Mr. Cool's These Aren't My Pants: Happy New Year

Word to the wise: don’t go to jail – not in Monopoly, not in real life. However, if one of your mistakes in life takes you to jail, try real hard that it’s not Christmas Eve or New Year’s Eve – the two worst days to get booked in. Besides the obvious, time away from family and the actual crime that sent you to the pokey, the 25^th and the 1^st are County, State, and Federal Holidays – no courts (= no judge, no bond, no bail). Besides the great Christmas dinner, my bologna has a first name (Darryl); it is perhaps the most boring day of the year. At least on New Year’s Day there might be football to watch.

But most important, I think it’s nice to actually remember the Holidays. I myself had a great time with family and friends this past week, and didn’t feel the need to imbibe liquid amnesia. I had two occasions this week when the inmate asked me point blank and in all seriousness: how did I get here? One even pointed to his bandaged hand and wrist and asked: “do you know how I broke my hand?” “Sorry bub, all I know is that you came in drunk, came in combative, and the ensuing use of force sent one of my officers to the hospital (he’s okay now).” The look on his face would be priceless if it wasn’t attached to a $15,000 bond and a filled out workman’s compensation form.

So, as we wrap up the holidays, if you wake up with a hangover – make it the movie, not the experience (as an aside – if you can handle some adult situations and rough language – “the hangover” is a very funny movie) – you’ll still regret it, but not as much. Just pour one out for your homies and move it along…

Truer Words Have Never Been Spoken:

In the normal course of my duties at work, it my responsibility to read the current documentation on the "at risk" inmates under my supervision. "At risk" means gang snitch who has a "green light" out on him, suicidal inmates, special needs inmate, medical watches, etc. In the course of my reading, I've come across a phrase that speaks volumes about the body of information available on these subjects"

"Inmate is an unreliable historian."

This always makes me laugh, as I don't expect much of the truth from those I supervise, but this particular phraseology adds a little punch of humor and sarcasm - intentional or not. The type of unreliable historian were talking about here is not the Stephen Ambrose type who regularly failed to cite sources and dabbled in some mild plagiarism, but that kind that screams fibber, fibber, laderhosen ablaze!

"Inmate is an unreliable historian...anything he/she says is to be consider as factual and honest as an episode of Greys Anatomy...words and pleas that pour from their mouth could easily be molded into the back story of Ghost Whisperer and should be considered as total and complete bull."

So, next time someone is giving you a line of total bollocks, just reply in a clinical tone: Sir, I believe you to be an unreliable historian...

TAMP: No, really, those are my pants...

I know it has been a while since I regaled you all with a story from work, mostly because my job is inherently boring - but also because there is only so much I want to share about the sadness and anger I see everyday. Often I joke that I spent tens of thousands of dollars and 5 and a 1/2 years on some college that I rarely use - to do what boils down to babysitting on steroids.

I joke, but it is so often true. Today, however, my body learned what my mind already knew: jobs and life take perseverance and a concept called the "Bullet Proof Mind." This concept is as simple as it is timeless: I will not fail, I will not lose, I will not die - I will win, I will go home today. The concept may seem a little abstract to those of you who don't carry a sidearm to and from work everyday, but it is as real for you as it is for me. It is life.
Mental preparedness, planning for the future, itemizing a budget, getting paperwork in order, faith in a higher power, knowledge those things will work they way they are supposed to. My Bullet Proof Mind may actually involve bullets, fists, shanks and so on - but your mind's protection may be knowing the car’s brakes will work every time, that the airframe mechanic really knows how to arm the ejection seat, that the post-soviet corrupted immigration officer will let me back in the county this time, or as simple as I will go home to the ones I love.

Quite Cool is often amazed that I can remain so calm in the short-term high-stress situations life has to offer. I am no ice-man (her post about the ambient temperature of our dwelling to the contrary); I can lose it over the dumbest things - how to fold shirts or even the proper order of the daily reading of the newspaper - but the simple fact is this: my day may go south in a hurry, but I will go home to the ones I love.

