My journal of life and those lives that surround & influence me, both positively & negatively

Thursday, April 14

Promoting The Project>How I Met Clean Boys>Chapter 6

I mean, it was alright for me, until Clean Boys were dealt a blow. Like myself, they intially had the better deal too; hooked up with a Danish television station, who had promised them a live feed and a potential audience; essentially, the whole nine yards. And then the week before, the bottom dropped out for them. The station handed them a pink slip, simply stating that they were unable to help them out. And just like that, they were left out in the cold. No further explanations. And so, they resorted back to their rehearsal space, Cairo Hi-Fi, in Aarhus.

The record itself, as stated previously, was recorded on Skype, a free downloadable telephone software program, plus two computers on both ends. I had both a sound engineer and an events coordinator for the session. Initially, we had done a Skype test on December 22 2009, to see how well Skype would hold up-that was done w/Mulle the drummer/percussionist and computer whiz, which I discovered later, whom, I was developing a better relationship via Skype, as we moved well past the “Sid Shittish” affair.

A week before we actually recorded, we brought our project public through the magic of radio, with help from Chicago Tribune columnist & radio host, Rick Kogan, who was intrigued with the whole project. How I managed to get on the program was still simply amazing. I had met Kogan previously at a venue in which I performed at in the fall of 2008. Talked to him for a bit afterward, told him who my brother was and that lead to months of difficulty, which amounted to an extremely hateful sibling rivalry on behalf of my older brother, Louie. But in the meantime, whilst Rick promised to get me onto his program, months passed by until, a cold, grey November afternoon, when I saw Kogan and Chuck Osgood, former Tribune photographer outside the opening of an exhibit that featured both his and Kogan’s work in downtown Chicago, close to the ICC rail station over on Randolph, just off of Michigan Avenue, where only moments earlier, I had emerged out of. Kogan was surprised to see me and I told him my story.

Me and my now former pal, Twitchy, were returning from a funeral/memorial of my late friend Scott Bapple Sr., who died from a freak accident; checked himself in for a routine catscan in Indiana and for some reason or another, fell off the operation table and cracked his skull; doctors didn’t give him much hope for survival-three months at the most, but it didn’t look good. And so, within hours after hearing the news, he died. Like Kogan, I too didn’t believe it. It was all just a little too mind-numbing for me. In any event, I told Kogan at the time that I was going to Denmark & Germany in the springtime and recording the album and I think I asked him again to get onto his show. He told me to email him the following week and for me to pick a date. And so I did, ironically and perhaps coincidently, picking January 31, which just happened to be the birthdate of Mykel Board, the man who put the four of us together to begin with!

I remember the night before the radio program-I was performing at a hair salon opening somewhere in the city (Chicago) and got home rather late. I had a feeling if I went to sleep, that I would never wake up, so I decided to make a night of it and just stay up all night. Around 3 am, I took a shower, got dressed, stuffed my backpack and walked toward Main street and Chicago Avenues, to catch the Evanston night bus.

It wasn’t terribly cold that morning, as I rode on into the Howard El and from there, a Red Line train down to the Grand Avenue subway stop, all the while, texting back and forth with Pedro Da Palma, bassist for Clean Boys, who would also appear with me on the program, via phone. I remember how concerned at the time Pedro was, in regards to the radio station calling him up, thinking it was a tiny radio station. Not to worry, I told him, as I knew better; this was after all WGN Radio, 50,000 watts of purepower-a superstation to boot!

From there, I walked around in the darkness for the next hour or so, looking up at the great majestic buildings covered in shadows. Then eventually made my way up to Michigan Avenue and stood across the street from WGN Radio itself-felt nervous and excited and from there, ducked into a local diner and bade my time until it was closer to 6:30 am, when I crossed the street and entered Tribune Tower. Got to the guard’s desk, where I was ID’d and then a call was made into the station. I’d be picked up by the producer. I had to tell them my real name. that was a hoot! No one knew who “the other guy” was, but the producer remarked, “it’s okay, your friend can come too.”

