We seem to be living in the Age of the Asshole. At no point in my life can I remember a time when there were more assholes in the world than right now. It used to be just a few assholes existed and you couldn’t stand for the things they said or did and we shunned them but now we have one running for President of the United States of America and for a large percentage of Americans that’s OK.  Guess what folks?  It’s not OK.  Assholes suck!

I don’t begin to pretend for a minute that in my lifetime I haven’t been an asshole. Oh, just ask my wife, and she can retell nearly every single time I was reprehensible. I, of course, tend to forget these times and yet of the ones I do remember, I’m filled with incredible guilt and regret over such actions. Today’s asshole just doesn’t seem to care and neither does the American public at large.  We tend to accept the asshole as a way of life now.  We shouldn’t.

We Americans seem to have lost all sense of decency. We disrespect our President, our Police force, our Military, our people of color, the LGBT community, Christians, Pagans, our Veterans, just about everyone. What is causing all of this hatred?

Some would point to an apathetic American society who is unwilling to accept our differences.  Is it so wrong to love your fellow person? Can we not as a human race be more accepting of one another? No one is perfect. No one. We all have our faults, our idiosyncrasies, our skin color, and our beliefs. Still, I’ve never felt so shocked about how American people treat each other today.  We can’t seem to get past not everyone is like us.  This is not OK!

There’s no respect, no love, no empathy. This is not what I envisioned for the American way of life in my advancing age. The Internet is a wonderful vehicle to connect people  but it seems to be dividing and fomenting anger instead of love. Why can’t social media not bring us together as a people instead of turning most of us into “un-frienders.” Can we not lead the online voices of the majority of good people to drown out the venom of the haters?

Assholes need to be shunned and real heroes voices like those from our Military, Teachers, Counselors, Veterans, first responders, Government leaders, and, yes, athletes, need to be heard. Let’s let the virtual world know we’re tired of all the publicity afforded to dickheads.  If we don’t, anger and disorder will continue to rule.

Imagine all the people living life in peace.  I am.

Oscar Boy, thank you for the Happy Father’s Day wishes.  I know you sent them to me telepathically because Boy I know you love me.  As your Daddy Dog, I felt it important to lay down (once ag…

Source: A Father’s Day Message to My Son – If Only He Could Read

Oscar Boy, thank you for the Happy Father’s Day wishes.  I know you sent them to me telepathically because Boy I know you love me.  As your Daddy Dog, I felt it important to lay down (once again) a few ground rules in hopes this time, on my special day, they will sink in and guide you along your journey to adulthood.  Without your commitment to these core principles you will be yelled at, isolated, and forever compared to the two amazing poochie monsters we owned before you, Mabel and Hazel, your sisters and the two best canines who ever lived.

First, and foremost, never, ever, steal Mommy Dog’s sandwich again.  Unless, of course, you enjoyed seeing her meltdown before our very eyes.  While, I’m sure the turkey, bread, and vegetables were delicious, was it really worth making Mommy mad and being shut into the washroom alone for 10 minutes?  Eat your own food!

Next, you have destroyed our entire sprinkler system in the backyard.  This is also unacceptable behavior.  I’m sure you thought the plastic pipes and sprinkler heads were delectable, but repairing your chew toy will cost Daddy and Mommy about $3,500.  What were you thinking?  I already give you 3 rawhides per week.  Chew those!

The couch pillows, my socks, Mommy’s sports bra, our shoes, the trash, used Kleenex, and your blanket were not purchased for you to put into your mouth.  Stop, please stop, or you’re going to be in big trouble.  You have at least two dozen legal toys to play with like the Kong ball, countless tennis balls, stuffed Squirrel, Moose, Duck, and Beaver, the Birthday Monkey and a Tug Toy which are all SAFE to chew.  Play with those!

By adherence to Daddy Dog’s rules, your reward is a lifelong overabundance of love, two square meals a day, treats for any good reason including acceptable behavior like sit, down, stay, come, leave it and wait, car rides when we have to run errands, multiple walks per day, a weekend visit to the Dog Park, sleeping in the same bed as Mommy and Daddy, an annual beach romp and swim and the aforementioned rawhides during the evening.

Now, I know you can’t understand this but I sure wish you could.  You also need to know the rest of your family and the expectations we have put upon you based on your siblings.  Your pack includes two more who you will never know until we all meet up one day at The Rainbow Bridge.  But, oh, they were good dogs.

