Podcasts about dodge intrepid

From the makers of The Fast and the Furioustest and 2 Fast 2 Fastiest comes the highest-octane installment of the hit movie franchise ever! When convicted felon and secret drag queen Jonathan "Turbo Titties" Callahan (Trixie Mattel) tries to start a new life on the south side of Milwaukee, his obsession with street racing sets him on a collision course with the head of the Wisconsin criminal underworld, Brian "Boo Boo Butterfinger" Baker (Katya Zamo). To survive an icy crash in his Dodge Intrepid during a blizzard race, Turbo Titties will have to master the art of peeing in a water bottle - a new style of racing where the drivers of tricked-out cars slide through hairpin turns, defying gravity and death for the ultimate golden release. With more mind-blowing stunts and heart-pounding racing sequences than ever, The Bald the Beautiful: Tokyo Drift puts you in the totally straight-man driver's seat with cars and guns and explosions and sh*t. This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp. Give online therapy a try at https://BetterHelp.com/BALD and get on your way to being your best self! Follow Trixie: @TrixieMattel Follow Katya: @Katya_Zamo To watch the podcast on YouTube: http://bit.ly/TrixieKatyaYT Don't forget to follow the podcast for free wherever you're listening or by using this link: http://bit.ly/baldandthebeautifulpodcast If you want to support the show, and get all the episodes ad-free go to: https://thebaldandthebeautiful.supercast.com If you like the show, telling a friend about it would be amazing! You can text, email, Tweet, or send this link to a friend: http://bit.ly/baldandthebeautifulpodcast To check out future Live Podcast Shows, go to: https://trixieandkatyalive.com To order your copy of our book, "Working Girls", go to: https://workinggirlsbook.com To check out the Trixie Motel in Palm Springs, CA: https://www.trixiemotel.com Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

Up to 50% Off Smartphones on eBay! https://ebay.us/mvOpFt Michael Garza Show Discord Server: https://discord.gg/wn92fs4awy Michael Garza Show Podcast: https://open.spotify.com/show/6dBGAg9qohEoWba5VMPMP8 Acorns: https://share.acorns.com/azragofborg Terp Canndles: https://TerpCanndles.com Mint Mobile: http://fbuy.me/t5tLM Discover it Card: https://refer.discover.com/s/MICHAEL6043675 ($100 Statement Credit) Subscribe: https://www.youtube.com/MichaelGarzaShow Rumble!: https://rumble.com/MichaelGarza Garza Media: https://garzamedia.net Capital One: https://capital.one/3IqGDer Robinhood: https://join.robinhood.com/michaeg4251 Disclaimer: The content provided in this video is for informational purposes only and should not be construed as financial, legal, or professional advice. The views and opinions expressed in this video are solely those of the creator and do not necessarily reflect the official policy or position of any other individual or organization. While efforts are made to ensure the accuracy and completeness of the information provided, we make no representations or warranties of any kind, express or implied, about the completeness, accuracy, reliability, suitability, or availability with respect to the video or the information, products, services, or related graphics contained in the video for any purpose. Any reliance you place on such information is therefore strictly at your own risk. We encourage you to seek professional advice tailored to your specific circumstances before making any financial or legal decisions. The creator of this video shall not be held responsible for any errors or omissions in the content or for any actions taken based on the information provided in this video. We disclaim all liability for damages of any kind arising out of use, reference to, or reliance on any information contained within this video. By watching this video, you acknowledge and agree to the terms of this disclaimer. Affiliate Disclaimer: Some of the links in the video description may be affiliate links or simply referral links, which means that I earn a small commission if you make a purchase through those links. This commission comes at no additional cost to you. I only recommend products or services that I have personally used and genuinely believe will provide value to my audience. Your support through these affiliate links or referral links helps me continue creating content and providing valuable information. Please note that I am not responsible for the quality, accuracy, or any issues that may arise with the products or services offered by the affiliate partners or referral links. It is your responsibility to conduct your own research and make informed decisions before making any purchases. Thank you for your support! I am an entertainer at heart and an experienced long-term investor. I do not teach day trading or those incorrect short-term investing strategies. I believe that a buy, hold and diversification strategy is the best thing you can do to be a successful long term investor. TAGS live music, pop, live, rock, music, album, soft rock, official video, music video, 90, 1985, liam gallagher, oasis, noel gallagher, britpop, anthology, antologia, musica, guitar, gig, maxi gonzalez oasis, gallagher, movie, documentary, rock and roll, england, our lady peace, somethingness, let me live again, matchbox twenty, matchbox 20, alternative rock, post grunge, atlantic records, atlantic, warner music, wild dogs running in a slow dream, matchbox twenty new music HASHTAGS #ButtBoys #LiveMusic #Music --- Send in a voice message: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/michaelgarza/message Support this podcast: https://podcasters.spotify.com/pod/show/michaelgarza/support

Paul and Ian break down the Longhorn OL and the wonders of the Dodge Intrepid. Texas has one of the best offensive tackle duos in college football, but the upside of this unit will be determined by improved guard play and the continued evolution of center Jake Majors. Who has the current inside track at starting guard and why? And why is getting push on the inside so crucial for the Texas inside zone running game from 11 personnel? Who are Kyle Flood's best 8 right now? Can this be an elite pass blocking unit this year? The time is now for your new mortgage or refi with Gabe Winslow at 832-557-1095 or MortgagesbyGabe. Then get your financial life in order with advisor David McClellan with a free consult: dmcclellan@forumfinancial.com. Read his retirement tax bomb series at Kiplinger! https://www.kiplinger.com/retiremen...05109/is-your-retirement-portfolio-a-tax-bomb Need a great CenTex realtor? Contact Laura Baker at 512-784-0505 or laura@andyallenteam.com. Go buy the 11th annual Thinking Texas Football. Find out why it's the Burnt Orange Bible.

