All I did was what I had to
Don't believe me when I tell you
It's just what anyone would do
Take the time to talk about it
Think a lot and live without it
Don't believe me when I tell you
It's something unforgiveable

Taking Back Sunday, "There's No 'I' In Team"
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A couple of interesting moments last night. Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays are my busiest since I come back to Camarillo with enough time to just chill for a moment before heading off to an AA meeting. At the meeting itself, I confirmed my belief that I'm most certainly not an alcoholic, if only because I rarely would drink to get drunk, so to speak. I drink wine, single malts and beer for the flavor; the effects are secondary. But regardless, I'm sitting there listening to illiterate drunks try and read from a collection of letters culled over the years describing the experiences of other alcoholics. Some would pause and snicker at such sophomoric times as when they run into the word "queried". The sad part is that some members in the audience were encouraging them. I suppose that any participation is good, as long as it doesn't involve me.

I then had late chow and sat to enjoy my bland sustenance. I'll still reiterate: no one would ever starve in work furlough. They were offering third, fourth, and fifth helpings to anyone that wanted it. Imagine if my sentence was, instead, described as having to live in a bad apartment for five months (at $64/day, with a veritable buffet of food available). That doesn't sound too shabby.

I'm sitting there, and in comes Jorge with a mountain of food in front of him. He's throwing it down like he's in an eating contest. A couple of fellas and I marvel at this feat, and it's discovered that he's about to be rolled up. This expression refers to the transfer of someone from work furlough to County Jail. Not a good thing. He has about five weeks of time left that he has to serve, not from the comforts of Disneyland, but from the very real and very scary County Jail. A big Samoan guy next to me named Pulu made the comment, "Eat up, Jorge. You're going to need that energy." Jorge's heart was like flint the whole time; he ate like any normal evening. But there was a slight waver in his face, like the look of a dam of tears about to break. Not Jorge, though, he's far too tough, a hard-edged vato 'til the end. If it were me, I wouldn't be able to contain my sorrow. Jorge simply continued to eat mashed potatoes.

(Of course, if it were me, I wouldn't have gotten into enough trouble that would give them any reason to roll me up.)

Michael (an inmate from another room) was lying in Rob's bunk messing around with his radio around 10pm that evening, and some random R&B jam that Michael likes comes on. He begins to sing along, terribly, I might add, and George makes a comment about how he's going to be the next American Idol reject. It's at this point when my empathy kicks in. I know Michael has been having a hard time, unable to find work and strapped for cash. He's got an interview tomorrow and I donate some bus fare money (as well as give him another bus schedule that I serendipitously took when I already had two) so that he could make it the Thousand Oaks Denny's. George was being kind of mean while Michael was enjoying his song, and I really believe in the healing power of music. There's something magical about the way certain sinusoids, gathered together and arranged together at mixed frequencies, affect the mind. George continued teasing him. I get the impression that he treats Michael like a misbehaving dog. I made the comment to Ray earlier in the evening that sometimes all a person needs is to have a job to straighten them out. It's the tangible, financial reward of handling responsibility. Anyway, I think George recognized that I wasn't going to chime in and join his chorus of jeers, and he finally relented.