Your oldest sister, Mabel (a Yellow you), was adopted at a mere 6 weeks.  She was the runt of her litter and quite possibly the best behaved dog we’ve ever owned.  Though she had her moments including nipping at Mommy’s heels so incessantly she was nearly given up.  Eventually, she grew out of puppyhood, drove with us across the country from Alameda, California to Boston, Massachusetts and lived an amazing, fun-filled life until Spondylosis got her in the end.  The worst thing she ever did was drink my whiskey and push Mommy Dog out of bed.  She was my favorite.

Hazel (a chocolate), your middle sister, was discovered at Seal Beach Animal Control Center, where I volunteered part-time.  She was known for her beautiful, high-pitched, singing voice when a visitor entered the room, snuggling underneath the blankets, and enthusiastic walks.  Like you, she would do anything for a treat.  She lived a long life but forever wished she knew the reason her first pack gave her up.  We never understood either.  She was Mommy’s favorite and a wonderful dog.

You’ve still got a chance, Oscar Boy, to become a favorite of ours too.  But you better shape up and you better start minding us better and real quick.  We can’t always pay attention to you, though we know that’s what you want.  We can’t always play and give you treats and let you do whatever the hell you want.  The only thing that saves you, Oscar, is your adorable face.  Your sweet disposition in the morning, from which only God knows where it comes from, is behavior we want to see more of.  Even lying on your back, showing us your furry wiener is better than being an asshole.

Don’t be an asshole.

Love, Daddy J. Dog

This post is dedicated to my friend Ronda.

I was 8 years old when I played organized baseball for the first time.  It was tee ball and my games were at Harvey West Park in Santa Cruz.  I don’t remember much about the games back then except for the time I hit a ball over the outfielder’s head.   The sound of my mother’s scream still rings in my head.  The adrenaline bolt I felt then I feel today when I do the same thing.  There’s something about the feeling you get when you crush a baseball that’s nearly indescribable except maybe it’s just like hitting the one perfect golf shot you hit each round that makes you want to come back.  When the magic happens, after so many frustrating swing attempts, you don’t feel anything except exhilaration as the ball soars off your bat.  You can hear a sound like no other when you hit a ball well – you know you’ve hit it good – and then unlike golf in an instant you know it’s time to run.

Now, some 40 plus years later, I still play the game.  In High School, I played Football and Basketball and I was a decent player but it was baseball where I excelled. After 4 years of baseball in college at the NCAA Division 2 level, I took a few years off, coached a co-ed softball team where my wife and I were teammates and champions, and then I moved to Boston and returned to playing baseball.  I haven’t stopped since.  Nowadays, I have to remind my friends it’s not softball, it’s baseball that I play.  You know, smaller ball, 90 feet between the bases, the pitcher stands 60 feet 6 inches away from home plate and throws overhand from a mound.

I exercise regularly just so I can continue to play baseball.  No game gives me greater joy.  I even like practice because I know everything I do outside of the game is preparing me to play the game.  Playing baseball means having the ability to produce bursts of speed at any moment but it also means endurance.  You need to be in shape to play 9 innings after 8 hours of work.

Playing on work nights can be tough.  The baseball fields where I play are about 20 miles east of downtown Portland and I work about 20 miles west.  It can sometimes take 2 hours through commute traffic to get to the field.  I usually arrive just 30 minutes before the start of the game.  I pull into the parking lot and change into my uniform.  The inside of my Ford Escape smells like a locker room.  I grab my bat bag, my helmet, and my uniform top.  I never put on my uniform top until just the beginning of a game.  One of my superstitions.  I head to the dugout and greet my teammates and put on my spikes.

I have a pregame routine I learned in college and seldom deviate from it.  I deeply stretch my legs starting with the hamstrings, then my quadriceps, groin, and calves.  I stretch my lower back and my arms.  Then I do about a 6-8 wind sprints of about 100 feet.  Next it’s time to throw.  These days it doesn’t take quite as long to warm up my arm.  A dozen or two throws and I’m good to go.