Oh! If only she knew...

Sunday, April 10

Get Out Of My House!>How I Met Clean Boys>Chapter 5

Turned out it would be. A hippie dance band that I had been a member of at the time; Atomic Theory Dance Band, to be exact, Eliezer Kaplan, the band’s leader, offered his home studio up for me to record the performance at. So, off I went on that Sunday afternoon to go look at the set-up, no sooner did I get there, when trouble began. On a side note, although I was a member of the group and I had some say about how songs were shaping up and offering suggestions and ideas, Kaplan was (and still is) a bully. Before I even entered his home, I was to call in advance, as he had two dogs, one named Mitzi, a small white friendly poodle and the other Buddy, a rather vicious dog, which Kaplan claimed was a nice dog despite his bark. He said I had to call in advance so they could cage the dogs and to keep them from attacking me. Kaplan, in that strange way, shared the commonality with Buddy. Both dogs were caged together, a rather cruel way if you ask me, but I digress.

I was let in the front door and followed him upstairs to the attic, aka the recording studio. From there, he read me the riot act, what I could touch, what I couldn’t touch or use. No problem, so I thought. So we decided to test the equipment. First the electrical outlet. I plugged my laptop cord in, then pulled it out. He nearly blew a gasket, complaining that the electrical wiring had cost him nearly a few hundred dollars and that I should be more careful. A few minutes later, I don’t remember if it happened by accident or on purpose, but as we passed by his full drum kit, a cymbal stand and a smaller drum crashed to the floor, causing him to go beserk! “Oh my god!” he screamed, “this is going to cost me a fortune! “Out! Out! “Get out of my house! No! I won’t help you! No! you can’t record here! You’re too weird for my eclectic tastes!” He began chasing me and down and out I ran downstairs from upstairs studio, only to be met head-on by his vicious barking dog. Kaplan cursed me out further, as I left and as I left, I heard the door slam hard, as his voice trailed off, still cursing me out.

I was back to square one again. No proposals had proved fruitful thus far. Our last hope for me was to record my enitre portion from my studio apartment. In other words, Plan B. I was no stranger to recording our performing in an apartment before, recalling the time I had my appendix taken out in September, 1998 and I was unable to drive anywhere for nearly a week.

My band and myself at the time, Tribal Screen Hens, were scheduled to perform live on WZRD (Northeastern Illinois University, Chicago, Illinois) on a Sunday night. No problem I told the radio hosts; we’d just set up the living room like a recording stage and call in from a speaker phone. Problem solved, difficulty averted. But here I was stuck, all possibilities exhausted, ready for Plan B. that’s when word came from Swing State; it had reopened for business, fire department approved.

Yay! We were on our way!

Saturday, April 9

We Are The Curse-Breakers:How I Met Clean Boys>Chapter 4

Not until we had a record, I wrote him back. But even before it began, I told him that we had enough material from the three performances combined for recorded material, but that wasn’t good enough for Pedro; he wanted to newly record the tracks. To me at the time and still to some degree, live recorded tracks are so much better than recorded studio tracks, simply because studio recordings can appear stilted, whilst a live track is tingling with the element of surprise and the endless possibility of wrong vocals or chords or any number of things.

I thought this would be so easy. All I had to do was book a venue to record live at, not perform for an audience-not that I would be able to get one; my biggest dilemma to date, but another time for this tale. And what venue could possibly be the place for me? None other than Swing State, a former 1920s speakeasy, now teenage non-alcoholic nightclub in the far northwest suburbs of chicago.

So I booked the date in advance, set for February 7, 2010, an midnight session for me; for Clean Boys, they would be online with us at 7 am Denmark time. I remember at the time, how a lot of my musician friends thought how crazy and cool the concept was. Who in their right mind would want to record a record on a Sunday morning?

