November 2009

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Strange Criminal vs. Old Indian Lady

November 27, 2009 in Blog | No comments

Scene of the crime.

Scene of the crime.

So I’m back in LA until Sunday, and drove by my favorite Indian restaurant “Gate of India.” I had to stop and snap a pic, because last year the greatest thing happened here.

I was eating a late lunch, and I hear tapping on the glass which looks out into the street. So I look over, and there’s a man beckoning for me to come outside. I shake my head “no” and go back to my Aloo Gobi.   The man walks around the building and comes in, walks right up to my table (I’m the last patron left in the restaurant) and sits down.

“You want some food?” I asked.

“Nah. I just got out of San Quentin, you know, and I’m just here scopin’ out the neighborhood.”

I’m a little intimidated, and to make myself seem tough I lie.

“Yeah, that’s tough man. My brother’s doin’ 3-5 in Rikers, back in New York.”

“No shit?”

“Yeah, it sucks. You sure you don’t want some of this food?”

The man stands up, and walks over to the front counter where an elderly 5′1″ Indian hostess is looking at a Punjabi magazine. The man puffs out his chest and clenches his fists.

“Give me all the money! All the money!”

The old lady closes her magazine, and puts it down behind that podium every restaurant has in their entrance. She looks up at him and shrugs one shoulder.

“No.”

“You understand me? I said I want ALL THE MONEY!”

She sighs. “No.”

At this point I’m standing with a table knife in my hand, and the two Hispanic kitchen workers come out to see what the raucous is about. Unarmed and outnumbered, the man looks at me, the kitchen workers, then at the old lady, and we all stand there motionless, in silence, for a good 10 seconds.

“FUCK!” The man spins around and runs out the door.

“Do you want to call the police? I can be a witness.” I ask the old lady.

“No.”

Enjoy your Turkey

November 24, 2009 in Blog | No comments

Washoe Indian Community where I grew up

Washoe Indian Community where I grew up

Welcome Home, Brandon

November 24, 2009 in Blog | No comments

Brandon

Brandon

Recently my friend Brandon Perelman returned from serving in the Israeli army. He isn’t Israeli, just some kid from Philadelphia who believed so strongly, that he volunteered for one of the toughest armies in the world.

Every time I got to talk to Brandon while he was serving, it usually went like this:

“How’s training Brandon?”

“Great! It’s grenade week, and tomorrow I’m climbing the ‘Hill of Tears.’”

Well, three years later he’s home safe and sound. No matter what your political stance on Israel happens to be, you would have to be a complete asshole to deny that someone who would risk their life for another country’s freedom is a true hero.

Welcome home, Brandon. I salute you.

Morality

November 24, 2009 in Blog | 1 comment

I had an interesting dinner conversation, and thought that I might share it with all of you.  It was fun to discuss, hopefully it will be fun to read. Maybe you can shed some light on the subject.

Kyle

So let me process your words slowly, so that none of your stupidity slips through the neurological cracks.  You are staying faithful in the face of temptation?  A sculpted Adonis is knocking at your door and you treat him like a Jehovah’s Withess with swine flu?

Victoria

I’m in a committed relationship.  What can I do? Two years ago I got drunk and kissed a boy at a party, and I called Samuel up the next morning and told him everything.  It was horrible.  I felt horrible.  I’ll never do anything like that again.

Kyle

Why did you feel horrible?  Was the source of your grief truly that you caused your adolescent boyfriend pain?  Or was it that you felt ill toward yourself?

Victoria

It’s true.  I felt like such a slut; like a really poor specimen of human being.  I knew that what I was doing was wrong, and I did it anyway.  I was actively immoral.

Kyle

Let me ask you something.   If I were to, say, kill that waitress that spilled your tea, would that be wrong?

Victoria (laughing)

Maybe not terribly wrong.

Kyle

But in the conceivable universe, what is the absolute worst thing that I could possibly do?  Let’s say I became the ruler of a country, threw the world into war, and launched a campaign of genocide that would kill 100 million people.  That would be pretty bad.  It’s hard to imagine myself ever obtaining that kind of influence, but it isn’t in the realm of pure fantasy.  After all, there are always despots. Someone has to fulfill the role. Why not me?

