Restraint

Things wrong with America’s criminal justice system: Second in a series.

Today’s subject: Joe Arpaio!

If you’re lucky enough not to live in AZ, you might not know about Joe Arpaio. He’s the Maricopa County Sheriff signed a promise to serve only one term when he was elected in 1992. He’s still the Sheriff. When it comes to drug warriors, this guy doesn’t mess around. He’s got a self-propelled howitzer with “Sheriff Arpaio’s War on Drugs” painted on it, with some tasteful lightning bolts added for effect.

From a New Yorker profile of Sheriff Joe (pdf):

Arpaio ordered small, heavily publicized deprivations. He banned cigarettes from his jails. Skin magazines. Movies. Coffee. Hot lunches. Salt and pepper–Arpaio estimated that he saved taxpayers thirty thousand dollars a year by removing salt and pepper. Meals were cut to two a day, and Arpaio got the cost down, he says, to thirty cents per meal. “It costs more to feed dogs than it does the inmates,” he told me. Jail, Arpaio likes to say, is not a spa– it’s punishment. He wants inmated whose keenest wish is never to get locked up again. He limits their television, he told me, to the Weather Channel, C-Span, and, just to aggravate their hunger, the Food Network. For a while, he showed them Newt Gingrich speeches. “They hated him,” he said cheerfully. Why the Weather Channel, a British reporter once asked. “So these morons will know how hot it’s going to be while they are working on my chain gangs.”

Arpaio wasn’t kidding about chain gangs. Foreign television reporters couldn’t get enough footage of his inmates shuffling through the desert. New ideas for the humiliation of people in custody–whom the Sheriff calls, with pervasive disgust, “criminals,” although most are actually awaiting trial, not convicted of any crime–kept occurring to him. He put his inmates in black-and-white striped uniforms. The shock value of these retro prisoner outifts was powerful and complex. There was comedy, nostalgia, dehumanization, even a whiff of something annihilationist. He created female chain gangs, “the first in the history of the world,” and, eventualy, juvenile chain gangs.

Joe Arpaio is directly and personally responsible for stillbirths and miscarriages; and the deaths, brain damage, and severe injuries of newborn babies. Women who go into labor while in his jail aren’t allowed to hold or even see their babies after they’re born, even the ones who survive.

Arpaio has a reality show on Fox called “Smile You’re Under Arrest.” The premise of the show is to use big-breasted women and promises of a $300 prize to get people with nonviolent warrants to show up at a nightclub taken over by Joe for this purpose, and filled with paid actors and undercover cops (all at county expense). Then they have to participate- on national television- in either a fashion show or a dancing contest. Joe hides behind a curtain or under a covered table during all this; and after the fashion show or dancing contest is over, he jumps out and arrests them. Meanwhile over 40,000 felony warrants, many of them for rape or murder, go unserved and the homicide rate has jumped 167%. I’m not making this shit up.

( Much, much more, behind the cut… )

Arpaio's War on Drugs

(Most of this post is courtesy of SA’s HidingFromGoro. )

Let’s Go To Prison

Every year, over 90,000 women are raped in the United States.

If you’re an activist (or spend much time around activists), you might know this already. You might even talk about it, argue about why it happens, the effect it has on people, how to stop it.

What is less well-known is that every year, over 140,000 men are raped in the United States.

No one talks about it because it happens inside of prisons. No one cares about it because it happens to prisoners. On the inside, guards use rape (both implied and actual) as a form of prisoner control. On the outside, people joke about it. Worse even, they see it as a form of punishment prisoners should endure, even though rape inside of a prison is an order of magnitude more likely to transmit a disease than rape outside of one.

This is what 140,000 people looks like:

140000-people

Generations from now, our treatment of criminals will be looked at with the same disgust and horror that slavery is viewed with today, and our society will rightly be condemned as cruel and barbaric for it.

Parliament under attack

The cats on Parliament Hill have been recently joined by an even cuter set of characters.

“You’re only a rebel from the waist downwards,” he told her.