This may be the ramblings of post-combat euphoria, but today I stood my post, found myself on the wrong side of the floor (that’s down, not up) with an aggressor on top, and came out victorious - I won, I went home. The bumps, bruises, and scrapes will fade, but the lasting memory of the fight or flight adrenaline dump will prepare me for the next go-round. This wasn't my first brush with violence face to face, nor will it be my last. Until next time: I will not fail, I will not lose, I will not die - I will win, and I will go home today.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go check my pants…

TAMP: Baby, Baby, Pirate: Update Alert!!!

Well, it's official, the country has a new president, Secretary of the Interior, and I have renewed my interest in "pee tee-pees" and other baby schlock. Yes, another boy will enter the noble line that is my proud last name, but lets not let that get in the way of good post. Baby stuff is both awesome and awesomely disturbing, all at the same time.

In the same store one can get a matching velour sweat suit, a breast pump kit, and the requisite hip-hugger-low-rise-preggo panties that are all the rage with hipster mothers these days - you can get "Babies do Madonna" and "Big Bob Marley" - CD's for easy listening kids. Personally, I like me some Bob Marley, but I don't think I need a kids choir rehashing "Buffalo Soldier" or "Like a Prayer" infesting the development of musical taste in my child. Think on that for now, and I promise pictures of other notable schlock in future trips to "babies-R-commerce."

On another note, as consistent with my habit to say things that make people ponder my sanity - during our ultrasound today to confirm the sex of Lord Mountbatten (due date June 6th), Quite Cool and I were discussing the idea of gender norming and I stated that if she wanted to teach our boy to knit that would be fine by me. I see no need to keep him from this hobby, and while Quite Cool is in agreement - she is also aware how mean boys can be to non-normative stereotypes - so I say "you teach him how to knit, and I'll teach him how to stab those who make fun of him." Of course I say this jokingly serious, while the Ultrasound Technician just stops what she's doing and stares at me like I just yelled "those aren't my pants, and that's not my baby!" All in good days work - let the reign of boys continue...

TAMP: Mr. Cool's America

The following occurred between the hours of 0600 and 1700 (which is 5pm for those who haven’t mastered the whole subtracting 12 from another two-digit number). The activities prove that (A) I am more American than apple pie and (B) I am less American and Captain America himself.

1) I cleaned a gun while watching the definitive liberal political drama series (West Wing).
2) I saw a celebrity: Tony Scheffler (TE for the Denver Football Broncos), then I saw an even bigger celebrity – Tony the Tiger of Frosted Flakes Fame. One is obviously better than the other, but they’re both GRRREAT!!!
3) I ate a hot dog for lunch. A Nathan’s dog as big as a small child’s leg (Sam’s Club is the cheapest lunch ever - $1.50 for a dog and a soda; and since I have no shame as an American, I stopped my wandering of bulk packaging twice more to partake of the free refills (96oz. of pure bladder bulging bliss)).
4) I wore cowboy boots all day, and yes, that cow poop is authentic.
5) I purchased 700 rounds of pistol ammunition before the sun rose, and will shoot them all by the week’s end.
6) I exercised my 2nd Amendment right of awesomeness (as mentioned above), but also explored my 1st Amendment right by reading a book about concepts I don’t necessarily agree with, by a guy who’s morally opposed to moral absolutes – all without issuing a Fatwah, declaring a jihad, or calling Limbaugh or Franken to complain.
7) I listened to National Public Radio, during a pledge drive no less. I could listen to dulcet tones of Nina Totenberg and Kai Ryssdal read the phonebook.
8) I, like any good American, made purchases on credit, using a flag motif card.
9) I watched PBS. I still don’t know why “America’s Test Kitchen” hasn’t won a day time Emmy – the ricotta cheese from today’s lasagna has more character than Days, Passions, and General Hospital’s combined.
10) I voted early. I voted for my guy, then using Tony the Tiger’s ID, I got back in line and voted again – thanks ACORN!
11) Seriously though, as is my custom, I confused the nice lady trying to record my vote. Only after my successful casting did I learned they were out of “I Voted Today” stickers. Upon hear this disastrous news, I asked the patriotic volunteer straight faced “how will I know not to vote again without my sticker?” She stared back at me blankly, either scared that I was serious or too afraid of my obvious mental instability to flag down the driver of my short yellow bus.