Ben Arnold started his catering business with only $30lk in the bank and his Dodge Intrepid and a couple of ice chests.  He shares with Don and Ebony how his energy, hustle and creativity led him to find a steady stream of customers. On this episode we discuss: Starting as a dishwasher (at 11 years old) When he decided to start moving and start his own business What's in a business name Being creative with getting access to a kitchen Being responsive early as a new business owner The sandbox of college Getting creative during COVID The AVI name What retirement will look like for Ben Learn more about Corporate Caterers / AVI:https://www.corporatecaterersofwichita.comFacebook ProfileIn his 49-year career, Ben Arnold has worked at every position in a restaurant. He moved to Wichita in 1995 to work for Amarillo Grill. After a three-year stint, he opened Black Canyon Grill with two brothers who also worked at Amarillo Grill. On July 4th, 1999, he declared his own independence and began laying out a business plan to start his own company, Corporate Caterers of Wichita. In 2011 he opened AVI, and they also operate the Intrust Bank Executive Dining Room and Employee Cafe.Join the Wichita Regional Chamber of Commerce! This podcast is brought to you by the Wichita Regional Chamber of Commerce and is powered by Evergy.  To send feedback on this show and/or send suggestions for future guests or topics please e-mail communications@wichitachamber.org. This show is part of the ICT Podcast Network.  For more information visit ictpod.net

The long foretold X-Body episode is here! Dan and Laec welcome Evan and Marc. Evan has five X-bodies and Marc has one, but it has a factory CB radio!  We uncover the mysteries behind the vitriol thrown at GM's humble Front-Wheel-Drive X-Body and why it became so infamous. IG: @corinthian_cowboys https://www.facebook.com/CorinthianCowboys https://www.facebook.com/groups/453295002598271  https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCpukJy7K1i-mefgYJn_USPg Merch: https://tinyurl.com/CowboysShop  ---------------------------------------------------------Car Show Linkshttps://www.eventcreate.com/e/malaisehttps://www.facebook.com/events/516450207164394   ---------------------------------------------------------Marc's Links  https://www.youtube.com/@thebandit82089Bring A Trailer: GrandPrix231IG: @swpa_carcollectionhttps://www.facebook.com/groups/404539953682344http://swpacarcollection.com/   --------------------------------------------------------- Marc's Wikipedia Edits:https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pontiac_Grand_Prix#Fifth_generation_(1978%E2%80%931987)(He still owns this car)https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dodge_Intrepid

It’s day one of Dana Mecum’s 34th Original Spring Classic, and in this On the Move hosts Matt Avery and John Kraman are gearing up for nine days of auction action. Getting things started, they get listeners up to speed with events taking place right after Indy, including Mecum's debut in Tulsa, Oklahoma, and the all-new Orlando Summer Special. The Mecum news continues with a fresh copy of Mecum Magazine hitting the digital newsstand. The guys share what they wrote in their columns before talking about the return of other automotive events including the Bloomington Gold Corvette show and the Hot Rod Power Tour. Transitioning to car news, Matt gives the latest on what he knows about Ford’s all-new electric F150 Lightning while John dishes on the brand’s forthcoming light-duty hauler, rumored to be called the Maverick. Talk moves to other topics like how the Mustang might become its own sub-brand and how the Bronco is getting a bump in horsepower. In this week's second segment, the guys are joined by NASCAR Hall of Famer Ray Evernham. Their first topic of conversation is the all-new SRX Race Series that Ray is launching later this summer, and it's set to feature drivers like Tony Stewart, Tony Kanaan, Bill Elliott and Helio Castroneves. Then it’s on to two very special race cars that Ray is closely connected with: the 2001 Dodge Intrepid that was Bill Elliott’s pole-winning car for the 2001 Daytona 500 and the 1969 Dodge Hemi Daytona that was the first car to officially top 200 MPH on a closed-course circuit. Ray shares the vehicles' respective stories and their extreme provenance. Pulling into the final stretch, Matt and John dive deep into the origins of the massive Mecum Indy event, including going all the way back to its origins in 1988 and how it's grown to be a must-see event for all automotive enthusiasts.