Next up is infield practice, if there’s time, before the start of the game.  Infield is one of those pregame rituals that I really love.  The juices start flowing and gets you ready to play.  There’s a routine here too.  The coach hits balls to the outfielders – left first, then center, and ends with right.  Throws go to second base, third, and finally home.  When the outfielders are done, it’s time for us infielders.  Groundballs start with the 3rd basemen going to first base, then the shortstop, the second baseman, and then my coach likes the 1st basemen to throw to 3rd base.  I’m not sure why exactly.  The 1st basemen seldom, if ever, throws to 3rd.  We have a round where we turn double plays and finally end with throws home.  The whole process can take just 5-10 minutes.  The warm up is as critical now as it’s ever been to an old baseball player like me.

It’s usually at this point where I check the lineup to see where I’m hitting in the order and what position I’m playing.  I’m an infielder.  Depending on who shows up, I could be at 1st, 2nd, Shortstop, or 3rd base.  I don’t care.  I like them all.  I hit anywhere from 4th to 6th in the batting order.

With only 5 minutes before the start, as the coaches are exchanging the lineup cards and talking to the umpires, I realize I’ve got to go to the bathroom.  Even now, I still get overly excited to play this game.  I sometimes have to go 2 or 3 times.  If  I wasn’t still thrilled to play the game, I wouldn’t play.  It’s not jitters.  I’m not nervous.  I’m excited.  I want to go.  Go hard.  I’m a competitive son of a bitch, so I want to win.  Every time.

Baseball is a funny game.  You fail more than you succeed  which is why I probably love it so much.  When you do get a hit, make a great play, win, you cherish it like your first love.  You never want it to end.  You want it to last forever.  But, failure can happen too just like that bringing you back down like someone hammering a nail that’s sticking out.  You succeed.  You fail.  You fail again and again and again.  When you win, it’s here and then it’s gone like a spring rain.  It’s here and then it’s gone.  It’s here and then it’s gone.

I learned at a very young age when you step between the white lines you run to your position, you don’t walk.  So, when I take the field, I run.  Charlie Baker never wants to be called a lollygagger.  There are a lot of pitches in a baseball game over 100 in most.  Your mind wanders.  You have to concentrate on every pitch and expect every ball is going to be hit to you.  You also need to think about the countless scenarios of where you should be going if the ball isn’t hit to you like covering a base, backing up, or being a cutoff man.  Baseball is about routines.  It’s about making the plays you’re supposed to make.  It’s not the team that makes the great plays who win the game, it’s the teams who make the routine plays every time that wins.

Hitting is an entirely different experience than fielding.  It’s 1 on 1.  You have to be ready to swing at every pitch.  You also need to be looking at your 3rd base coach for any signs a play might be on like a steal, bunt, or hit and run.  If no play is on, then like Yogi Berra once said, “Baseball is 90 percent mental. The other half is physical.”  Inside the batter’s box, I talk to myself like Crash Davis did in  the movie Bull Durham.”  Throw that shit again, Meat. Throw that weak-ass shit again.”  Mentally, you have to think you’re invincible.  Anything that pitcher throws, you can hit it.  If you have any doubts whatsoever, you’re out.  If you think take a pitch vs. swing, you’re out.

Baseball is the ultimate team game in that you need the other 8 guys not only to play their positions and help you get outs and but to knock you in to score runs.  Plus, your teammates help pick you up after you’re feeling down when you make a mistake or fail to come through at the plate.  Baseball is a game of failure.  The best hitters in the game fail 7 out of 10 times.  When you’re not hitting well, it can wear on you.  Going hitless can kill your self confidence and make you feel like a worthless teammate.  You always need to pick yourself back up and trust you’ll get ’em next time.  There are other ways to contribute to winning like playing stellar, error free, defense.  Winning isn’t all that matters.  Feeling like you’ve contributed to the win is all that matters.

I’m going to play baseball for as long as I can.  The game is in my blood and is who I am.  It’s taught me so much and made me so tough that even the worst day at work can’t bring me too far down because I know there will always be teammates to pick me back up and another chance to enjoy those briefest moments of success.

This morning I read with much sadness a headline on BBC.com about a blast killing 60 people at a Lahore, Pakistan park .  The Taliban claimed responsibility for the suicide bomb attack on mostly women and children celebrating Easter with their families.  We Americans have seen stories like this seemingly forever but more so since the 9/11 attacks in New York, Washington, DC, and Pennsylvania nearly 15 years ago.  It got me to thinking what could be accomplished by these fanatical terrorists groups who plot and the people who carry out these heinous acts of senseless violence?

