl's basketball team.

http://highschool.rivals.com/content.asp?CID=904726

You might have heard the story about how his girls beat Dallas Academy 100-0 last week. Covenant's administrators issued a public apology and forced the girls on their team to forfeit the game, meet with, and apologize to the other players personally. Today, after publicly saying that he disagreed with the administrators and had nothing to apologize for, Coach Grimes was fired.

Covenant is a private Christian academy, and the Powers That Be determined that the girls did not play in a Christ-like fashion.

Covenant School 's administrators are fucked in the head.

Nevermind that the crowd at the game went crazy as the girls approached the 100-point mark (where's the public announcement the students in attendance?) and egged them on. Nevermind that there is no slaughter rule in their league. Nevermind that yeah, the coach probably should have told his girls to stick to passing drills after the first half.

Forget all of that. The girls were forced to apologize for being good at what they do. It's not like they were throwing elbows right and left, or trash-talking, or cheating, or fouling their opponents at every opportunity. Nope. They just scored a lot of points, their opponents couldn't score a single one, and so they made their opponents feel bad. Shame on them, I guess, but I'm failing to see the problem here. It's competitive basketball. You're supposed to win. You don't want to deal with the "consequences" of making the losers feel bad, then set up an intramural program and ditch the competitive aspect entirely. Everybody gets trophies that way! Everybody is special!

God help these kids when they enter the real world. Hell, college will probably kick a lot of their asses, mainly because I saw enough of it myself at Georgia State . Students who'd been coddled their entire high school careers couldn't handle it when a professor wouldn't accept late assignments, expected essays to be spelled correctly, and trusted the students to actually read the required text before coming to class. They even graded exams in judgmental red ink! Commence pearl-clutching.

Could the Covenant team have eased up their play more than they did? Probably, but if their opponents couldn't score A SINGLE POINT, not even on a free throw? Something is looking fishy here, and it's not the conduct of the coach or the players.

Dallas Academy 's team has not won a game in four seasons. The team consists of eight girls and the school has only twenty; it specializes in giving instruction to students with problems like dyslexia and ADHD. I wondered if the disorders of these girls run far deeper than simple difficulty reading or short attention spans, because even I can manage to block a shot or steal the ball from a striker who's far better than I am, every once in a while.

If the girls are THAT developmentally disabled, then Dallas Academy 's administration is the one that should be issuing an apology. It should apologize to its girls for allowing them to play in a league where they clearly have no hope of ever coming close to a victory, because it is a weekly exercise in humiliation for its players.

But they probably aren't, because the girls wouldn't dare play full-out against a team full of mentally-challenged students. More likely, Dallas Academy just really, really sucks at basketball. And if that's the case, Covenant should be ashamed, all right, but they should be ashamed at the bullshit "lesson" they're teaching they're students. Apparently, in competitive sports, it's better to forfeit a game than to handily beat a far worse team, because God forbid (heh) somebody's ego gets hurt.

If you don't want to embarrass teams that aren't as good as you are, don't compete. If losing were so unbearable to Dallas Academy, they would have stopped competing after their first winless season. Four years later, they have their first "victory," one that was handed to them in a gesture that smacks of smug condescension. If I were on the Dallas Academy team, I'd be completely insulted. They were showed more respect when Covenant simply played them as they would any other team, which is exactly how it should be.
 

I had one of those days yesterday, one of those that makes you disappointed in the human race in general. And then I got home and saw the news story about the plane that crash-landed in the Hudson River, and how awesome the pilot was, and how every ferry and boat within range immediately dropped everything and went to help.

Awesomeness.

Bravo to everyone. There's hope for us yet, I think. Even seeing Dr. Phil's blowhard ass on Larry King talking about the incident couldn't spoil it for me.

Well done, humanity. Well done.

I make no bones about the fact that I watch American Idol. And after watching last night's premiere, you may as well just end the season right now.

Why? Because a blind guy tried out and got through to Hollywood. And not only is he blind, but he graduated college at 19, studied something or other in London after that, plays piano, ballroom dances (...I know), and will probably cure cancer in about five years. I kind of hate him, I think, because it's not fair to be so competent at so many things and to seem like a pretty cool person at the same time. I guess I should feel bad about that, but I already know I'm going to hell, and it's not the blind guy's fault anyway. He probably has the ability to fly, and every night puts on a cape and costume and fights crime as a superhero.

They hyped him throughout the whole show before airing his audition, and just as I was telling myself that I might have to kill myself if he turned out to suck, he busted out some Billy Joel. He sang just fine, but not in way that would make Celine Dion be all, "If God had a voice... [dramatic pause] it would be Andrea Bocelli" in that fake-earnest way that she has, you know? But it doesn't matter, because he is going to win, and everyone else in the competition just needs to just go home right now because then we'll be spared five months of Ryan Seacrest.