Yes, definitely more American then apple pie, but Captain American stands tall among our fallen Patriots. May he rest in peace…

TAMP: Man Cannot Live on Bread Alone

Worth the wait? Probably not, but I’ll try anyway. To my 3.59 faithful readers, sorry it’s been a while. I wish I had some legitimate reason to excuse my absence from “those aren’t my pants,” but sadly the truth is I haven’t had any real inspiration recently, so here I go again…on my own…along the only road I’ve ever known…etc, etc…(Is there a legitimate thought that can’t be seconded by a kick-a$$ power ballad? I didn’t think so.) Since I don’t have a real thematic presentation for this entry (and I will try for one in the future), your stuck with more random thoughts and observations:

As I may have mentioned before, my job is a little odd, and full of interesting sights and smells. This week I’ve been working in Booking, where I kindly usher Weld’s fugitives of justice from the warm embrace of their arresting officer to the crushing reality of life with a criminal record, a frightening booking photo, and a bad night in a room cell 1. Cell 1 regularly houses 15 inmates and when my mad human Tetris skills are at work has been known to house 21-28. Stacking alleged offenders like cordwood has its disadvantages, most notably the smell – as one can only imagine – but this is not the smell that struck me the most this week.

As I was taking one of my breaks in the staff lounge this week, I was hit with a familiar and not unpleasant smell that one doesn’t normally associate with the men’s room at work. In my umpteenth trip, my brain had finally cataloged the smell and alerted my consciousness to what it was – the scent of fresh baked French bread. In some sort of Star Trekian vortex or Stargate-like worm hole, the men’s restroom in the officer’s lounge at the county lock-up smells like a Parisian patisserie (bakery for you simpletons out there).

In the past week I’ve booked in a grandmother, an active deputy sheriff (from another county), and almost got to book in a few nuns, which is a story for another day, but nothing I saw, read, observed, or experienced had the gross juxtaposition of a latrine mixed with the odor of a crusty and delicious conveyance of meat and cheese. Well, with that work done, I think I’ll go the bathroom and make myself a sandwich.

Mr. Cool's Those Aren't My Pants: Penny Rant

PENNY FOR YOUR THOUGHTS?

*The one-cent coin was the first currency of any type authorized by the United States, first struck in 1787.
*The penny’s design was suggested by Founding Father Benjamin Franklin. *The 1909 penny, celebrating the 100th Anniversary of Lincoln’s Birth, was the first U.S. coin to represent an historic figure.
*The Lincoln Penny, as one-cent coins were thence known, was the first to stamp “In God We Trust” on U.S. coinage.
*There have been 11 different designs, over 288,700,000,000 pennies minted in its history, at a current rate of 1,034 pennies per second.

Why do I care – well, I really don’t. I hate the penny, I truly hate it. Outside of a few productive purposes (penny jewelry, flattening them with trains, re-stamping them yourself into a souvenir, and dropping off tall buildings); the penny has outlived its usefulness.

“Inflation has eaten into the value of the penny to such a degree that it no longer facilitates commerce,” so says the Jeff Gore of the Citizens for Retiring the Penny (http://www.retirethepenny.org/). When you look at the facts, I agree. In 2006 it cost 1.3 cents to make a 1 cent coin, in 2008 that number is now 1.7 cents per penny. Now, I’m no mathemagician, but that doesn’t sound like a strong fiscal policy – sell something for less than it costs to make. Then factor in we’re producing 7 billion (billion) pennies a year for a total cost of over 100 million dollars.

Beyond the dollars and cents, is the real cost of the penny. Time is money as they say, and the penny costs America 2 to 2.5 seconds for every transaction. That adds up to 2.4 hours of wasted time per person per year to leave a penny and take a penny. That’s 140 minutes I could spend watching my soul mate knit, or cut the grass, or sleep, or chuck rocks at cars because pennies are too darn expensive! The experts say (and when I say experts I don’t mean some guy spewing hate towards coinage on his wife’s blog, I’m talking about Professor Robert M. Whaples of Wake Forrest University) this is costing the U.S. economy $10 billion in productivity.