In Today's Episode we speak about the Dodge Motor Company during the 1990's including many vehicles changed or introduced including the Dodge Spirit, Dodge Intrepid, and Updated 2nd Gen Dodge Ram Pickup Trucks!!! --- This episode is sponsored by · Anchor: The easiest way to make a podcast. https://anchor.fm/app

Earning Freedom: Conquering a 45-Year Prison Term, by Michael Santos Chapter 13.1 Going to the SHU at Lompoc Federal Prison Camp   2007 Months 232-233   It’s Wednesday, April 18, 2007 and our family is making excellent progress.  While Carole studies for the final exams to complete her first semester of nursing school, I’m finishing the writing projects that I began with Lee Nobmann’s sponsorship.  Despite the six years of prison that I have ahead, I’m making progress, living a productive life, and that makes all of the difference in the world. While work at my desk, the door opens. I see Mr. Dorkin, a guard who joyfully equates harassing men in minimum-security camps with protecting the homeland. It’s 2:00 in the afternoon when he interrupts my typing.  Dorkin’s a guard I avoid, and I don’t like seeing him in this space that I consider my sanctuary. He has a reputation for annoying prisoners, and now he is annoying me with his glare. Mr. Brown, my supervisor, stands behind Dorkin, and I get the sense that something isn’t right. Dorkin is grinning. “Santos,” he commands. “Stand up, take your hands off the keyboard, and put them behind your head.” Not a stranger to these orders, I comply. Dorkin puts his big hands on me. He pats my chest, my waist, and then runs his fingers along the inside of my belt. He pats each of my legs, swiveling his two-handed grip down each leg to my sneakers, then he inserts his finger between my shoe and ankle. “Would you prefer that I take my shoes off?” I ask. “There’ll be plenty of time for that. Just keep lookin’ straight ahead.” Mr. Dorkin orders. “Okay, drop your hands. Put ̓em behind your back.” He unsnaps one of the leather pouches of his black belt and removes the cuffs. The familiar sound of clicking metal teeth follows cold steel closing around my wrists. I wonder when such intrusions into my life will end, if ever. “What kind ̓a contraband am I gonna find in here?” he asks. “I don’t have any contraband,” I state unequivocally, wondering what this moron wants with me. “Gee. I’ve never heard that before,” he says sarcastically. Then he spins me to the door, grabbing the chain between my handcuffs to steer me toward it. “Let’s go. Move it.” Dorkin marches me down the hallway and out into the sunshine where I see a white Dodge Intrepid waiting. He opens the car’s rear door and, with his palm on my head, he pushes me into the back seat. He straps the seatbelt over my waist and then slams the door shut. I look through the tinted window at Mr. Brown, relatively certain that this will be the last time I see him. Through the black metal mesh separating his seat from mine, Dorkin taunts me. “Got anything to say, Santos?” I continue staring out the window, immune to his heckling. “Take me wherever you’re taking me and do what you’ve got to do.” “That’s the way you wanna play it?” Dorkin uses his authority like a weapon and he’s accustomed to having an effect on prisoners. When I don’t respond, he scowls because I’ve spoiled his game. Silently, I watch as we pass through the eucalyptus and pine trees. Although I don’t know why I’m being harassed this time, I’m pretty sure I won’t be seeing Lompoc Camp again. At the double gates that lead to the Special Housing Unit, Dorkin pulls the radio from his belt, brings it to his mouth says: “Got one for SHU.” The gates open and he drives inside, parks in front of a second gate, and turns off the car. Another guard walks toward the car and opens the back door. “What we got here?” the new guard asks. “Another genius from the camp?” “Ten-four,” Dorkin says. “Lock ’im up. Captain’s order.” The guard orders me out of the car, gripping the handcuffs behind my back as I scoot off the backseat and exit the vehicle. He steers me through the gates and into the building, then deeper inside the windowless, concrete maze. Surveillance cameras are mounted in every corner. Someone is always watching, as shadowy guards sit in a distant control center.  They monitor our movements and control heavy deadbolts with electronic locks. I hear the click, and the doors open automatically. We pass through, and the doors lock behind us. This stark area of the prison reeks like a jail, like a law enforcement cavern that feels very, very sinister. The holding cell isn’t any bigger than a broom closet, and once I’m secured inside, I back up to the bars.  The guard inserts his key to unlock my handcuffs. I open my arms to stretch and it’s so narrow I can press against the opposing concrete walls at the same time. Another guard wheels a laundry bin to the gate. “What size?” he asks me. “Two X.”