To blow up yourself and innocent people because you differ in their ideology makes no sense.  Besides, what could the Taliban possibly have against children?  Their lives were just getting started and probably hadn’t yet formed an opinion other than what their parents and teachers put into their pubescent brains.  The last I checked, all a suicide attack does is cut the number of people who support their flawed position and increases your enemies.  Throughout history this desperate strategy fails every time.  You would think these crazy fucks who lead these outrageous collection of fools would want their belief systems to endure, to win in the cities and the countries where they live but they are going about this all wrong and they’re too stupid to realize it.

The Taliban and other Terrorist groups are brainwashing people willing to die for their cause.  At some point, will all these people literally dying for their misguided principles one day stop to realize they aren’t accomplishing anything?  So many people will be against their way of life they will be further isolated against the rest of the world and they will slowly kill themselves off, be captured or executed until they and their mores no longer exist.

Wouldn’t it make more sense if the Taliban or other Terrorist groups stopped the violent acts to explain why their values are superior to the current way life in the societies to which they belong?  This is not a Christian vs. Muslim belief.  The idea of rational, peaceful, dialogue is the very foundation of human life no matter what your religious affiliation.  Peace has a greater chance of success than killing innocent women and children.  The killing strategy is not only morally reprehensible it has no possible chance of winning.  Ever.  So, why continue down this horrifying path?

Is it simply too hard to say no?  Is it so hard to lay down your arms, to stop making bombs, and instead focus on a war of philosophies?

The world is a big place.  There are literally billions of freedom loving people of all faiths.  The numbers are against the suicide bombers.  Their kind literally are dying faster than can possibly replace them.  Their strategy is flawed and they can never win.  Killing will never solve anything.  They can’t ever get their way.  Ever.

As John Lennon once wrote, “All I am saying.  Is give Peace a chance.”

I’ve always loved dancing.  Once I got over my shyness and fear of rejection that is.  I wasn’t the most confident of guys in high school, so putting myself out there and asking a young woman to dance was harder than hitting a curveball to right field.  As I’ve gotten older and more confident, it’s not such a big deal.  I can dance like everyone is watching.

Out on the dance floor I shake and jive to the rhythm of the beat in my head.  I never really received any formal training.  I tried to copy everyone else and moved my head and waved my arms and shook my ass like I knew what I was doing.  No one ever complained but no one ever complimented me either.

I really didn’t have a girlfriend in high school which meant when a slow dance came on and I was lucky enough to have a lass say, “yes”, I punished the poor girl with a raging hard on pressed into her stomach as if I was pushing my key into her ignition. The scent of a woman’s hair was enough to get me excited and as my hormones raced  I tried to remember to listen to the music and not the devilish thoughts inside my nymphomaniacal head.

In college, it was different.  I had a girlfriend (who eventually became my wife) and I really didn’t go out dancing.  Drinking, yes, dancing not really.  Mostly I went to baseball team parties (I didn’t belong to a fraternity), where girlfriends and wannabe’s would show up and blast music from a boom box.  Mostly the women would dance among themselves to Devo, Madonna, or Michael Jackson songs.  While the guys talked baseball games past and present, I would look to the dance floor to see if I could pop into a circle of girls pretending to breakdance by doing a somersault into the middle, cracking most of the people up, and then I’d moonwalk (badly) back to the guys conversation as if nothing happened.

After college, dancing at my friends and my wedding reception became the time to try out my more mature moves.  Alcohol was a reason to let go, to shake my ass a little harder, to jump a little higher but losing my inhibition on the dance floor became more of a realization that, good or bad, no one really cared about your moves.  The whole idea about shaking your ass was about having fun.  And what is wrong with that?  Absolutely nothing.  Say it again.

On a recent business trip, I think I shocked a few people.  On a particularly taxing 4 day adventure away from home, on our last night in town, the group decided to go out after dinner and hit a Blues bar on Beale Street.  Our merry band of a dozen co-workers mixed unevenly 4 men to 8 women seemed about as unlikely a group to go out dancing as a bunch of introverts at a public speaking seminar.

I knew of no better way to get this party started than to literally dive on the dance floor.  My colleagues fell on the floor laughing.  Alas, I was only getting started.  When my tee-shirt flew off during Nelly’s, “It’s getting hot in here, so take off all your clothes,” I had them slapping their knees, wiping away tears and begging to understand why I wasn’t working in standup comedy.  Even the DJ told one of my colleagues, “Man, I need to invite that guy to my wedding.”  When the song ended, I put my shirt back on and we left soon after smiling and laughing like old friends.