So what keeps the penny alive? One would think that the great state of Illinois is behind this fiendish inefficiency – being the “Land of Lincoln” and what not – but while they are vocal in opposition to the retirement of the penny, they are only Illinois, not Tennessee where the real penny power is. Tennessee is home base to the zinc industry, of which 97.5% of every penny is made. It isn’t Illinois behind the “2009 Bicentennial of Abraham Lincoln’s Birth” series of pennies with four new backs, but the American’s for Common Cents (http://www.pennies.org/), which is nothing more than the cleverly disguised shill for the zinc lobby. Cool name, but bad juju. These fear mongers claim that it will cost you more in rounding up on transactions if we rid ourselves of the penny, but that same smart-sounding Demon Deacon’s (PhD from Wake Forrest) study shows that rounding will actually save consumers 1 cent for every 40 transactions (200 transactions later and you can roll that nickel into your 401k!).

Lincoln’s on the $5 bill, what more does he want--he’s worth 500 times the penny, selfish jerk. I don’t blame Lincoln though, I hear he was a good president of something, but seriously, he had his fifteen minutes of fame. Here’s the kicker, 58% of Americans hoard pennies in sock drawers, wishing wells, mall fountains, and change jars instead of actually spending them. Why spend more money to make something than it’s actually worth, and then not use it. I don’t live in crazy town, so why should I use their currency?

So, remember, next time someone says “penny for your thoughts,” punch them straight in the face, because they just said is, “Burden me with your thoughts because it costs me more emotional energy to listen than I will gain in knowledge.” Sacajawea for your internal monologue anyone?

Mr. Cool's Those Aren't My Pants: Randomness

RANDOM THOUGHTS FROM MR. COOL’S HEAD:

1) Have you ever watched a guy chew through a seat belt? It is an interesting experience, but I suppose after a few hours in a restraint chair (it’s as fun as it sounds) I would want to chew through something too. That particular inmate thought it was a good time, but he did ask to see the dentist later.

2) Should we invade Iran? No, not a good idea. But, if you want to get them where it hurts – stop buying caviar. Directly after oil, Iran’s second largest export is Beluga Caviar! Talk about a great way to show one’s patriotism: upper crust liberals, blue bloods, and big-business conservatives can all join together in the GWOT (global war on terror)! But you can still eat the toast points, that’s as American as white bread…

3) The American Criminal Justice system should work faster. I know this isn’t a new idea, or one that is particularly ground breaking – but let me give you a prime example. I was supposed to go to Court on Monday (May 12th) to testify in an “Introduction of Contraband – Weapon – into a Secured Facility” case. This case was continued, for the fourth time! The original act was committed in November of 2006 and was witnessed by two sworn officers, so one wonders why the swift justice of the Criminal Justice system is failing me now. (In case you’re wondering why I care so much – the defendant broke a razor apart and fashion a slashing type weapon using a pencil and dental floss. This was of course only weeks after he threatened to kill me. The threats don’t really bother me, as they are more of a daily thing but I would like this guy off the streets.) But seriously, it only takes CSI and Law and Order an hour to convict a guy and send him off to the pokey!

4) If I could live in a catalog, which would it be? Between the lovely wife and me, we get a lot of catalogs – ranging from bison down yarn to Russian military surplus ammunition to an abundance of clothing retailers. If I could choose only one to live in, it would definitely be L.L. Bean. First off, I would still get to do many of the activities I enjoy (walking, swimming, hiking, kayaking, standing by fences, stacking wood, lighting fires, and staring off into scenery) with plenty of other beautiful people to enjoy them with. Secondly, I would be extremely prepared for all seasonal weather – Gore-Tex for winter, breathable fabrics for summer, and everything else in between. Lastly, I would never have to do any laundry – think about it. If you had each different kind of shirt, in every available color and pattern, I could have a clean shirt everyday for approximately 7 years.

Those Aren't My Pants: My Favorite Criminal

So, it has been an 87.5 hour week, haven't done that in a long time. With all that time spent around inmates it gives you plenty of time to ponder who might be your favorite. We all have a category we enjoy more than others, and all of us enjoy a good drunk combative, especially the college kids. They walk in, drunk out of their gourd, explaining how we're violating their rights as he or she learned them in their criminal justice, and have yet to grasp that fake ID and a criminal impersonation charge might negatively effect their future career with the FBI or DEA.