I strip naked, not waiting for an order from the guard who returns with faded boxers, white tube socks with worn elastic, the requisite orange jumpsuit with chrome snaps, a towel, and a bedroll. He searches my body and after he peers into my rectum I pass inspection. “Get dressed,” he says. In less than a minute I’m clothed in the bright orange SHU uniform and blue canvas deck shoes. A thousand prisoners have worn these same clothes before me, and a thousand more will wear them after I’m gone. I roll my shoulders in an attempt to shrug off my growing stress, then squat to the floor and hold my knees to my chest while resting my back against the concrete wall, waiting. I can only see the gray concrete walls of my cell, the bars, the narrow hallway and concrete wall outside the cell. I don’t have a sense of time but, in the distance, I hear the crackle of a radio and the electronic click of deadbolts locking or unlocking steel doors. I roll my head from side to side, trying to dissipate or ease off the tension. Footsteps approach my cell and a guard appears. It’s Velez, a guard from the camp. “What’re you doing here?” he stops in front of the gate. “I don’t know,” I respond, looking up from the floor. “Did you get a shot?” “If I did, I wouldn’t know it.” “Let me see what I can find out.” Velez walks away and I massage my forehead. Carole is going to take this hard. Yesterday she celebrated her 42nd birthday and now she’s going to have to confront this new drama in our life. I don’t know when I’ll be able to call her. I hope my friend Lee has heard about my misfortune and that he’ll relay a message to Carole soon. She needs to know that a guard took me away, even though she’ll worry. This disruption might be much harder on her than it is on me. She has semester finals in May and doesn’t need this stress. Footsteps accompanied by the sound of jingling keys announce Velez’s return. “You’re here under investigation,” he states, completely devoid of emotion. “For what?” “Captain’s order. Stand up. I’ve got to cuff you. I’ll take you to your cell.” I back against the bars and feel the metal bracelets click locked around my wrists. He unlocks the gates and leads me down the hall, past the raised control center. Inside the hub, I see blinking lights and movements of two guards through darkly tinted glass. Velez waits for one of them to release the electronic lock on the first gate. We walk through and it closes behind us. With his large key he unlocks the second gate and then locks it behind us. We’re in a tunnel, with cell doors on each side. I don’t recognize any of the prisoners who peer through the windows in their doors. These men probably come from the adjacent low- or medium-security prisons at Lompoc. We stop in front of a cell and Velez taps with his key on the small window within the door. “Move to the back of the cell,” he instructs as the prisoner inside begins to move. “Face the wall. Don’t turn around.” Velez unlocks the steel door and nudges me inside. The door closes behind me and I hear the deadbolt lock. I back up and push my hands to the open trap. He unlocks and removes my cuffs then slams the trap shut. The sound of his footsteps and jingling keys fade as he walks down the tier toward the gates. “How you doing, Bud?” I say to the large man who is still facing the far wall of the cell. He’s tall, with unruly brown hair. “Hi.” He greets me as he turns around.
 I extend my hand. “My name’s Michael Santos.” “I’m Marty Frankl.” We shake hands. “Where’re you coming from?” “I was at Terminal Island,” he names a low-security prison in Los Angeles. “I’m on my way to the camp. A paperwork mix-up has me stuck in here.” “That happens. How long have you been in the SHU? “Since Monday.” “They’ll probably have it straightened out by Friday. You’ll like the camp once you get there.” “Are you from the camp?” He asks as he sits on the lower bunk. I throw my bedroll on the top rack and start tying my sheets around the mat. “I’ve been there for two years. It’s been the easiest time I ever served.” “Are you the writer?” “That’s me.” “My girlfriend’s been sending printouts from your website ever since I was charged. Part of the reason I pled guilty was because of what you wrote.” “What kind of case do you have?” “Money laundering. I’m serving eight years.” “It passes faster than you think. You’ll like the camp better than Terminal Island.” “Are you going back?” “I don’t even know why they locked me up, but it’s not a good sign. I’ve never served time in SHU for a shot, only for transfer to another prison.” “That sucks. I know you’ve been in a long time. How many years do you have left?” “Six, maybe a little more. I’m scheduled for release in August of 2013.” I describe the camp for Marty and answer his many questions. He gives me some paper, an envelope, and stamps. I fold the end of the mat on my rack to prop up my chest and I use the steel bunk as a surface to write Carole a long letter, explaining what I know. It’s the beginning of a journal she’ll post on my website at MichaelSantos.net describing my experience. In the evening, a guard slides a form under the cell door that officially informs me that I’m being investigated for running a business. ******* Marty’s paperwork clears the following morning and he transfers to the camp. I appreciate the single cell and I strip to my boxers to begin my solitary exercise routine: pushups, deep knee bends, running in place. I exercise until sweat puddles beneath me. Then I wash my boxers in the sink and hang them to dry from the top rack, ignoring the staff and administrators who periodically walk by and peer through the window in my door. On Saturday morning a guard I don’t recognize startles me by tapping his key on the small window, scowling. “Santos! What’re you here for?”