That was the least of our worries. It had been a good New Year’s Eve, though, I can’t recall where I was, the day after, January 2, 2010, that goodness faded to a glimmer, when Swing State reported via Myspace, that a fire had broken out and as a result, the club would be closed until further notice. That was devestating to hear, if not think. Just five weeks away from our recording session and I thought that it was cursed.

Not so, said Pedro reassuredly told me both on Skype and in emails , “we are the curse-breakers,” he would tell me over and over. So, it was my job to find a new venue that would take us on; I must have written at least six proposals to coffeehouses, performance spaces and clubs. There were a few who dug the idea, but didn't have the Internet capability at the time, some who claimed their landlord would allow such a performance to take place because it was against the rules, according to their lease and the rest of them? well, they never bothered to respond. I was getting worried as the date inched closer.

Then another glimmer of hope sprang out of nowhere-an offer that seemed too good to be true.

Thursday, April 7

DP-A Sound Text Punk Opera>How I Met Clean Boys>Chapter 3

We didn’t get together until nearly one year later for Chicago Calling Four, Fall, 2009 in Chicago.

This time it was different; I wanted to do something completely out of character for me. So I strung together what I dubbed my own “punk opera,” entitled DP (which stood for the word depression)-A Sound Text Punk Opera, which was based on my own mental illness. I had previously toyed with at least one of the pieces beforehand and felt the other two pieces, one an actual unpublished essay on that very subject, plus a a poem, in which I changed one word so I could disguise it.

In mid-September, 2009, I asked Clean Boys to be a part of it and asked them to compose music for the first two parts; first part being a sort of rocknroll composition that would collapse suddenly at the end, while the second part required a jazz score; the third part would consist of the drummer hitting his kick pedal against his drum kit, whilst the other members of the band would speak in foreign languages other than their own native tongues. By this time, I had lost my job. We were communicating almost exclusively by Skype, texts and emails by now. Every few weeks I’d go to a local library, reserve a room and talk to them. Turnaround time on the compositions was less than two weeks. I was astonished, if not completely amazed!

We did one dry run rehearsal at the public library that nearly caused a riot! I had to not to blow my Shofar so loud though, that was the trick and of course, curious onlookers pressed closely to the windows to see what was going on. We were on our way.

In early October, we were ready. The show at Mercury Cafe in Chicago seemed to go off okay, but there was one catch; while one could see hear them physically, you couldn’t see them at all; we lacked a wall or a film screen to project them onto. That would change at the late October, 2009 performance that followed Chicago Calling at HyperMedia. Their images were projected onto a giant wall, appearing as if the four of us were onstage together for the very first time. That was experimental and thus began the task of negotiating for a decent time slot for both us and Clean Boys. Circumstances and time slots were not always negotiable, however when it came to dealing with hosts and artists running venues, however. It always seemed to be a matter of art snobbery and eggshell tiptoeing or groveling; not always a good choice, but such is the case in a city like Chicago. I managed to get them and us a total of 28 minutes, which by the venue’s standards, was already way too much time. Of course, Pedro kept the pressure on to get them even more time, but the more I pushed, the less responsive and more iron-fisted the venue became.

But I completely understood Pedro, because they were getting up in the middle of the night to perform. Shows that I would often collaborate on with them involved a six-to-seven hour time difference. If say for example, it was 9 pm in Chicago, it was 4 am in Denmark. And unless they were reporters, law enforcement personnel, firefighters or lumberjacks, getting up at early meant something completely different and so, 28 minutes meant little if nothing at all!

By the time all was said and done, however, Clean Boys and myself had a powerful product and that’s when Pedro proposed that I should come overseas to tour with them.

Wednesday, April 6

Sid Yiddish, You're Sid Shittish! Fuck Off!>How I Met The Clean Boys>Chapter 2

From that moment on, we became fast friends on Myspace. It would be nearly a year before I would ask Pedro’s band, Clean Boys to collaborate with me at Chicago Calling 3 in Chicago. And so began, one of the craziest yet greatest partnerships I ever formed with men I never even met yet! And all of this totally by accident, due to technology! Who would have thought it possible?