Of course, there is always the frequent fliers, one of whom, immediately after I removed his handcuffs, pulled off his left boot and dumped an entire pint of his own urine on my booking floor. There's your dog at large arrest, iœ fishing without a license,over the limit, and the occasional inmate who acknowledges they did something wrong, want to do their time, and get on with life. It's easy to say this last group is my favorite, but I'm still holding on to the myth of my childhood.

Ten hours into a 12.5 hour shift on the 7^th day straight, after dealing with all that the criminal world has to offer, I'm still waiting for my favorite criminal: the Hamburgler. It's 4am and I could use a cheeseburger and fries!

I supported your economic stimulus package, friggen Mayor McCheese, but as you are soft on crime, you just lost my vote.

Editor's Note: Mr. Cool must be tired, as this was his toughest post to edit. We'll save the who/whom/which discussion for later, Mr. Cool. Also, I'm struggling too--I just started my first intarsia project, and I was sailing along, when I realized six rows in that I had read the chart backwards. Now I'm trying to decide if a backwards lowercase "a" would look cool on my felted purse, or not. Sigh.

Those Aren't My Pants: Autobahn

Editor's Note: In order to help my obsessive need for order, I was saving this until I'd posted my Touch piece, but the excessively cloudy weather kept me from taking nice texture photographs of my yarn & knits, so, instead, I bring you Mr. Cool's latest piece.

AUTOBAHN DRIVING:

After the greatest aggregate technological feat in history, the Apollo Space program, few technologies compare in engineering, practical, and social triumphs. One of those wonders just happens to be the German Autobahn. What’s not to like: no speed limit, no tail-gating, no road rage, little traffic, less frequent construction, fewer teenage drivers, and an overall safer driving experience. As an American, I am in love with the freedom of driving – to the point of self-destruction some would say – and I want the Autobahn.

If we can put a man on the moon, why can’t we have the American version of the Autobahn? First, let me explain why I think the Autobahn is awesome, despite it’s biggest fan and support (good old Adolph himself). I like to drive fast, because it’s fun. The licensing process is difficult, expensive, and takes up to $5,000 to complete the driving and testing requirements to be sanctioned. While this seems goes against our ideas of freedom, it means fewer and more proficient drivers: equals safer roads, so you can go fast. The roads are strictly enforced by uniformed and undercover officers, cameras, and self-policed by concerned citizens. Fines for tail-gating, weaving, or failing to “drive right” lead to graduated fines based on income (so Johan Shmohan may pay $50, while Count Von Sucksberger may pay $20,000 for the same offense!). Also, road rage is kept to a minimum via the charge of “criminal insult” which covers threats, vulgarities, non-verbals (“you know, the finger…”), excessive honking of the horn and could cost you $200. (In case you are curious, all the sums have already been converted from the Euros and Deutschmarks thanks to the History Channel.)

In Colorado we have roads with grades as steep as 5-35%, while the Autobahn’s gradient never exceeds 5%, ever. The Autobahn’s road deck is 16 inches, tripling our measly American 5 inches. The Autobahn’s beauty and engineering are unsurpassed as roads go, and are capable of landing a Boeing 747. No too shabby, or so though Supreme Allied Commander General Dwight D. Eisenhower, who as President spearhead the American Interstate System – one of his demands on the new road system was that 1 mile of each 5 mile stretch was to be straight and level to accommodate emergency airfields in war times. Ike is one of my favorites Presidents, and a man of significant leadership and character. Anyway, back to das road…

Unfortunately, most of what we think we want (more money, more freedom, free gas, a bigger house, putting men on the moon, world peace, and the autobahn) is shrouded in myth and we rarely get the truth. It was built with the help of slave labor from concentration camps, its purpose was to show the dominance of the German people, was and is ridiculously expensive to construct and maintain in life and taxes. Besides, if you think gas is expensive here, try $8 a liter. So, I like the Autobahn, and I really like strict enforcement and the sliding fine scale. But, am I willing to pay the price – I think so, are you?