I step toward the doorframe and speak to him through the crack. “Investigation for running a business.”  He shakes his head. “Cuff up. You’ve got a visit.” Knowing that Carole is here, I tolerate the dehumanizing handcuffs and strip search when I leave the cell. I’ll go through anything to see my wife. After the guard from the visiting room unlocks my cuffs, strip searches me again, and advises me of the rules, I walk into the tightly controlled visiting area with surveillance cameras in the ceiling and uniformed guards patrolling the aisles. Prisoners are required to sit at tables across from their visitors, neither touching nor holding hands. I walk to Carole. Her smile warms me, but tears glisten in her eyes. We hold each other briefly, not saying anything. “We’d better sit, Honey. I don’t know how long we have,” I tell her. Carole takes in my orange jumpsuit and blue canvas shoes, my unshaven face, knowing what it means. “Don’t cry, Honey. It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m okay.” She wipes her eyes. “I hate to see you like this. Are they transferring us again?” “I don’t know, but I’m fine. Come on. Don’t cry. You’ll make me sad.” “What do you want me to do?” she asks. “Regardless of what happens to me, you have to stay in school and finish the nursing program. It’s only two more semesters and we can’t let my problems interfere.” “Why are they doing this to you?” “All I know is that I’m being investigated for running a business. I don’t know whether it’s for Inside, our website, or the books that Lee sponsoredåå “Melodee told me that Lee heard that the guards took the compuåter from your office.” I’m glad to hear that Lee told his wife what he knows, and that Melodee called Carole. “She said they would help with whatever we need, even hire you a lawyer.” I tell Carole that we don’t need a lawyer and that she should bring attention to my situation by calling some of the influential people in our network. I can’t use the telephone while I’m in the SHU and guards monitor everything I write. So I suggest that she ask our friends to write reference letters to the warden at Lompoc and to ask professors who use my books to write letters describing the contributions my work makes to their students. She should contact journalists and other media representatives who have interviewed me or shown interest in my work, asking if they would make official inquiries. Also, she should ask Jon Axelrod, our lawyer friend in Washington D.C., to write a formal letter protesting my segregation and demanding an explanation. We have our support network in place and I urge Carole to mobilize it, including making calls to administrators in the BOP’s Western Regional Office to complain. “Someone is trying to bury me in the system, and from in here, all I can do is write about what’s going on,” I tell her. “The BOP operates behind closed doors and covers its actions with that ‘security-of-the-institution’ catchall. In order to force their hand to end the investigation, we have to expose their efforts to frame me. Let’s use all of our resources to spotlight what’s going on.” “What about the sponsorship funds that Lee gave? Can you get in trouble for that?” “I didn’t receive any funds. A private foundation sent checks to the publishing company that you own, not me. You paid taxes on the money. I wrote the manuscripts, but I wasn’t compensated. I’m completely within the letter of the law. And if they want to give me a shot for what I did, I don’t care. I’m proud of our work and I’m not hiding anything.”  

Chapter Twelve: 2005-2007 Months 209-231   “What’s this scumbag here for?” The guard on duty barks as we enter the closed corridor inside the Special Housing Unit. Since he doesn’t know me I surmise that his obvious contempt extends to all prisoners. I stand silently, both hands still locked behind my back. “One for SHU. Captain’s orders.” The transporting guard uncuffs me and walks away. “Strip!” The SHU guard commands. I unbutton and remove my green shirt, then I pull my t-shirt over my head and drop it on the floor. The guard stands close, too close, staring as I take off my sneakers, my pants, my underwear, and my socks. “Take everything off.” I stand in front of him, naked, and I unfasten the rubber wristband of my Timex wristwatch, dropping the watch into his outstretched hand. “Give me the ring.” “I don’t have to give you my ring.” “What did you say, Inmate?” He takes a step closer and his breath hits my face. I hold up my left hand. “This is a silver wedding band, without stones. BOP policy says I can wear it at all times.”