Victoria

Okay, so let’s say you become like Stalin or Hitler or Mao.  I get it, cheating isn’t as bad as that but…

Kyle

DON’T rush me.  So I rise to power, and kill millions.  So what?

Victoria

So what?

Kyle

Let’s go back to the waitress.  I kill her.  Maybe I get caught, maybe I don’t.  The world keeps on spinning, and no one will remember either of us within a decade or two.  Fifty years tops.  In a very short period of time, relatively speaking, it will be as though nothing ever happened.  In fact, there were probably millions of murdered waitresses, all documented and witnessed, over the last century that no one will think of ever again.

Victoria,

So basically you’re saying that something really bad like killing that woman won’t matter in the near future.
Kyle

In a way.  Let’s go back to Kyle the Tyrant.  I reign, I terrorize, I die of cancer or coup de’etat.  Let me ask you something.  Have you ever heard of Hong Xiuquan?

Victoria

No, who is Hong Xiuquan?

Kyle

The leader of the Taiping Rebellion in China, one hundred and fifty years ago.  Twenty-five million people died violent, horrible deaths at the hands of this man, who thought that he was Jesus’ younger brother.
Victoria,

You’ve gotta be kidding me.

Kyle

I absolutely am not.  And it wasn’t all that long ago.  One hundred and fifty years.  It was around that time Los Angeles was established as a city.  Twenty-five million deaths, and the entire fiasco is nearly completely erased.  The Chinese don’t teach it in their textbooks.  We don’t teach it in our textbooks.  In another hundred years there will be 200 academics worldwide who will even recognize the name.

Victoria

I had no idea!  Jesus’s younger brother?

Kyle

Yeah, long story.  But wartime bloodshed is boring.  Let’s look at something more fun.  Human sacrifice.  We don’t do it as much anymore. Although in Northern India it’s estimated that four children are sacrificed per year.  Usually they’re tied down and boiling oil is poured over their bodies.  But you’ve never heard of that.  Neither had I, until I actively wanted to know if anyone was being re-gifted back to the gods these days.

But not too long ago, about 500 years, after Columbus had already landed, the Aztecs sacrificed 18,000 people in one ceremony.  They would march the victims to the top of the pyramid, hold them down, cut out their heart, and hold it in the air while it was still beating.

And when we think back on that gruesome, bloody day, do we exclaim “Oh no!  They killed Xitalli! Not Xitalli! He was history’s best bartender!”  We have ZERO emotional attachment to ANY of those people.

And 500 years from now, ZERO people will have ANY emotional connection to us.  To anything we said, did, or thought.  And if by some miracle one of us turns out to be the next Mozart or Kandinski, all one needs to do is extend the timeline!  Extend that timeline enough and no one is safe.  Not you, or I, or Mozart, or Kandinsky, or even Shakespeare.  There will come a time when either no one will remember Shakespeare, or there will be no one left to remember Shakespeare.

So if there is some small, insignificant action that will make YOU happy, then sink your teeth into it.  If this new guy who you can’t stop drooling over will give you sixty orgasms by the end of the semester, don’t make too big of a sacrifice to some nebulous, subjective moral imperative that doesn’t care about you.  Think of morality as a neglectful parent.

And don’t worry so much about causing pain to your insignificant other back in Oklahoma.  If he never knows, it can’t hurt him.  And if it doesn’t hurt you, he’ll never know. And after you have turned to dust, no one will think any better or any worse of you based on your treatment of your first boyfriend.

Victoria

I’m still not going to do it.

Kyle

Yeah, it would be a bitchy thing to do.

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Up and Running

November 21, 2009 in Blog | 1 comment

Welcome to the 4th World Post. Bringing you street reports, uncut.

Network News is failing us, and newspapers are dying. Different forms of traditional and new media are merging, and we are becoming more and more responsible for our own news. Being informed, truly informed, is becoming an individual’s duty.

This project is an attempt to shine a spotlight on the gritty underworld that exists in every city, in every country.  My name is Kyle Cashulin.  I am a Sojo (Solo Journalist), and will work to bring you news from wherever I am.

I want you to help me. Hell, I want you to surpass me.

Every person knows a story that could impact society.  An arc-welder in Alabama knows that the union boss is corrupt. A high school student in Nevada knows that the local sheriff has a personal agenda against immigrants, or beats skateboarders whom he catches with marijuana.  A college student from Sivakasi, India knows that the factory in his town uses child labor.