Okay, so very little hilarity has ensued, and even less was Bavarian style, so I’ll pull out my “throw down” blogget I keep on my left ankle…

In an effort to stay moderately healthy, I returned from a pleasant run at the local park and grabbed an apple to satisfy that post run food craving (significant proof I need to run). So, I pull a wonderfully crisp Gala from the fridge and begin to munch. Bite three yields that little sticker proclaiming state of origin and lot number (Oregon, #1354). So, what does this prove? I don’t wash produce before I eat, and why should I? I don’t wash the cheese I eat, the crackers I munch, or the lunch meat in my sandwich. Besides, a little DDT never hurt anybody…apparently my fact checkers say DDT is very bad and was pulled from produce decades ago.

Regardless, I’m good to go. Besides, if I’m going to worry about what contaminates touch my skin, I’m better off washing the packaging – who knows what sort of crazy bug comes latched to the shrink-wrap on my socks made and packaged in Costa Rica, or the bird flu carrying bug that escapes from the bouncy ball purchased at Target but produced in China (ala classic Simpson’s Episode “Bart in the Bubble”). Should I wash my produce, probably, but I’m not going to. If I give into the CDC, who’s next, the EPA, FDA? Besides, I work in a jail, and despite my wife’s horror, my standards of cleanliness have been lowered. Sad but true.

Those Aren't My Pants: Laughter

Laughter: God's gift from stupid people to me and you...

As with our brave soldiers, sailors, marines, airman, firefighters, and other law enforcement personnel – my colleagues and I walk into work each day with the distinct possibility of dying a brutal and violent death (not something we like to contemplate, but a truth that must be acknowledged). While we choose not to dwell on this issue, it must nonetheless be dealt with for us to function at our called duties, so we cope, some with drink, others with fitness, families, hobbies, or adrenaline – but the coping skill that unites us all is humor. We do a job that 97.4% of the nation could not, and would not, do by choice or inclination and we keep our humanity and sanity by laughing at those who are smart enough not to be doing the job we do, but yet so dumb that they wind up on the wrong side of the right and the just.

We’ve all seen, or at least heard, that COPS clip where after the individual is searched by the Police and having found a rock of cocaine proclaims “those aren’t my pants!” Why take personal responsibility for one’s actions when you can yell from the roof tops that that illicit substance doesn’t belong to you, but is a friends’, who is such a good friend that he would let you borrow his pants, but not so good of a friend that you can remember his name – you guys must be real close and trusting, to share pants but not names. HA, me thinks thee protests too much…but those are nice pants so it could be true.

So, when we are presented the face of true stupidity: the man who tells me the murder weapon found in his car isn’t his, the women who claims the bra she is wearing (one of the most intimate items of clothing) which contains methamphetamine isn’t hers, or the juvenile who walks into my booking area wearing four separate pairs of pants swears up and down the bloody baseball bat confiscated by his principal was left by the previous occupant of said pants – which pair I never did get an answer – we just laugh, laugh, and laugh.

It may seem cruel to laugh at those caught in the cycle of violence and stupidity, and it is (for “but by the grace of God go I”), but it is also one’s saving grace (as I firmly believe the gift of humor is a gift from God himself). My colleagues and I will continue to laugh, cause that’s all we’ve got. If I tried to make sense of it all, I would go crazy. Endowed with a world class mind and middle class ambition, my vast understanding of social and criminal forces can explain the causes of illegal activities – but even I’m not smart enough to understand and explain how they always lose their shirt between the house, the bar, and the jail, why hardened killers still cry on the phone, why adult men resort to fisticuffs over a single cookie, or why they think the judge cares if their orange shirt matches their orange pants. I can’t explain it, so I laugh.

Next week, the Autobahn – where hilarity will ensue – Bavarian style.

Those Aren't My Pants: Tattoos

Tattoos became popular in the western world after Captain Cook and his contemporary explorers returned to Europe with tales and examples of Japanese, Maori, and other Pacific Islander indigenous art - tribal markings and local lore etched into the skin with whale bone needlecombs and hard wood hammers - using the natural ink of sea life to pay tribute to one's culture in the most public way possible.