Also, in 2008, I had taken and/or made a more different and interesting career turn; I performed on a fluke incident at an event entitled, “Lovable Losers Literary Revue,” a performance series mourning the 100 years since 1908 that the Chicago Cubs had been in and won a baseball World Series. Along the way, I had met a true cast of characters and became part of the show, but we all had something in common and that is, we loved baseball-not so much the Cubs for me, however. Among the connections I made, was Chicago Tribune columnist and WGN radio host, Rick Kogan, which not only would pay off positively, but negatively, to the point where I would eventually lose my livelihood, due to both personal envy and old sibling rivalry.

And so the phone calls begin; the traded thoughts ideas exchanged, both through cell phone and emails. Little did I know what was waiting for me on the other side, the night of the performance. Locally, I had put out a call for my own band, $2 Cockroach to come collaborate with us. Curiously, two of the three members came out; Mike Sviokla (guitar) & Rat Niptik (electric bowed bass). Wes might have been in Los Angeles by then and then the trio that made up Clean Boys. There was Andrej Morks (guitar), Jacob “Mulle” Nansen (percussion) & of course, Pedro Da Palma (bass). We settled on my poetry performance piece, "Jazz Haiku-A-Rama." They in turn, came up what they dubbed a little over two dozen "jingles" for the set. They wrote an intro and an outro for it as well. I was pleased.

The plan was simple. Broadcast hook-up via Skype (via the Internet). That was plan B. Plan A would have been holding my cell phone up to the microphone and have Clean Boys heard that way. When I arrived at Av-Aerie, (half loft/half performance space on Chicago near west side-now closed), I was told that the host venue’s Internet was down. Translated further: the owner of the venue didn’t pay his bill on time, so service was cut off. What to do? What to tell Pedro and his band mates? I chose not, thinking it would complicate matters. And boy did it; temporarily.

The whole of my night before we went onstage-me & my band here, Clean Boys there-and unbeknownst to my band here, was spent on my cell phone in the outside hall, either talking or texting back and forth with Pedro. When I was given the bad news, I texted Pedro and told him that we’d be going back to Plan A. They weren’t happy and I received the brunt of their anger when their drummer Mulle called me and we had the following exchange…

Mulle-Is this Sid Yiddish?

Me-Yes, yes it is.

Mulle-Sid Yiddish, you’re Sid Shittish! Fuck Off!

Bang! Down went the slammed phone. I began to cry and have a panic attack. Had several that night in fact. I didn’t understand why he was angry with me, when it wasn’t my fault to begin with. I didn’t know what to do. Again, my phone rang and I didn’t know if it would be a wise idea to pick it up. Slowly, I picked it up and on the other end was Pedro, who apologized profusely. He told me that Mulle was upset. Understandably, I thought, but it was no reason to curse me out. Finally, a miracle occurred; the Internet connection went up just as we were all going onstage; it was 10 pm Chicago time, 5 am Denmark time. Thank god, I thought. We did a quick nine minute live rehearsal in front of the entire audience and then performed together for an additional 23 minutes before Skype (Internet service) dropped again. Of course, being the last act of the night, we had a little upper advantage and poetic license to be a bit more creative. Shortly before we performed Jazz-Haiku-A-Rama as a “super group,” I passed out plastic toy panpipes, maracas & bird whistles to the attending audience.

The performance itself was maddening to say the least-not knowing which way it would go, as we plodded along, both Clean Boys and I were totally out of synch with each other. As a result, hilarity from the audience ensued, but all of us involved really dug it. One woman in particular was reallyintrigued by our performance as evidence from this edited (for space) rare email sent to me, one day later.

“Greetings Sid....