If your city has corruption, abuse, poverty, crime, drugs, or disease you have an opportunity to document and spread truth.   Bring to the world the reality of these conditions.  Take pictures with your cell phone.  Tape interviews.  Make us see through your eyes.

There is an argument that unedited, “street” news is inherently flawed-that it is impossible to keep opinions and editorial out of our stories.  This is perfectly true.  But we acknowledge this, and read these stories knowing that we are looking through the eyes of another human being.  We are individuals, from different worlds.  We will definitely not be immune to editorial.

This is not a call for gossip, but a call for unity and truth.

These are your stories. These are our stories.

Information is power.

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Hospital Story by Kyle Cashulin

November 21, 2009 in Featured Stories | 1 comment

Hospital

The whole crew was in Bali, and we decided to eat mushrooms on the beach.  Wyan knew some kids that picked the right mushrooms in the rice patties.  The cows defecate in the water, and the mushrooms grow out of the damp stool.  So we each kicked in a few Rupiah and bought a salad-bowl of the small mushrooms.

Francis insisted on saying a short prayer to Mother Gaia.  Francis is known as the Gay Prince of Bali.  He obtained a decades-long lease on a palace from the bankrupt royal family, which he then decorated with a large collection of handsome Balinese men.  My dad (who doesn’t have much patience for the New Age after a particularly dippy girlfriend) said “To hell with that! Let’s just be honest and say we’re gonna get really ripped on shrooms!”

It was a fine day.  The mushrooms made the sky an intense blue, and the forest the greenest green.  My stepmother Barbara ran around taking pictures of everyone while the children frolicked in the waves.   We ate barbecued fish burgers, and swam in the ocean.  The water was clear, so we could see the coral garden on the bottom.

The next morning I woke up feeling a little out of sorts.  My stomach was squirming like a toad, and my head felt screwed on a bit too tight.  Barbara was in a cheery mood and asked how I was feeling.   I stuck my tongue out in the “blech” expression.  My stepmother did a violent double-take. “Sticking out your tongue one more times.” she commanded.  Her Italian accent was very thick in those days.

My tongue was black.  I stared at myself in the mirror in mild disbelief.  I brushed my teeth, and wiped my tongue on a towel until it was dry and rough.  Dry and rough and still black.  By now my headache was getting worse, so I popped two of the Vicodin I always carry with me when traveling.  A doctor had prescribed a bottle for a nasty ear infection, but I hadn’t used them all, and you never know when you’re going to need a strong pain reliever.

My father insisted that David, who was a medic, take a look at me.  David said to watch the symptoms, but that since I wasn’t in too much pain (thanks to the Vicodin, but I neglected to give them that information), there was no emergency.

The headache got worse as the day progressed, and by nightfall my entire spine was on fire.  I tried to lay perfectly still on my back on the hard teak floors.  If I moved my head even a centimeter in any direction it sent agonizing bolts of pain town the whole length of my spine, and my head felt like someone was hammering a railroad spike through it.  My tongue remained black.

We called an ambulance out to the remote village of Jasi, and six hours later it arrived.  The ambulance was a red Volkswagen convertible with a hitchhiker in the passenger side. The ambulance driver waited while my dad and David carried me on stretcher to the car and bundled me in the back seat.  I’ve been in auto accidents, been bitten on the face by snakes, and had an accumulated 11 hours of tattooing, but nothing came close to the agonizing pain of the ride to the Denpasar hospital.

My dad had kicked the hitchhiker out of the front seat and talked to me the whole way.  I told him about the Vicodin, and he was angry and suspicious about where I had obtained such a controlled substance.  Between bumps I told him about the ear infection, but he didn’t believe that any doctor would think such a trivial ailment would warrant the Vicodin.  I told him I’d show him the bottle when we got back.

The avocado-green hospital room very large, and almost empty.  The doctor did a test for spinal meningitis, and after I tested negative, he said I had typhoid.   This didn’t make a lot of sense to me, but I was too tired to fight it.  They wanted to pump my stomach, so they stuck a thick plastic tube up my nose and down the back of my throat.  “Now you need sallow.” The doctor instructed me.  “Keep sallow.  Yes. Sallow, sallow, almost done…”

After the contents of my stomach were in a plastic bag, which the nurse took away, they pulled out the tube, which burned my throat and sinus.  I had been asleep for a few minutes when I involuntarily rolled over, jerking the IV bag off its perch.  It fell, yanking the tube out of my arm.   The nurse put it back in its place and scolded me for moving too much.  I didn’t care.  Morphine revealed the humor of the situation.