 The guard takes off his glasses, closes them and slides them into his shirt pocket. He inches closer to me. “You tellin’ me how to run my institution, scumbag?” “I’m not resisting you. Call the lieutenant. He’ll know the policy.” “I’m in charge here.” The guard balls his fists, wanting to fight. “Either take the ring off, or I’m gonna take it off. It’s not coming into my unit.” Standing naked, I’m not in a position to argue for my rights. This guard thirsts for a violent confrontation, and if it comes to that, I lose. With the length of time I’ve served, I’m conditioned to accept that guards routinely cite their mantra about preserving security of the institution while they violate both human rights and civil rights. Despite the promise I made to Carole about never taking it off, I slide the band off my finger and I hand it to the guard. He steps back, puts his glasses back on, and then he continues the search. The guard issues me a green jumpsuit and a bedroll.  We walk down the cellblock. When he unlocks the metal door I see three prisoners inside. Rollo, a young prisoner, is on the top rack. He caused a stir at the camp several months ago when he decided that he’d had enough of confinement and walked away. Pueblo is on the lower rack, locked in SHU two months ago for fighting. Jerome sits on the floor in SHU because the guard in food services caught him going through the food line twice on hamburger day. I drop my bedroll on the floor for a cushion, and I lean my back against the wall, bending my knees to prop my feet against the steel toilet. “What’d they get you for?” Rollo asks from his rack. “Embezzlement. They say I transferred a million dollars from the prison’s bank account to my wife’s account.” “No way! Really?” Rollo would believe me if I’d told him I was locked in the SHU for not putting my napkin in my lap. He’s totally gullible. “I don’t know why I’m here. They just locked me up,” I admit and shrug. “Ay Rollo you so stupid, you believe anything.” Pueblo whacks him with his pillow from the lower rack. “It could happen!” Rollo defends himself. “Ain’t you never seen The Shawshank Redemption, Homie?” “Dat shit was a bad-ass flick,” Jerome says. “Rollo,” I ask. “Why did you walk away from the camp?” “I missed my ol’ lady.” “When he done showed up at her door, da bitch done called da FBI on his stupid ass,” Jerome says, finishing Rollo’s explanation. “Is that what happened?” I ask Rollo. He nods his head and laughs. “I’m facing five more years for escape.” “What were you serving before?” I ask him. “Twenty-two months for credit card fraud.” “You’ll probably get another year. You can use the time for school,” I say. “That fool ain’t goin’ to no school.” Pueblo says. “He can’t even play no cards.” I spend the entire day on the floor of the crowded cell, which won’t allow for Pueblo or Rollo to step off their bunks. When someone has to use the toilet or sink, I stand in the corner. Exercise isn’t an option here, and with the back and forth chatter, reading or writing will have to wait. In the evening, a guard unlocks the door and tosses me a sleeping mat. I slide it under the steel rack, then carefully crawl under the bed, head first, and I lie still. Pueblo’s steel rack is only inches above me, too close for me to turn on my side. I sleep lying on my stomach, using my crossed arms as a pillow. “Santos! Roll up!” I haven’t been asleep for long when I hear the guard kicking the metal door. He unlocks the door and opens it. I crawl out from under the bed, careful not to step on Jerome. The guard cuffs my hands behind my back and leads me out. I don’t ask questions and he doesn’t offer explanations. I strip, toss my jumpsuit into a bin and I stand for the search, eager to move out. “What size?” The guard asks. “Two-X,” I say. He tosses a roll of traveling khakis. After I’m cuffed and chained, I join a group of other prisoners and we climb into an idling bus. The sky is still dark. We drive through the gates and join a convoy of three other buses, two carrying prisoners from the Florence penitentiary and one from the ADX. As the buses turn right, leaving the Florence Correctional Complex behind, I look through the tinted windows and wonder where Carole lives. The house she rents is only two miles from the prison, she told me, but I don’t know where. The bus moves past the dark cross streets too fast for me to see her car parked in a driveway. No matter. It’s before dawn and she’s asleep, oblivious to a new uprooting of our lives. ******* I have a window seat as the plane takes off. I expect to sleep in the Oklahoma Transit Center again tonight and wonder whether I’ll see the Native American guard. I count how many times I’ve been on prison transport planes, and come up with 12, explaining why some of the U.S. marshals look familiar. I notice graying hair and new wrinkles in weathered faces; over the past 18 years I’ve flown with them throughout their careers. We’ve been in the air a few hours when my ears pop and my stomach lurches. While we’re descending, I glance out from the tiny window.  