My husband and I were at the amazing Calling Chicago festival last night at AV aerie on Fulton Street. What an awesome evening it was. For us, it reminded us that art and thinking outside the box is still alive in Chicago...phew! We had a blast. What a cool concept of combining musicians from all over the globe to perform simultaneously. A positive effect of technology, to be sure. We enjoyed the evening immensely...We really loved the kind, open vibe of all those in attendance but we especially enjoyed your Haikuorama segment with the CLEAN BOYS and your group here. We only wish that we could have heard more of each...maybe next year. We feel very sad, and embarrassed that we had to cut out just as you were about to finish...forgive me, forgive us. We wanted to hoot and holler. (Our driver was not feeling well and had already stayed long after he was able to.) PLEASE pass on our kudos to your group and to the CLEAN BOYS. What a great group of musicians they all are. Hope you all had as much fun performing as we all did attending. And thanks for the maracas. How cool, fun and generous to give us each a music maker. So, no matter what happens, know you guys all did an amazing job. And once again, please pass on to your group of musicians and to the CLEAN BOYS just how great it was! You all rocked the world last night...literally!”

I remember getting a lift home from Mike that night-as we were headed north. We didn’t talk much. Mike isn’t much of a talker either in person or on a road trip, as I discovered later, I received another text message from Pedro. Would it be okay if he phoned me and we talk? Sure I said, even though I was kind of numb from everything else from beforehand and the performance afterward-I just wanted to think about it all silent and rest my voice and my mind. The telephone conversation didn't last long, but the gist of it was that working together was a good thing and we should do it again. And soon.

Tuesday, April 5

It Usually Begins By Accident: How I Met Clean Boys>Chapter One

It usually begins by accident. Everything I have ever done in the past seven years seems to have been done by accident or found by mistake. Take my fantastic adventure to both Denmark and Germany in 2010 for example; one of the greatest accidents that could have ever happened to me! It all started back in 2004 really, the early summer of 2004, when I became a performance artist by mistake, while performing at a suburban poetry open mic, which instead of poetry for that night, I decided to create a game in honor of that bumbling fool of a president that all Republicans bow and grovel to now, none other than that dead corpse that used to represent life, Ronald Wilson Reagan. His funeral was that day. I was slaving away at my desk, trying to come up with an idea to honor him, but of course I had no poems, so I decided to create a game, entitled, “Pin The Quote In Reagan’s Mouth.” The grand prize was an authentic 1980 Reagan bumper sticker, while the constellation prizes were six Roosevelt dimes-the talk being at the time, that Reagan’s face was going to replace Roosevelt’s. Thankfully, that never happened.

And so when my turn came, we played the game and the audience loved it. The only person who was outraged was Babyshoes, the host of the event. He went outside and must have smoked at least half a pack of cigarettes in a span of five minutes. When the evening ended, he screeched at the top of his lungs and nearly lunged at me. A mutual friend of ours intervened and kept him at arm’s length. I was banned from using props that night. It never felt quite the same after that and I remember, just barreling out of there, grabbing a hoagie and eating outside at the stroke of midnight, scared out of my wits by his madness.

I knew then that I was meant to be a performer and not just a poet. Poetry readings were becoming too boring at that venue anyway-same old humdrum pretentious bullshit June-moon-spoon being read and everyone politely clapping, even if they didn’t understand what the author was saying. I had outgrown this scene. Later, I heard the guy actually came back, looking for me and that frightened me even more; he claims that he didn’t see me go to the greasy spoon that a few of us always go to afterwards and he came to look for me to see if I was alright.

I didn’t buy that. The guy went absolutely apeshit on me and I knew my number was up and I would no longer be accepted in his good graces. And so on that night, I was reborn. And I began performing little experiments here and there,

Right about that same time frame of 2004, I was taking piano and voice lessons from a music instructor I didn’t get along with at the Old Town School of Folk Music in Chicago. She was very rough on me, a pathological liar to boot and a backstabber as I discovered shortly thereafter (refer to “Pain Is A Lingering Pill, Taking Its Sweet Time To Dissolve” elsewhere on this blog, for further explanation). As much as I tried to get along with her, meaning going to the lessons and learning what I could under these extreme conditions, it just went south, she soured on me and finally, it came to pass that we just couldn’t work together and she in turn made it difficult for me to be assigned to other instructors, which was mutiny in my eyes. That instructor should have been disciplined for her inappropriate behavior, but finally, the school’s program director intervened and just told me to pick another class. That’s when I chose throat singing, the most difficult, yet challenging music class ever, outside of tap dancing, which I would pursue a few years later. Sadly, that music instructor still works at the school.