The next week in the hospital was very touching.  I never spent a night by myself.  Katut, a good friend and local cop, stayed two nights in a row.  He sent his wife to stay with me when he finally went home.  He was feeling awful that Balinese mushrooms might have made me sick.  Though marijuana is punishable by death in Indonesia, mushrooms are perfectly legal and a source of local pride.

Several months later my dad got an ear infection from surfing and driving home in a convertible.  The pain was driving him crazy.  He apologized for being suspicious about the Vicodin, and apologized for wanting to see the prescription bottle.  He said if I suffered ear infections like his all throughout my childhood without ever crying, I was a tough bastard.

Shoot Haiti-a Tall Tale by Kyle Cashulin

November 21, 2009 in Featured Stories | 2 comments

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It was 1988 and my father was shooting “The Serpeant and the Rainbow” in Port-au-Prince, Haiti.  It was a miserable shoot.  At any given time most of the crew were sick with typhoid, dengue fever, or diphtheria. More than a third of the crew elected to leave the country early, forgoing the rest of their salary.  Some got too sick to continue working; others couldn’t cope with the reality of daily Haitian life.  A supporting actor left the country after seeing a half-exposed corpse.  The rain had washed the soil from his shallow grave, revealing the dead young man buried in his baby-blue Sunday suit.

Others left for more personal reasons. The key grip, for instance, had a thing with a local beauty, who happened to be the daughter of a voodoo priest.  One drunken night the happy couple was blessed by the old priest in a simple ceremony.  There was much drinking and dancing and lovemaking.  The next afternoon when the poor grip groggily came back to reality, his beloved informed him that they were now married and tied together for eternity. The grip went out of his mind and tried to break it off.  The words “You’ll never escape me.” were the last he heard from her as he boarded the next plane back to Los Angeles.  Upon arrival he got onto his motorcycle and was promptly run over by all 9 left wheels of a careless semi.

But my dad stuck it out, dealing with problems as best a young producer could.  He replaced the crew with Haitian workers, and tried to keep everybody happy.  Their time in Haiti was winding down, and they only had one large-scale scene to shoot before they could pack it up and finish in Jamaica or the Dominican Republic.

The aforementioned scene featured a true Haitian tradition.  Thousands of Haitians parade from the city up, up, and deep into the mountains.  The ceremony starts out looking very catholic, with people carrying shrines and flowers and great big blue Blessed Mothers.  But as the thousands of singing families proceed deeper into the mountains, it slowly shifts to the other Haitian religion. Voodoo. The religion that came from Africa with the slaves and collided with the local Caribbean cults. In the mountains the Haitians dance and chant and beat on drums for hours and hours.  The dancers become entranced, and then possessed by gods.  Men eat coals and glass and stick needles into their eyes.  Chickens are slaughtered and their blood is smeared on bare chests.

Wanting to capture this miraculous progression, the crew set up recruitment tables and budgeted for one thousand marchers.  Each Haitian extra would be given a voucher, which they would turn in at the end of the day for five dollars. The vouchers ran out by the end of the morning.

Five dollars in Haiti was a big deal in 1988, when the average income was less than a hundred dollars per year. The extras told their friends about the financial opportunity, and those friends had told other friends, and by the next morning fifteen thousand extras showed up for the parade. They shot the scene, and it was very beautiful.  But when it came time to pay up, and only one in fifteen extras had their vouchers, they got mad.

The Haitians started rioting, and suddenly there was a machete, shovel, pitchfork or lead pipe in every hand. The crew retreated to the police station and barricaded themselves in.  There were only eighteen cops in the station, and they were terrified that if they used their weapons, everyone would be swarmed and slaughtered.   My father used the phone to call the base production office and screamed above the cacophony outside to empty the movie vault and take the cash by helicopter to the police station.  It was a good thing he called when he did, because the mob outside cut the phone line before he hung up.  The rioters didn’t want the police to call the army; hundreds would probably die.