Alexander Charchar reimagines the cover art for Nineteen Eighty-Four:

1984 Reimagined
(Via the Office of the Privacy Commissioner of Canada.)

status++

+ I am posting this from in my new place in Chinatown.
+ My new apartment is two floors above someone amazing who I love.
- She has terrible wireless!
+ I got a free a mug with a kitten on it from the people who moved out!
+ Also a couch and TV stand!
- My TV just might be too epic to fit through the stairs.
+ I played an awesome set at Festival Kinetik in Montreal back in May, without a single on-stage reboot.
+ I also released the Ad·ver·sary remix disc!
+ I have some good ideas for the next Ad·ver·sary record.
+ They involve coal miners.
+ I have been practising for my Bluesfest show with Peter Murphy.
+ I also played an awesome show with Cyanotic at Zaphods.
-  …but I couldn’t join them for the whole tour due to work/sick/more.
± I then spent at least twenty hours watching Ken Burns documentaries in a haze of sickness.
- I have been too stressed and busy to write much lately.
+ I am going to order pizza.
+ It is going to be delicious.

Addendum:
+ It was delicious.

man i could really go for some burger king right now

VW Ad

(365.25 * 30) + 3

When my father was 27 years old, he held the owner of a downtown Ottawa hotel (and his lawyers) hostage at gunpoint, and forced them to sign papers transferring ownership of the building to him.  When he was 28, he burned the 145-year-old building to the ground to collect a half-million dollars in insurance money. He was thirty when he was indicted.

I never wanted to be anything in particular by the time I was thirty (assuming, like all teenagers, that I would never make it there), but I knew exactly what I didn’t want to be.

Just over three years ago I wrote about getting fucked over by the people I lived with, and resolved not to waste my time and energy on people who don’t hold up their end of the social contract (my “no jerks” policy). It was tougher than I can find words for, and I had to cut out a lot of people in my life who I previously considered friends — and while there are still holes in my heart where people I’ve lost used to be, my quality of life changed overnight, and I haven’t looked back.

I’ve also tried a lot of things since then to address the problems I have that are internal rather than external: Neurotherapy, meds, drugs, Man’s Search For Meaning and a fleet of therapists — I even wrote a fucking album — but it’s like chewing tylenol while walking on glass, and I’ve come to understand why that is:

I’ve spent my entire life living a series of shared fortunes; I’ve always been responsible for other people’s welfare, and other people have always been responsible for mine.

I need to own my own happiness and security, and no one else’s. I realized this last year, and set a deadline of my thirtieth birthday to get there. And so I have made some big decisions and taken some drastic steps in the last six or seven months.

I’m moving out of the house I share with Leslie, Mike and Suzanne — a house I love, where I live with people I love — into an apartment of my own. A place where I’m not ever worried about wrecking other people’s lives, where I won’t ever have to stress about collective finances, where I’m never going to get a surprise $1000+ hydro bill (or several of them consecutively), and where I can know exactly, every month, just how much I need to spend on where I live. Where no one’s nose gets broken but mine if I fuck things up.

I need space to take inventory of my own wants and needs, so that I can triage and try to make sure they don’t reach crisis proportions again.

I’m going to take whatever time I need to get my head and heart straight so that I can be a better friend, partner, activist, lover.

So I can build something that I am proud to share with the people I love and trust.

Let me tell you about my mother.

Deckard’s blaster went on the auction block last week:

Featuring custom amber grips, dual triggers, and rich Corinthian leather.

Featuring custom amber grips, dual triggers, and rich Corinthian leather.

…don’t have an extra $258,750 to spend? You can always DIY.

(Via MeFi.)

Under the bridge

It’s time to kick ass and chew bubble gum. And I’m all out of gum. Also, money.

It is a sad day today for old-school PC gamers. 3D Realms, the developers of Duke Nukem Forever, have shut their doors.

Duke Nukem Forever, the game that was promised to be a Quake II killer.  The game that was already so late by 2001 that they stopped announcing release dates. The game that had won the Vaporware Lifetime Achievement Award in 2003.

Now, we will likely never see the pixelated stripclubs and alien cops that were promised to us back in 1997.  All we have are a few minutes of footage from E3, and a handful of leaked screenshots and promo art.

In memory of what could have been, I will end this post with highlights from a list of things that have happened while DNF was under development:

  • Over 25 Final Fantasy games and 2 Final Fantasy movies
  • The entire Sims and Grand Theft Auto series.
  • Also Unreal, Dance Dance Revolution, Tony Hawk, and Halo.
  • The rise of P2P filesharing, including Napster.
  • All three Star Wars prequels, and the LOTR film trilogy.
  • Bullet time, Family Guy, South Park, and Harry Potter.
  • Two Mars rovers and the International Space Station.

…and things that happened in less time than DNF’s development took:

  • Everything The Beatles ever did.
  • The United States moon program.
  • World War I.
  • World War II and the entire Manhattan Project. Including the fucking atomic bomb.

Rest in peace, Duke.