Barrett Brown

Oh, I kid. The headline here is really a joke. Let me explain. If an explanation is possible. I wrote a story about Barrett that helped my career. (Or got me a mention on Capital New York, along with a pic of me wearing a white top hat. Same thing? No?) Barrett and I are -- fair term? -- friends? Anyway, he has written for some months for FrontBurner about his life behind bars. He has done so for very little compensation. Now that changes. Glenn Greenwald has agreed to pay Barrett more than we ever could to write about his incarcerated life for Greenwald's Intercept. Here's all you need to know. My only comfort -- and yours -- is a cold one. Barrett will eventually find his way out from behind bars. But he'll still be stuck in Dallas, due to the terms of his parole. Needing to make rent, he will hopefully see our pages as his playground. Till then, parting is such sweet sorrow.

As I told Barrett's mom when I heard the news that Barrett had been put in solitary again, if you are going to poke the bear, as Barrett does as a columnist for this blog, you've got to keep your nose clean. Barrett recently failed on that front. Barrett's side of the story: some inmates were making hooch. Those inmates, along with Barrett, were given breathalyzers; everyone passed. Subsequently, only Barrett's locker was searched. Authorities found hooch in it. Dumb, dumb, dumb. Last week, he was taken from his cell and thrown in the hole (or SHU), where he has been unable to get his meds or even a pencil. He now only gets two phone calls per month. Sometimes his mom reads him things like this blog post. So I'll offer this: Barrett, it's easier to pillory the Bureau of Prisons and its Kafkaesque operation when you are standing on firm and steady moral high ground, when you are doing your level best to follow the rules, especially the ones that make sense, like not drinking jailhouse hooch. It's also easier to do that when you have a pencil. We want to read what you have to say. We can't do that unless you behave yourself.

I’ve spent so much of the last two columns denouncing the prison administration for its assorted violations of U.S. law and English grammar that I’ve barely said anything about what it’s like to live in prison. It’s really not too bad. Doing time is hardest on those with children, while I myself am putting off having kids until such time as I’ve acquired a fortified compound on which to train them. Certainly I miss some of my old friends from time to time, but, frankly, over the last couple of years I’ve gradually replaced them with far more interesting convict friends. Each morning I get up around dawn-ish in the alcove I share with 11 other inmates, including an El Salvadoran people smuggler, a couple of Mexican gang members, a former Army major who held Top Secret clearance and whom I occasionally spy on for old time’s sake, and a guy called Outlaw.

The Bureau of Prisons sounds like a fun operation.