The mob was starting to break through the barred windows, so everyone hurried up to the roof.  Just in time, the helicopter arrived flying low.  The production coordinator dropped a duffel bag filled with fifty-eight thousand dollars to my father, who began throwing handfuls of money into the seething crowd that had completely surrounded the building.   The rioters’ attention shifted from attacking the crew to attacking each other to get at the money.  Slowly, very slowly the violent crowd began to disperse.

McSorley’s Pub by Kyle Cashulin

November 21, 2009 in Featured Stories | 1 comment

Photo by Peter Rivera

Photo by Peter Rivera


Photo by Peter Rivera

Twenty-five wishbones hung above a bar. You have to look closely to verify that they are, indeed wishbones. 90 years of dust hangs on the old bones like dead bayou moss. The turkey bones were hung on the ancient brass gas lamp by enlisted men departing for Europe in 1916.

Behind the bar you will find not an inch of unoccupied wall space. Thousands of curios spanning 200 years collect dust and rust and water damage. A wanted poster for the “Murderer John Wilkes Booth” sits beside a photograph of Abraham Lincoln himself. Abe was a patron. As were the men in the frames next to his: Theodore Roosevelt and John F. Kennedy. The last photograph taken of Babe Ruth hangs partially obscured by an original sketch by John McSorley himself. A pair of unassuming old handcuffs sits on a cabinet. No one would guess they once meekly attempted to restrain the great Harry Houdini.

The light is very dim, but there is great warmth in the bar. You spin around slowly taking in the information that hits you like a sandstorm. Freshly strewn sawdust grinds under your heel as you turn to face the large pot-bellied stove. The stove is black, but the coal is red. You summon the ghosts of great men who stared into the same stove and warmed themselves. And I say great men because women weren’t admitted to the bar until the 1970’s.

You walk to the back room, away from the stifling coal heat and embrace the cool air on your skin. There is an hour wait for a table, but that just gives you more time to take in the bar. A cabinet reads “CPR kit.” Maybe it’s a bible. Finally, you take a seat at one of four enormous wood-slab tables. Alcohol flowed in this back room during prohibition. This alcohol has always come in only two varieties: light house ale and dark house ale. A wild-haired Irishman in a blue shirt takes your order and returns holding 24 cups of ale in two hands. He slams the lot down on your table with a wonderful crash and clink. You help divvy up the ale by sliding light or dark cups down to your neighbors.

A fat man with a “Yankees” cap stands on a chair and starts chanting at his friend. The Irishman runs over and screams “GET OFF THE FECKIN’ CHAIR! I’M WARNIN’ YEH!” But the fat man doesn’t listen, and is dragged to the ground by the smaller but much stronger waiter. The man is then dragged to the door screaming uselessly and literally thrown out onto East 7th St. His hapless friend follows him out throwing dirty looks and half-hearted insults at the staff. The waiter walks back muttering “I warned him” under his breath. The man should have observed the scorched-wood plaque and bar motto “Be Good or Be Gone.” The waiter walks over to a shocked looking college couple and politely says “A seat just opened up. Follow me.”

Interview, Victor Chapman, 44

November 21, 2009 in Featured Stories | No comments

Edited by Kyle Cashulin

I was living in an SRO, which means a single room occupancy hotel, which the city of New York pays for. They have an organization that’s called HASA. That’s the HIV and AIDS Service Association. And people with HIV and AIDS who need emergency housing, like for some reason you find yourself out on the street, they house you automatically that day. They’ll find a place for you to go. They don’t want you to go to the regular homeless shelters because, you know, you have exceptional circumstances. Or whatever.

So I was living at this place at 101st and Broadway called Broadway Studios Hotel. And I was smoking crack, because most of thethose buildings are basically just crack houses now. And I was hanging out with this guy named Amado Penia who lived down the hall from me. It was the day after Thanksgiving, and he had two Jack Russell Terriers, a male and a female, and they had just had pups. Now this is in the afternoon, I was in my room, my ex-boyfriend at the time, and another female friend, and Amado came by. He said “What’s goin’ on? What are you guys doing?” And I said, “Well, we’re hanging out.” And he wanted to get high, and I said “Listen, I don’t have enough drugs to give you.” Then I remembered that he had puppies, and those Jack Russell terriers, those things are expensive. I could never afford one of those. So I thought, “Why not take advantage of a crackhead?”