As our plane approaches the landing strip, I see evergreen trees that surround a lake I recognize. We’re approaching Seattle, the city where Carole and I grew up, where Julie and her family still live. Carole and I may have grown up here, but it’s no longer home. We’re nomads, a prison family. The plane lands at Boeing Field, right beside Interstate 5. I look outside and spot guards and marshals surrounding the plane for the prisoner exchange. I wish they would call my name, as I’d like to walk on Seattle ground again. I may be in chains, but I’m breathing the same air my sister breathes, though she doesn’t know I’m here. Even my wife doesn’t know where I am. After an hour we’re airborne again and I take a last look out the window. It’s 2005, probably eight more years before I’ll see the Seattle skyline again. The Emerald City fades away as the plane banks and climbs higher. In eight years I don’t know where Carole and I will make our home. We may want to make a start in a new city, or even a new country. I see Oklahoma City again as the plane taxis. It’s my fifth time here and I know the routine. Hobbling in my chains, I’m eager to fill out the forms and turn them in. The sooner processing begins, the sooner I’ll find out where I’m going. “Do you know where you’re going?” the woman in uniform asks. I shake my head “no,” and pass her my intake forms. “Santos, Michael,” she says and moves her forefinger down the list of names on her computer printout. “Big Spring, Texas,” she says, and my heart sinks. “No, wait, you’ve been re-designated. You’re going to Lompoc Camp.” ******* Among prisoners, Lompoc Camp on the Central Coast of California has a reputation of being the crown jewel of the federal prison system. For years I’ve heard that administrators reserved Lompoc Camp for politicians who’ve run afoul of the law and for powerful white-collar offenders. Traveling by bus up the Pacific Coast Highway, with the salty smell of the ocean filling my lungs, invokes pleasurable childhood memories of visiting my grandparents in Los Angeles while on summer vacations. I remember swimming with my sisters at different California beaches, jumping into the waves that roll endlessly onto the shoreline. As I look at the ocean, I try to remember the sensation of floating in water. I contemplate what it might feel like to submerge my body. For 18 years the only water I’ve felt has sprayed from a spigot. I can’t remember the sensation of buoyancy. In eight years Carole and I will bathe together and we’ll swim in that ocean. Klein Boulevard, the long thoroughfare leading into the Lompoc Federal Correctional Complex, is a crumbling asphalt road riddled with potholes. On my right is the fenced boundary of the medium-security prison, and on my left is the low-security prison. As the bus lurches along the dilapidated road toward the camp, prisoners in green uniforms walk freely on scenic trails winding between tall eucalyptus trees that fragrantly scent the air. I appreciate the natural beauty. After six hours of processing, guards hand us our ID cards and bedrolls. I join four other prisoners walking outside the gates from the Receiving and Discharge building in the higher-security prison. Walking ahead of the crowd, I pass the field where a group of prisoners play soccer. Further down the road several men pump iron at the camp’s weight pile. Pinecones that fall from the trees litter the path I’m on. The housing unit resembles a steel, prefabricated warehouse, and the laid back guard inside looks more like a member of ZZ Top, with his long beard, black sunglasses, heavy silver rings with Gothic designs.  Tattoos of double lightning bolts, flames, skulls, and cross bones cover his forearms. He’s in a messy office, holding a Maxim magazine with a young woman in panties, sucking a lollipop, on the cover.  He's leaning back in his chair, with crossed legs and heavy black leather boots resting casually on a gray metal desk. I stand in front of him with my bedroll and the other new prisoners begin to crowd into the office, lining up behind me. The guard ignores us while flipping the pages of his magazine. Green canvas duffle bags are scattered on the scuffed and dingy tile floors. A desk fan blows and a radio broadcasts hardcore rap music by Tupac. “Wazzup?” The guard finally lowers his magazine. I give him my ID card and the other prisoners follow my lead. “You guys the fresh meat?” he asks, turning down the volume of the radio. We stand still, waiting as the guard sorts through index cards.  He then pulls his feet from the desk and stands. “Follow me,” he says. We follow him out of the office and down the narrow hall to the right. It empties into an open space as large as a private airplane hangar. For the crown jewel of the BOP, it’s mighty tarnished. Six columns of gray metal bunks, 30 rows deep, fill the immense room. The noisy, crowded accommodations have a putrid stench. I follow the guard as he leads us down the center aisle and taps the fourth bed in column four. “Santos. This is you.” He keeps walking with the others. I put down my belongings and prepare to settle in. ******* “Santos!” I hear the loudspeaker. “Inmate Michael Santos. Number 16377-004. Report to the administration building. Immediately!” Not again, I groan inwardly. I’ve only been at Lompoc Camp for a day and I’m already being paged. I walk the short distance for yet another confrontation with BOP administrators. As I pass by a sparkling white Dodge Intrepid sedan with darkly tinted windows and three small antennae sticking out of the car’s rear end, I assume it’s from the fleet of the Federal Correctional Complex security force. A closer look at the elaborate communication system inside the car confirms my suspicions. Someone is here to interrogate me. Through the smoked glass of the building’s front door sits a receptionist. I knock, waiting for her to acknowledge me before opening the door. I’ve heard other prisoners refer to her as “the dragon lady,” so I don’t open the door until she indicates it’s okay. It’s a standoff, but I’m prepared to wait all day.  