On Pussy

The big TV in my house has been hijacked.

It's hard to argue with three women, my wife and two daughters, and their proclivity for fashion, food and all things New Jersey. And so I am learning the art of the retreat. To the man cave, where on my much smaller set, I can enjoy football, Hitler and all things prison-related.

Thanks to MSNBC's non-stop airing of Lockup, I have become quite well versed in the language of Penitientary. I know SHU is the Segregated Housing Unit. Also known as Ad-Seg, or Administrative Segregation. I know Chomo is a Child Molester. I know how to turn a roll of toilet paper into a makeshift burner capable of boiling water. And I know how to fashion a deadly shiv from an old credit card statement stuffer.

That's how scarily familiar I am with prison life.

The other night I watched as Dr. Rudy Vasquez, prison psychiatrist at California's Corcoran State Prison, explained the benefits of the Adopt-A-Kitten Program, whereby well-behaved violent offenders are given kittens from the local shelter. They take on the responsibility of a care-giver, feeding, grooming and attending to all the kitten's needs.

As the Doc explained, "it gives the prisoner a purpose and something to love. It also provides a lonely prisoner the company of a tender living creature that can return the love."

I may be an inveterate cynic, but that's the part that worries me.