So I said “I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you a hit of crack for one of those new Jack Russell Terriers that you have!” So he said he’d be back, and he goes down the hall to get the dog. And he comes back twenty or thirty minutes later. And then I told him that in the meantime I had smoked the drugs and I didn’t have anything to give him. So I said “I’m sorry, but the deal’s off, I don’t have anything to give you.”

And he got pissed. Later on he was on the elevator and had the mamma dog, the bitch, on a leash. And he was furious. He was big, like 6’5” and must have weighed 350 pounds. And he was yelling at me, screaming at me, cursing me out. And I was getting off the elevator at my floor, and he had the dog on a leash, and he was so busy yelling at me that he didn’t realize that the dog was behind him and the doors of the elevator closed on the dog! And the dog was like “YELP YELP YELP!” These high-pitched screams! And he just “WHAP!” bitch slaps me up against the wall. And I’m like “What the fuck?” I was shocked. And scared.

So I go back to my room. And I’m in shock. I was really angry. And I’m sitting there and for the next hour I’m furious. Fuming. I couldn’t believe this guy slapped me. So I go, with an omelet pan and a serrated steak knife and a can of mace. And I went over, and I bang on his door, and ask him to come out. And he was like “What do you want? Fuck off!” And I say “Open the door! Come out! You owe me an apology!”

So he comes out, and he starts beating the shit out of me! Just kicking me, and pounding me into the ground, you know. Not even caring, just really livid. So then he goes back in his room. And I make this mistake of banging on his door, and I bang off the door handle. And he comes out and comes at me with this table leg. A wooden table leg. Like two feet long. And I had my can of mace, and I try to mace him. And….and it’s empty! So he beats me down with a table leg. He has me down on the ground, and he’s choking me out. I stop breathing, twice, and I can’t breathe, and I lose consciousness, and then he lets up, and then he chokes me and I lose consciousness again.

And the second time I woke up I look over and realize I had this steak knife in my hand, and I reach up and WHAM, WHAM, and I caught him twice in the shoulder. And he takes the steak knife from me and he’s holding me down with one hand this time, and I’m screaming “NO NO PLEASE DON’T KILL ME!” But the knife was broken, it had broken when I was stabbing him with it. Hahahaha. I guess it was a flimsy knife. It wasn’t like a Bowie knife or anything. It’s not that violent of a tale. Hahaha.

So I got charged with attempted murder. In the first. $75,000 bail. Then they reduced it to assault. First degree assault. $50,000 bail.

And I got sent to Rikers Island prison. I was being sexually assaulted left and right. Knowing that I was HIV positive, this one guy, a notorious rapist, kept cornering me. He got me in the law library bathroom and sodomized me. He was hung like a mule. I said “Fuck it, okay you bastard! If you make me bleed, if you catch AIDS, it’s your fault! You deserve it, you fucking rapist!” That happened a couple times.

My first night in jail was a nightmare in itself. They didn’t know what to do with me because I had a psych history. So they were taking me around, they took me to Queen’s House, which wouldn’t take me ‘cause I was on psych meds. Then they took me to Brooklyn House, which wouldn’t take me because I was on psych meds and had a seizure disorder. Then they tried to take me to that boat in the Bronx, that floats, and they wouldn’t take me for some reason. Then they take me to Rikers Island. There’s this policy, they have like 24 to 72 hours to have you in a bed somewhere. Or else you can sue them. So they exceeded that time. I was scared. I was petrified, it was horrible! Rikers Island is the world’s largest penal colony! They have tanks there, and helicopters, and riot gear, and tear gas, and they have their own boats, and ferries, it’s horrible!

It’s called “Gladiator School.” And they don’t call it that for nothing. You go in, and you’re in this dorm room called Broadway. And anything can happen. Guys get their bed linens set on fire with them in it, or urine and feces thrown on you. Or a blanket party, where you’re tied down with your blankets and everyone beats you up. You go to the store once per week and people steal everything from you. They’re selling drugs. The trans-gendered ones are selling themselves, prostitution is alive and well. Selling blowjobs and ass, and whatever you can afford. Everything’s for sale.