Please, other contestants, think of the children! Go home and put an end to this! Every time Ryan Seacrest isn't on TV, an angel gets its wings. And you know full well that the blind guy can just go onstage and fart the national anthem every week, and he will still get the votes. ALL of them. Every single goddamned one, because rainbows and dollar signs are just shooting out of his ass left and right. David Foster probably saw the show and wept tears of greed (David Foster is incapable of weeping tears of joy, because he has no soul), because he is going to make a mint off of this guy.

And even though it's all pointless now, I will still watch tonight. It's a sickness.

I first saw this sequence of photos on cuteoverload.com (why yes, I was bored at work. Why do you ask?) earlier this week and got a good chuckle out of it. Apparently, it's been making the rounds on the 'net, because I've seen it several places now, and every time I do, I laugh harder. Geeeenius, I tell you.

It starts out innocently enough. A guy tries to take a photograph with himself and his pets, Punisher (the tabby), Caesar (the ragdoll cat in the middle), and Frito (the Boston terrier). Comedy gold ensues. I keep adding dialogue to the pictures in my head.



Punisher: So what exactly are we doing again?
Frito: A picture for the Christmas cards, I think. Just chill and we can get out of here, okay?
Punisher: *sigh*
Caesar: This. Fucking. Blows.
Punisher: This will not end well.



Punisher: Look, Caesar, if you just sit still for 1/50th of a second, we can be done with this.
Caesar: Fuck that. You want a picture for the Christmas cards? I'll give a picture. ZEIG HEIL, MOTHERFUCKERS!
Punisher: Jesus Christ.
Frito: [hangs head in defeat] Here we go again.



Caesar: You think this is funny, Frito? [WHAP]
Frito: Watch it! No claws! No claws!
Punisher: This will REALLY not end well.



Frito: [squirm] Not good. NOT good. Must... get... away....
Caesar: I WILL NEVER SURRENDER. NEVER!
Punisher: Um, Dad? I think he's finally gone off the deep end.



Punisher: [puts paw on Caesar's shoulder] For heaven's sake, dude, will you just CALM the fuck DOWN already?
Caesar: ALL OF YOU SHALL DIE.
Punisher: .....holy shit.



Punisher: You know what? Fuck this. I'm out. You're on your own with Dr. Demento here, Frito.
Caesar: DIIIIIE. DIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.

Take your pick!

 

The Swanky Hotel Party

 

Location: The Hilton Downtown

Defining characteristics: Grown women re-living their senior proms by wearing poofy party dresses, guys complaining about how much their dress shoes hurt and receiving no sympathy from their stiletto-wearing girlfriends, shitty cover bands, 10-mile lines for complimentary drinks.

Why you should go: It's kind of fun to dress up once in a while.

Why you shouldn't: That girl in the pink dress over there? She'll hurl on your shoes.

DUI Likelihood: Nonexistent. You paid three times the going rate for a hotel room, remember? Besides, you'll pass out in the lobby before you even make it up to the room anyway, and your friends will take incriminating pictures.

 

The Downtown Countdown

 

Location: the heart of the city.

Defining characteristics: Obnoxious local radio DJs playing host. A band nobody's heard from in 10 years like Toad the Wet Sprocket will be playing, and everybody will cease to give a shit after they play "All I Want." Annoying drunk bastards everywhere, and you are one of them. Not to mention it's fucking freezing outside.

Why you should go: It's the last year to wear those spiffy 200[insert year] glasses.

Why you shouldn't: You'll get trampled like you're at the Who in Cincinnati.

DUI Likelihood: Moderate, unless you black out in an alley somewhere and wake up the next morning next to the homeless guy who stole your wallet.

 

The Pub Crawl

 

Location: the midtown strip.

Defining characteristics: DJs of varying skill, ill-advised dancing, bartenders and cab drivers who all hate your guts.

Why you should go: Why buy liquor at a store when you can spend four times as much in a bar?

Why you shouldn't: That troll to your right will try to kiss you at midnight, and you'll be too drunk to care.

DUI Likelihood: High. Split a cab, Sparky.

 

The House Party

 

Location: friend-of-a-friend's pad.

Defining characteristics: Chips and dip, hunch-punch strong enough to eat away the lining of the cooler it was mixed in, a bunch of people you don't know, awkward conversation, somebody setting his hair on fire when he fails to heed the warning on the side of the Roman Candles.

Why you should go: You barely know anybody, but you'll be slurring "I loooove you guysh!" by the time midnight rolls around anyway. Also, you can sleep where you fall.

Why you shouldn't: Some asshole will pick up an acoustic guitar and start playing Bon Jovi songs at some point. And you will sing along.

DUI Likelihood: Slim-to-none, since you'll accidentally flush your keys down the toilet.

 

Staying At Home

 

Location: your living room.

Defining characteristics: That bastard Ryan Seacrest's mug on TV screen because he thinks he's the new Dick Clark, the reanimated corpse of Dick Clark making a customary 5-minute appearance and making you weep for days of yore, leftover Chinese, bitter cynicism.