Fast forward to late summer, 2006. I had just discovered Youtube and the art of digital photos/films, so I decided to begin filming myself throat singing, just as a way to study my technique. In previous years, I used to tape record myself, so this was just one step up. The first film I made was okay and I had sent it out to everyone on my email list; I was proud of what I had accomplished, even if it seemed kind of weird. So one late hot weekday summer afternoon, I decided to film myself throat singing my own Tuvin throat singing ballad, which at the time was considered more or less an exercise to better my throat singing chops. I named it Mykel Board Weasel Squeezer, after my good friend Mykel Board, more so because his first and last name has a total of four different vowel sounds, which fit the bill perfectly. And Weasel Squeezer? Well, don’t get me started on that!

I can say however, it is not sexual, despite the run-ins I would have a few years later with a certain band leader and his crazy fat-ass wife. It was and remains nonsense. So, about a year later, I received a comment on the video from a certain Pedro Da Palma of Aarhus, Denmark, whom I discovered was actually online himself searching for Mykel Board’s old band Artless, to see if there were any films of his band , posted on YouTube. When he discovered there weren’t, he punched in Mykel’s name and found my throat singing video instead!

Sunday, April 3

I Am At Last Yours: An Occupational Hazard>Act 36

Disclaimer: Don't be dismayed at goodbyes. A farewell is necessary before you can meet again. And meeting again, after moments or lifetime, is certain for those who are friends. Why does it take a minute to say hello and forever to say goodbye? Absence from whom we love is worse than death, and frustrates hope severer than despair. May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind be ever at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face and the rain fall softly on your fields. And until we meet again, may God hold you in the hollow of his hand. Love reckons hours for months, and days for years; and every little absence is an age. Fiction can be that way sometimes. Any similarities to persons living or dead are purely coincidental & should not be taken or misconstrued as such. Anyone who thinks otherwise probably believes that not only is great is the art of beginning, but greater is the art of ending and should remember not to cry because it's over; smile because it happened.

In the end, life doesn’t matter. It’s the bad, weird and funny stuff that the rest of the population will always remember about you. I know that now and I knew it back then. What I didn’t know back then, was how much hatred and contempt they held for me, enough so that they wanted to kill me right on the spot. And when I was executed that afternoon, I remembered how sad I felt for five minutes, but how freeing my soul would be in the journey I would take into the next world.

But let me back up. Back up to early spring nearly two years ago-when I felt my demise was eminent, when I knew death was slinking around the corner, waiting to hook me into a grave quicker than I realized. I remember the time I was in the prison shower facilities drying myself off and talking to Dusty Rusty about the upcoming season prospects of the Devil’s Island baseball team, when The Most Divine One came in and for whatever reason at hand, began smashing one of the toilet seats up and down and back and forth, unabashedly wild, while looking at me angrily. Me and Dusty Rusty were perplexed and did what any human with their wits still about them, would do; we got the hell out of there and touched base later that night. Seemingly, Dusty Rusty, suggested that The Most Divine One was practicing what he preaches, his new practical theory about his own experience within the prison system, entitled, “Curmudgeon In A Can.”

Then the bottom fell out. And everywhere I went, The Most Devine One followed me; or had his foot soldiers or bootlickers follow me. Prison bathroom trips were never quite the same when I had to use the facilities only to realize I was being watched closely or followed. I had to think quickly and curl myself up in a fetal position upon the toilet seat, just to keep from getting discovered that I was relieving myself from new medicinal treatments I was receiving from the prison’s outpatient psych ward. I didn’t feel safe anywhere, not by a long shot.