The 1800s found Europe's Royalty escaping to the Pacific Rim and returning with the latest craze of Conspicuous Consumption (if you’ve never read The Theory of the Leisure Class by Thorstien Veblen – you’re missing out on the most accurate social commentary to reach print that’s as relevant today as it was when it was written), sparking a long lasting fad among the landed gentry. Unfortunately, in 1891, Samuel O’Riley began the downturn of body art as his invention of the tattoo gun would eventually bring tribal rituals to the underclass, proving status and prestige can no longer be bought with ink.

Along with his invention, came the trivial art that now plagues our society. For every tramp stamp, barbed wire band, broken heart, or "MOM" tattoo that clutters our society, let alone the blitz of tattoo reality shows, it makes me long for the pure days when tattoos were for warriors, poets, royalty, the landed gentry, and men for whom scurvy was a common occurrence.

Not surprisingly, some of the greatest concentrations of American Tattoos are in the Jails, Prisons, and local Harley Davidson dealerships. (I happen to frequent two of the three - but can you guess which ones?) In my time I have seen some pretty odd stuff: tattoo needles crafted from staples, pens, pins, batteries, or paperclips; tattoo guns built from radios, soap dispensers, and computer parts, colored ink manufactured from Sunday comics, home depot ads, and even jolly ranchers.

Tear drops, bunny tracks, rosaries, crosses, hearts, horns, dragons,guns, knives, Aztec symbology, and gang affiliated scribbles, it's all been documented with jail house "hepatitis needles." Some of it good, some of it bad, and a surprisingly amount misspelled (one guy got his own name wrong!). The coolest tattoo I've see "inside" - a replica of his baby's footprint, very tasteful. The creepiest - an ode to white supremacy on one's wedding tackle. This week, while scouring the endless sleeves, half suits, and various murals sported by my clientele, I noticed a guys' eyes (not something you would normally admit in such a setting). I asked him about the work on his skull and neck (they love to share), and then asked what was tattooed on his eye lids. He closed his eyes, and similar to Dr. Jones' love interest from Raiders of the Lost Ark, this gentleman had "Game Over," one word for each lid. I suppose in the end, while laying his blue festooned casket, having his homies parade by paying their respects to "Joker," that his final statement should be so expressive: life is game which I don't take seriously and will lose anyway. His mom must be so proud...

THOSE AREN’T MY PANTS

When my wife told me I should start my own blog, it was given its due consideration. Which is to say for the next 15 minutes, Amanda realized she was stuck in the passenger’s seat and had opened Pandora’s box when it comes to my rantings and thoughts as to what one would title such an endeavor. Obvious my sojourn into the blogosphere must be titled: “we put a man on the moon…”, as if you’ve been in my presence in the last few years for longer than 20 minutes, most of my rants start with “we put a man on the moon for Pete’s sake, why can’t we: have a front windshield defrost button, design a car door that doesn’t dump snow on your seat when you open it, eliminate the penny (more on this one later) or switch to dollar coinage, or for that matter... put another man on the moon?

I think you get the picture, so let me hit you with some knowledge (TANGENT ALERT!): Pete, in the “Pete’s sake” phraseology, refers to Captain Pete Conrad (USN), Command Pilot of Apollo 12, the third man in human history to step foot on the moon, and one of my many heroes. Contrary to popular belief, while the lunar module was often called “gumdrop,” it did not sport a thin candy shell, but your head has a thick candy shell if you have to read this sentence twice to get it.

Alas, as my rantings would prove, what is at first obvious is sadly not the truth of the matter. While I enjoy the freedom of writing and ranting, I’m more hands-on with instruments of destruction than computers. So, Amanda graciously offered to host my guest ranting which lead me to my current title: “THOSE AREN’T MY PANTS,” which is an oft used declaration to pass the buck in my line of work. (If you aren’t up to speed on my biography: I work as a Corrections Officer for the Sheriff’s Office and have had plenty of opportunities in the last 4 years to analyze the depths of the stupidity of the human condition and failure to take responsibility.)

I want to do more with my semi-weekly guest blog than question why NASA hasn’t mass produced my jet pack yet. So, in the coming weeks, I will share with you a few of my “man on the moon” moments, regale you with stories from my work place, and attempt to share my thoughts on the topics of life, love, guns, politics, religion, and the counter-productive coining of our nation’s most useless currency.

Mark