Jokin' 'bout the joys of jail

(693 words)

It would be a better story if I could honestly say I was there the night Capt. Tony told my buddies he didn’t respect any man who hadn’t spent at least one night in jail.

But that wouldn’t be the truth.

It was Spring Break back in 1985 and my buddies were in Key West while I was back home in Pittsburgh (no dough). And it would be an even better story if I could honestly say at that very moment I was in jail for doing something bone-headed like, say, being drunk and cutting the heads off of municipal parking meters. That’s how they snagged Lucas Jackson in “Cool Hand Luke,” my favorite character from my favorite movie. 

I wish I had been there and had heard the words straight from the mouth of Tony Tarracino, aka Capt. Tony, legendary owner of his namesake bar immortalized that very year by Jimmy Buffett in “Last Mango in Paris.” This was back before Buffett  became a conglomerate dabbling in restaurants, satellite radio, senior living.

Back when he still had what I guess you’d call beach cred.

The captain believed any man worth his salt had to at least once give The Man The Finger and spend at least a night in the slammer. It was a rite of passage.

It made sense to me and — boom — like that within the next year I was tossed into the Dormont Muncipal Jail for a crime I did commit (sorta).

Why I chose to follow the second-hand advice of a drunken old sea captain over the respectable multitudes urging me toward prudence and occupational responsibility is the story of my life.

But — aye, aye — the captain was correct. Doing at least one night in jail did bestow some worldliness. It gave me a great story (link below) and led to what was until recently one of my favorite bar conversation starters:

“Tell me about the night you spent in jail.”

You’ll be surprised by how many now-respectable men have had momentary bouts of lawlessness that led to a night in the Iron Bar Hotel.

The stories are often hilarious, even more so because the illegality is usually something they were once ashamed to admit.  What was once taboo has become humor.

The stories usually involve drugs, drunkeness and midnight mischief. I’m friends with a guy who stole a bulldozer and took it for a 6 mph joy ride down Main Street before realizing too late he was unskilled at knowing how to bring the machine to a complete halt. 

I know some guys who were busted breaking into a car impound lot to steal back their car and in their drunken confusion would up stealing the wrong car.

So I felt I was on stable ground Friday when I asked a buddy my light-hearted question: “Tell me about the night you spent in jail.”

“Which one? There were 528 of them.”

I’ll reveal no details that might lead any snoops to track down his identity except for this: His incarceration made national news and involved a cross-country ride in the caged back of a van driven by the man who would become famous as “Dog The Bounty Hunter,” and included two months with Unabomber Ted Kaczynski as his cell mate and that the terrorist was pretty cool.

It would be a better story if I could say my friend busted Ted for using his toothbrush, but that wouldn’t be true.

It was the most compelling (and entertaining) tale I’ve ever heard in response to my jocular question. And it was the last time I’ll ask it.

Our scars are the most interesting and revealing features of an aging man. But there are sound reasons why some men tend secrets.

Who am I to tap dance among the tombstones in search of bar giggles?

And I fear I, a mostly privileged aging white dude, might one day with buddy-buddy familiarity ask the wrong black man to regale me with some jaunty tales about his experiences with the law and he’ll want to kill me.

I’ll have it coming.

That’s the truth.

Related …

Me, Mandela & doin’ time

Life & Death of the prisoner with the big penis

Escaping “Escape from Dannamora” & the joys of bustin’ out

The prisons we construct around ourselves

Justice and John Grisham

Folicular follies

I don’t think I’ve ever typed or said the word “folicular” before just now. I’m not even sure it’s a word, but if it isn’t it ought to be because it’s just so fun to say. I’m going to try and include it at least four more times in the following 700 words or so.

I suppose it’s enjoyable because it includes fun sounds like “folly” and “lick you” which conjures all sorts of fun things from lovers to lollipops.

I read a great quote last year from a professional golfer named Rory Sabbatini. He said, “Lick the lollipop of mediocrity once and you’ll suck it forever.” I keep trying to remember to use it, but as of yet have been unable to shoehorn it into any story or conversation.

Folicular (that’s twice) matters have been on my mind lots these days because I’ve never been hairier. I’m on the sixth week of a quest to look as beastly as possible for my new photo for my Pennsylvania driver’s license set to expire this week.

It’s always been my belief that the more menacing your ID mug shot appears, the greater the chances are you’ll get out of any speeding tickets or other unwanted run- ins with John Law. The theory being that if you appear more wholesome in person than the surly you does on your ID, the suspicious officer is likely to conclude you’re endeavoring to become a better person than you were when the disheveled shot was taken and he might give you a break.

Six weeks shows commitment but I hope to devote the majority of 2012 to the project before the the new one expires in 2013.

Still, this result is already being admired by family and friends who’ve been remarking on it as I get more and more hairy. My mother recoils when I drop off the kids. My impatient wife keeps asking if I’m ever going to shave again. My favorite was from a buddy who struggled to place whom I was starting to resemble.

“I know!” he said in a “eureka!” moment of recognition. “It’s Ted Kaczynski, the Unabomber.”

Perfect. It’s exactly the look I’m after. And, really, if you get past T.K.’s homicidal tendencies, there are many similarities. We both live in isolated homesteads. We both think technology’s moving along too quickly and we both write long-winded, typo-laden manifestos that are largely ignored by a general public that regards us as wackos.

For anyone, any change in our personal appearances naturally draws us to the mirror and I’ve spent a lot of time gazing in mine over the past six weeks. They say the eyes we’re born with remain the same size throughout our lives, but our ears and nose grow a little bit every day. I’ve spent so much time staring in the mirror I think I’ve begun detecting movement.

But it was folicular (that’s three) alterations that drew most of my attention. The beard at the chin is gray, but not uniformly so. It seems almost striped and thus appears skunk-like.

Draw your own conclusions.

But what is most fascinating to me is the one stout gray hair that is rising from just above my forehead like a unicorn’s horn. It’s twice as long as the other brown hairs, more coarse and robust, kind of like a towering redwood in a forest of sycamore.

I suppose there’s a Vesuvius of gray just beneath my scalp and it’s erupting through that one mother pore.

I’ll probably shave the beard in the next few weeks and look forward to 2012 when I’ll grow a facial tumbleweed that’ll sprawl across my next driver’s license.

I haven’t decided what I’ll do with that one gray hair, but I’m leaning toward preserving it.

It has proven itself too exceptional to be severed. It has not licked the lollipop of folicular mediocrity.

That’s four foliculars and I almost got to use the entirety of that great Sabbatini lollipop quote.

Plus in the time it’s taken me to write this manifesto, my beard has grown microscopically. So have my ears and nose.

The way things have been going for me lately, I’ll count this as a fairly productive morning.