Ah, the Boogie Nights.  They didn’t start as the best in town but they sure are now.   I’ve become somewhat of a legend with my co-workers who now want to join me on business trips if for nothing but a good, hearty, belly laugh.

In the Fall of 1989, Janet Jackson released her hit single, Rhythm Nation.  I loved that song not just for the amazing beat but for the poignant lyrics.  It was a crazy year that started ever so sweetly with my favorite team the San Francisco 49ers winning Super Bowl XXIII over the Cincinnati Bengals 20-16 thanks to a last minute touchdown pass from Joe Montana to John Taylor.  That year, change was everywhere.  The USSR pulled out of Afghanistan.  George Bush, Senior became President of the United States.  The Berlin Wall fell and the East German government collapsed.  The first black governor in the United States was elected.  Janet’s ballad was the right song at the right time because barriers were being broken down.  Recent times in the USA sparked in my mind we need a Rhythm Nation revival now more than ever.  To my Rhythm Nation brothers and sisters, hear my call!

Back then, being a proud member of the Rhythm Nation was more than just busting a move (in case you didn’t get the reference, the hit MC Hammer song “Bust a Move” was also released in 1989).  If you listened closely to the lyrics, you heard Janet’s song meant breaking the color lines.  It meant working together to improve our way of life.  It meant joining forces in protest to social injustice.  It takes courage to come forth and look for a better way of life.  These words were not unlike those of Martin Luther King, Jr., who’s National Holiday, some of us in the United States are enjoying today.  Upon reflection, not everyone feels this way.  People of the Rhythm Nation unite!  Lend a hand to help your brother do his best.  Things are getting worse.  We have to make them better.  It’s time for all of us to give a damn, not just for the MLK, Jr holiday, but for the very ideals of peace and equality.

Are Janet’s words any less relevant today as they were in 1989?  Or in 1968?  Or even way back in 1619 when the first African slaves were brought to the North American colony of Jamestown, Virginia.  One of my favorite Martin Luther King, Jr. quotes is, “Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter.”  It is time to speak out not in hatred but in love.  Love for your fellow human being.  Let’s break the color lines.  There is strength in numbers.

All lives matter.  All.  Another favorite quote, “I have a dream that my four little children will one day live in a nation where they will not be judged by the color of their skin, but by the content of their character.”  I don’t believe we’ve reached MLK’s vision or Janet’s.  Let us all love each other and base our irresistible urge to judge on the actions of others and not on the color of their skin.

There is love in all of us.  I know it.  I’m so tired of reading about another person of color harassed or even killed by a white person’s hands.  We need to break this pattern of fear and hate and live in peace and harmony and love.  Can we do this?  I believe I can because I am a part of the Rhythm Nation.   Who is with me?

I have decided to stick with love. Hate is too great a burden to bear.  – Martin Luther King, Jr.

Merry Christmas!

My gift to you is a new post reviewing the results of my twelve (one for every month) Sports Predictions for 2015. Yes, I know, just what you always wanted.  I’m also out to prove sport is unpredictable which is what makes it so fantastic.  Let’s review how I did, shall we?

On New Year’s Day 2015, I predicted:

• January:  The Oregon Ducks would win the inaugural College Football Playoffs over the Alabama Crimson Tide.  Wrong!
• February:  The Seattle Seahawks would become the first back to back National (American) Football League champions since the 2005 New England Patriots.  Wrong!
• March:  South Africa would win their 1st Cricket World Cup.  Wrong!
• April:  Tiger Woods would win the Masters for his 15th Major.  Wrong!
• May:  Circassian would win the Kentucky Derby.  Wrong!
• June:  Germany would win the Women’s World Cup.  Wrong!
• July:  The United States would win the most Gold, Silver, and Bronze medals at the 17th Pan American Games.  Correct!  Finally, one right.
• August:  Australia would win their 12th World Championship of Netball.  Correct!  I’m on a roll now.  That’s two in a row.
• September:  Yana Kudryavtseva would dominate at the World Rythmic Gymnastic Championships.  Boom!  Three in a row!
• October:  The St. Louis Cardinals would win the World Series of Major League Baseball.  The streak is over.  Wrong!
• November:  I would win the 94 – 105 kg Snatch, Clean & Jerk and Total at the World Weightlifting Championships.  Wrong!  I didn’t even get invited.  Bastards!
• December:  Canada’s Rosannagh Maclennan would win the World Trampoline Championships.  Wrong!