The screws were being tightened. And the tighter they became, the more I dug in. The more I had to invent and reinvent ways from keeping myself from going mad or just plain crazy. And believe me, they were doing everything in their power to get me to commit suicide. My body couldn’t lie for much longer, as the longer I tried to hold it in, I developed the shakes; my nervous system was on overload and as a result, I started breaking down and that’s exactly what the plan was that he had in mind.

I knew too much; knew how the system worked; knew who was sleeping with who; knew about the great secret fraud that was being passed around like cocaine sprinkled upon a baby lying on a platter party tray. I knew everything; I exposed their secret lies, warned others before they met their untimely demises; I told the stories over and over and in different ways. I knew who they were protecting; who was under the radar and whose asses they kissed or bounced bellies with. I knew all of that just by observing and taking mindful mental notes.

I remember back to the day that The Most Divine One and the Fraternal Goon Twins found out that I was keeping track of them; just as they had been quietly keeping track of us; the harassment that followed for weeks after and the encouragement I received behind the prison walls, even as no one would step forward to back me up. They were all afraid for their lives and did whatever they had to survive-in other words, they were sheep. When I said blue, they screamed orange. That’s how I knew the tide was turning and my own tsunami was closing in on me, just waiting to drown me.

I remember all the fights, all the shouting matches, all the deaths, all the anger, all the hatred and yet, I didn’t care anymore-I did want out and I kept looking for other avenues of justice, but I never found any; they always led to dead-ends; even as others like Loud-Mouthed Lucy told me that I’d be alright; but I never was. Never was alright. Never would be. Not in this lifetime, nor ever.

On the day that I was executed, Suzy Scarecrow marched up to me and said we need to visit The Most Divine One. I didn’t understand why at first and then I knew. As I stood before the fat bastard, he threw the book at me and accused me of every dirty trick in the prison system that I ever committed; dirty tricks that he taught me when I first arrived on Devil’s Island oh so long ago-the same dirty tricks that he committed and passed onto every prisoner that he wanted to do his dirty work for him; like The Numbers Game. Who could ever forget that? Johnny Vegas (refer to Act 9 & Act 28 for further explanation) became his number one bootlicker for him; his golden boy, the boy who could never go wrong even when the rest of us knew damn well that he was skimming the tops for The Most Divine One. And then, he rewarded him handily by placing him in a golden cell, which Johnny Vegas took to like the glad-handing chameleon that he was. And what was the purpose of The Numbers Game? To skim the cream and let Upper Prison Brass know that he, The Most Divine One, was keeping the prisoners in line.

And who could ever forget the insanitary conditions of that prison? No ventilation. Sickness and disease spread casually, like herpes on a doorknob. And what about the X-5 Unit, that roving gang of mad idiots who gambled prisoners’ rights away, whilst Upper Prison Brass just sat on their hands, admiring the view? And what about The Thin Man and all the chaos he created? And old Twitchy who moaned and bitched a lot over nothing? And the Fraternal Goon Twins who bullied and intimidated the lot of us? And what about the great Broadcast Betty and her cohort, Dirty-Dishing Daisy, the greatest and slimiest gossipers on Devil’s Island? And Old Black Devil herself? The one who got me in this mess to begin; what about her?

Rumor had it that The Most Divine One and Old Black Devil were banging the bars at night, but I don’t know.

So there I stood, as the great fat bastard read me my crimes against humanity, while Suzy Scarecrow sat silently like an unplugged robot. And when my turn came to speak; I was laughed at and called a liar and in the heat of the accusations, he put forth a mountain of evidence against me. I too had evidence, but tucked away secretly that prolonged my life for another 24 months.

And now, that 24 months has expired; my march to the death chamber has arrived; I am wearing a straitjacket with shackles twisted around my arms and feet. There is no way out of this final mile to the end; everyone who wants to see me dead is at last getting their wish. No turning back. Tonight, I go out a silent hero, having told my stories to anyone who would listen and that means, you, you and you and her, too.

Take me Oh Lord. I am at last yours.