Why you should go: It's cheaper, safer, and more sensible than anything else.

Why you shouldn't: Bitter cynicism with a side of burning hatred.

DUI Likelihood: Nil. Now go have another scotch, because champagne is for pussies.

 

Happy New Year, everybody! Be safe.

 

As part of my job, I have to put together "social investigations" on potential parolees – basically, family histories that will give the Board an idea of what they're dealing with when an inmate comes up for parole. I have to talk to an immediate family member to get this information, and 95% of the time it's one of the inmate's parents. They're generally pretty fun to talk to. I'd like to present you with a sampling of the conversations I've had over the last few months:

~~~~

"Is there any criminal history in the family that you know of?"

"Nope, nothing."

"It says here that his father is currently serving twenty years for armed robbery?"

"Oh, I thought you meant besides that."

"Well, obviously."

~~~~

"So were you and his father legally married?"

"Oh no, honey, and thank Jesus we didn't. He was bad news."

~~~~

"So your son has never been married, is that correct?"

"Lord, no. Who would want to marry him?"

"I... hadn't thought about that. And he has no children, correct?"

"Dear God, I hope not."

"So... no kids that you know of. And he says that if he gets paroled, he would be living with you?"

"That's right. I sure do hope he can come home soon!"

~~~~

"Your son finished eighth grade in school, correct?"

"That's right."

"And what kind of student was he?"

"Oh, he was a great student!"

"Then why did he stop going?"

"He got kicked out when he took a gun to class."

~~~~

"And how would you describe his personality? Is he quiet and reserved, or outgoing, or..."

"Oh, he's very outgoing and friendly, very giving, never met a stranger. He's a very kind person. He'd give you the shirt off his back."

[Note: he pled guilty to armed robbery and three counts of aggravated assault.]

~~~~

"And is his father in good health?"

"Yes, he's in good health."

"Does he work?"

"No, he collects disability."

~~~~

"So how would you describe the environment your son grew up in? Middle-class, upper, lower...?"

"I'd say middle-class."

"So you were never on any government assistance?"

"No, we got Welfare and food stamps."

"Middle-class, you said?"

"Yeah."

~~~~

"So your son finished ninth grade in school?"

"Yes, that's right."

"What kind of student was he?"

"Oh, he was an excellent student, very smart."

"Do you know why he stopped going to school, then?"

"He said it got too hard for him."

~~~~

"Does your son have any children?"

"None that I know of."

I look down at the Personal History Statement, which lists two children in North Carolina.

"Um... okay, thanks. Moving on..."

~~~~

"Does your son have a juvenile record?"

"Hmm... I really don't know."

"He says he was raised by you."

"Yes, he was."

"So he grew up under your roof and you don't know if he ever got in trouble as a juvenile?"

"No, I don't really know."

~~~~

"Is there any family history of mental disorders that you know of?"

"Oh lordy, child, where should I start?"

~~~~

"So, your stepfather was the sheriff of [name removed to protect the guilty] County before he went to jail?"

"Yes."

[All of the inmates take an IQ test and a "placement" exam to see at what level they can read, write, and perform mathematics. This man, who was an ELECTED GOVERNMENT OFFICIAL WHO CARRIED A GUN, tested his reading/writing skills at a sixth grade level. His math placement? Grade 2.9.]

~~~~

"Is there any family history of mental disorders that you know of?"

"Yes, both of his parents are mentally retarded."

"BOTH of his parents?"

"Yes."

"....."

"Hello? Is the interview over?"

"No, I'm here, I was just wondering how... nevermind."

They just Never. Fucking. Learn.

Subject line: ?
Message: if I HAD a million bucks would i waste my time talking to you ?

(yeah and I would bet it but I don't so I can't. your ass don't have a million bucks or you wouldnt be working where you are)

Look, this was amusing for a while. Now it's just exhausting, because "R," the dude who won't stop sending me messages, is giving me the Internet equivalent of, "I know you are, but what am I?" This guy has a mental age of twelve.

My reply:

"If you had the ability to read, you wouldn't have wasted your time messaging me in the first place.

But you are correct -- I don't have a million dollars. But I can easily bet you a million bucks that my pictures are genuine, because it's a bet I won't lose. I could just as confidently bet you a pet unicorn, or a leprechaun, or concrete evidence of the existence of Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster, because I WOULD NEVER HAVE TO PAY UP. Your continued failure to grasp the point I'm trying to make baffles me.

Thanks for giving me more blog fodder, though. I'll have something up mocking you (again) before the weekend is over. And I don't feel the least bit bad about it, because I freaking WARN everyone on my profile about this, and I've already asked you several times to stop sending me messages.

You didn't listen. Therefore, I mock."

Shall we commence with the mockage? I thought two simple pictures would work nicely.






Oh, and R? Stop sending me messages.