I only got 3 out 12 correct?  What kind of sportsman am I?  Honestly, I’m a helluva sports guy just a lousy predictor of who is going to win or lose.  Which goes to show you how unpredictable sports is.  I challenge anyone of you to do what I just did.  Oh, sure, some of my picks were tongue in cheek but for the most part I picked the favorites in each sport.  You just never know.  This is why they play the game.  You can study statistics all day long but in the end it is the team or individual or horse who wants it the most and who is the luckiest who comes out on top.

I chuckle when I watch sports commentators on television or on the radio or on the web who make a living predicting who is going to win and who is going to lose.  Even these so called experts don’t really have a clue.  Predicting sporting event outcomes is like predicting the weather only a helluva lot more fun and potentially financially rewarding if you guess correctly.  I’m sorry, no one, not even your Charlie Baker is a perfect guesser.

Have a glorious Holiday Season and thanks for reading my musings about sport, life and loves.

Peace.  Goodwill toward Men, Women, Kids, and Dogs.

I love books, movies, and TV shows about prison life.  The characters in these stories are remarkable, compelling, and often heart wrenching.  Some prisoners are wrongly incarcerated and some aren’t.  While others appear heroic and shown to have a sense of right and wrong, the most memorable are vile creatures and usually they’re the guys running the hoosegow.  Still, no matter what, I’m never, ever, going to put myself in a position where I have to go to prison.  I would not last long.

This awareness of the importance of law abidance began when I saw the movie “Papillon” in 1973. The movie starred Steve McQueen and Dustin Hoffman. They served their sentences together on a dreadful prison island. No way, Jose, was I going to have to resort to eating insects to survive or would I if ever in that situation.  I vowed back then to never have to find out.

The 1974 movie “The Longest Yard” starring Burt Reynolds starts off with a chase scene and the ex-football star’s arrest.  I loved the movie but the implausible plot (playing football against the Guards as if that would ever happen), the murder of the character Caretaker and the sadistic Warden Hazen were enough for me to realize living behind bars would never, could ever, be this fun.  There were nut jobs and bad dudes in prison who could kill you just because you looked at them funny.  Plus, the Warden, the Guards, they have always had and always will have all the power.

I grew up in the San Francisco Bay Area and used to look longingly at Alcatraz Island.  I would think about what amazing views the prisoners had of the city, not realizing  then what the total isolation must’ve done to the men who were incarcerated there.  When Clint Eastwood’s 1979 flick, “Escape from Alcatraz” came out, the scene where Doc cuts his fingers off with a hatchet because the Warden has taken away his painting priviliges stood out.  Without painting what did Doc have use for his fingers anymore?  That’s desperation caused by being locked up in a cell in a maximum security prison  on a rock in the middle of the ocean with almost no hope for escape.  No thank you!

My favorite movie of all time is the “Shawshank Redemption.”  But, there is no way I’m swimming through 500 yards of sewage pipe to reach freedom.  I can dream about living in Zihuatanejo with my best friend but the shit the character Andy Dufresne endures would break any man.  I would’ve been broken the first time I was assaulted by The Sisters and not even the murder of Tommy Williams, my ticket to proving my innocence, would compel me to do anything but curl up in a ball and cry and wish I had been the one shot.

Speaking of being broken,  I was a regular viewer of the the HBO series, “Oz.”  I still have nightmares about the battles for power and survival amid the warring factions and the explosive acts of retribution inside Emerald City.  The character’s Chris Keller and Vernon Schillinger were by far the most scary to me.  No, I never, ever, want to meet men like these two in prison or anywhere else for that matter.

I just finished reading “Orange is the New Black”, a New York Times best selling memoir by Piper Kerman. You may have read the book or watched the Netflix series on television.  If you haven’t, Kerman spent a year in a Federal penitentiary for women and wrote an unforgettable story of female bonding and survival. This book was a striking reminder of why I try to live my life never doing something stupid enough to go to prison, ever. I’m not judging anyone who has made such a mistake. I just value my freedom way too much and prison life will never be appealing to me and shouldn’t be to anyone unless you’re reading, watching or hearing someone else’s story.