I got mixed up with leaders of the Blood gangs. I was having sexual relationships with Bloods, Muslims, Latin Kings, Nation of Islam, 5% Nation, Jamaicans, Caribbean African Unities, all these guys. I was running, I was hiding in this prison. All these guys were coming at me all the time wanting to have sex, sex sex. Unprotected sex. Sex. Sex. That’s why they should hand out condoms in prisons, because it’s happening! I mean it’s STUPID! It’s HAPPENING. And guys are either giving it up willingly or some guys are gonna take it from you. And it’s not like they prey on someone who’s meek or a little guy. Anybody’s game. But what did they expect? I’m a homosexual male in prison with a thousand other guys, so what? I’m as happy as a faggot in Boy’s Town.

I was in Solitary for fighting. It’s not preferable in any way. It’s sensory deprivation. You don’t know what time it is, you don’t know what day it is. You don’t know if it’s about to be sunrise or sunset or what. You know. It’s horrible. It’s horrible.

The worst thing that I witnessed in prison was when they beat this guy up. Lit him on fire and threw feces and urine all over him. And when he was screaming and screaming, the guards did nothing. Nobody does anything. He offended the Bloods. It’s always the Bloods.

Res. by Kyle Cashulin

November 21, 2009 in Featured Stories | No comments

Dogs
There is a singular dog seen most places. Her ears are tattered; her fur is rusty and mottled with black. Her teats hang close to the ground and sometimes drag on the dirt. Though she is a mean and fearful dog, she belongs to everyone. One day she’ll get a rock to the ribs. Another day she’ll get a skinned rabbit. Sometimes she’ll get a round of buckshot to her face.

Cars
The Dodge Ram is the most beautiful object, and only desired in Inferno Red. Subaru doesn’t end up on the yard, because it survives winter after winter after winter. Most cars end up on the yard.

Noses
Richard Blackowl has a flat nose. No bone. Fetal alcohol syndrome. Not uncommon among the Blackowls. Looking at the Punt, Pass, Kick competition you can see bone, bone, no bone, bone, no bone, no bone, bone, no bone.

Tobacco
If Tobacco is the Red Man’s Revenge, then two holes must be dug. Tahoe brand was my favorite when I was 10.

STPUD
South Tahoe Public Utility District. Condemned land that encompasses Diamond Valley, which holds the reservoir as well as the res.

The Reservoir
Treated sewage from beachfront houses in Lake Tahoe, slushing down Snowshoe Thompson’s irrigation ditch to pool in the big cement reservoir. In the summer we jump off the bridge to swim and cool off. Occasionally swallows leave their mud nests to black out the sun. They dive and intimidate us.

Cats
So many cats. Under every house you can hear the mewing of the next generation. Coyotes come and eat them, but they don’t have large enough stomachs.

Bears
A gunshot in the night means Greg shot another bear. Mean black bears that eat up all the camp food in Yosemite that the nice people brought from San Francisco. The ones that ate too many bags of marshmallows; they’re caged and released less than one mile from the Res. Killing them would be inhumane.

The Reservoir
Maybe swimming in treated sewage causes some of the noses to be flat?
Res Ball
Full-contact sport. The rules go:

Houses
Built decades ago with promise of renewal. Without foundations, they slump to one side or another. It’s a good thing building code violations aren’t applicable on Reservation land.

Sheriff
He’ll stay out of your business unless your meth lab explodes.

Skippy
Ask why she’s called Skippy and, smirk wink, you’ll hear a story about a dog and peanut butter.

The Walker
You’ll see him along 95. Picking up cigarette butts. Every day; walking and picking up cigarette butts. They say he lives with his aunt.

Cal-Trans
The savior of us all, California Transit employees and feeds the community. You need to buy your own reflective vest. Avoid drunken drivers.

Non-Serrated Knife
Never leave home without it. And make sure it isn’t someplace hard to get to, like in your backpack. Tape it length-wise to your belt in the small of your back. They won’t wait for you to fish it out of your backpack.

Indian Tacos
Dale Bennett’s Indian Tacos would have ended the first and second world wars. Frybread, sour cream, rabbit meat, chilies, diced tomatoes, lettuce and cheese. Once a year she makes them for everyone at school. After that, you need to wait for Christmas, David or Nicole’s birthday, or the Candydance. But definitely not Thanksgiving.

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