I prefer the wait to being scolded and bullied. After several minutes, she grasps that I’m not going to open the door, and I’m not going to knock again. She looks up, annoyed, and motions me in. “I’m Michael Santos.” I present my ID card. “I heard a page to the administration building.” Before she can answer, a stocky man with a chiseled face and a military-style crew cut steps into the doorway of the conference room. He’s wearing a heavily starched BOP uniform. “I paged you, come in.” He directs me to a chair at the side of the table. “Sit down. Do you know who I am?” “No.” I shake my head. “I’m Lieutenant Merkle. Special Investigative Services.” He opens a burgundy leather portfolio on the table. “It’s generally not a good sign when I call an inmate for a meeting.” “I’m familiar with the role of the SIS.”  These guards can’t intimidate me. “I’m sure you are.” The room is quiet as he flips through his papers. “So you’re the writer. Do you know why you’re here?” “Yes, I do.” I nod my head. “And what’s your interpretation?” “When I was in my early 20s, I sold cocaine. I’ve been a prisoner since then, and as a prisoner I’m susceptible to these kinds of summons.” The lieutenant glances up at me. “So you’re a wise guy?” “Not at all. That’s why I’m here. If I hadn’t sold cocaine, we wouldn’t be talking right now.” He stares at me. “But you did sell cocaine.  Now you’re an inmate in my institution.” He pulls out a page from his portfolio. “I received a letter from Lieutenant Knowles, SIS at Florence.” “Okay.” “You were transferred here administratively because your writing presented a threat to the security of that institution.” “How so?” “It doesn’t matter. Point is, you’re in my institution now and I’m here to give you notice. If you write anything that threatens the security of my institution, I’m not going to transfer you. Instead, I’ll bury you so deep in the SHU that no one will ever find you. Do you understand that?” “What do you consider a threat to the security of the institution?” “You’re a wise guy, you figure it out. But if I lock you up for an investigation, you won’t have access to telephone, mail, or visits. Do you understand?” “For what, though?” I gesture with open hands. “I’ve never written a sentence that threatened security. All my work urges people to act responsibly and to lead law-abiding lives. I live by that rule. Why would you consider my writing a threat?” “I ask the questions. I don’t answer them,” the lieutenant snaps, closing his file. “Can I ask if you’re placing me on mail-monitoring status?” “Inmate Santos, you’re starting here with a clean slate, no mail monitoring, no restrictions. Don’t threaten security in my institution and you won’t have any problems. If you see me again, it won’t be good for you.” “One more thing, Lieutenant. While I was in Florence I wrote a book about what I’ve observed in prison. St. Martin’s Press has the manuscript and intends to publish it in 2006. Is that book going to be a problem?” He rubs his chin. “We’ll visit that issue when the book comes out.”  

Ron starts this episode with the story of an 11 Ford Edge that was sent in for a reflash of the PCM : takes a call on a 99 Dodge Intrepid that is blowing cold air : takes a call on a 12 Acura asking the reliability between the 4 cylinder turbo or the 6 cylinder : takes a call on an 07 Grand Cherokee with an oil light on : takes a call on a 98 Explorer with a P0443 code : takes a call on a 15 Toyota Tacoma with a subtle rubbing sound : takes a call on an 11 GMC Sierra where the shift indicator is not working. Learn more about your ad-choices at https://news.iheart.com/podcast-advertisers

Ron starts the hour with the tale of 4 batteries : takes a call on a 2011 Traverse that is getting extremely low gas mileage : takes a call on a 2003 Mazda with brake problems : and takes a call on a 2004 Dodge Intrepid that shifts hard. Learn more about your ad-choices at https://news.iheart.com/podcast-advertisers

Ron starts the hour by saying he's a creature of habit with the story of a local $19.95 oil change : takes a call on an 07 Jeep Commander with intermittent starting issues : takes a call on a 2004 Dodge Intrepid that stalls : and talks to Jeff McDowell, President of AASP-NJ about the upcoming AASP show. Learn more about your ad-choices at https://news.iheart.com/podcast-advertisers

Ron starts the hour talking about the phone call he received this week asking him how far a person could drive on a flat tire that was pumped back up : takes a call on a 99 Expedition where the engine was replaced and now the AC Compressor is not working : takes a call on a 2003 Chevy S10 having a problem with its ABS brakes : answers an email on a 2014 Jeep Grand Cherokee regarding the cost of software updates : takes a call on a 2010 HOnda Civic that is only getting 20 MPG : takes a call on a 2010 Ford Escape with an airbag bypass issue : takes a call on a 98 Expedition with transmission fluid in the coolant reservoir : and takes a call on a 2000 Dodge Intrepid with a starting issue. Learn more about your ad-choices at https://news.iheart.com/podcast-advertisers

Movie Meltdown - Episode 300 This episode we hit the road to see John Waters... and talk about random things along the way. And as we tear into our Gruesome Greeting Cards, we also mention... innocuous into subversive, Broad City is a new episode of A Haunting, a mixture of Bono Steven Seagal and MacGyver, luring you into a false sense of security, New Orleans, Flashpoint Paradox, The Internet's Own Boy, fighting a blizzard, the twisty mop, a 1998 Dodge Intrepid, my arm touched his arm, the universe just collapsing on itself, Jordan Catalano buying alfalfa sprouts, in my mind it was like John Waters living through me, subgenre genre fest, a monotonous life, David O. Russell yelling at you, what kind of Adam Ant videos were you watching, with the heating blanket cord around my neck, Sarah Snook, being cooler then Jared Leto, you can’t force being funny, getting tired-excited, it’s not easy bein’ a single mom J Law, academically competitive, the real inventor of the internet, scratch and stink, goofy smarts, cool geeks, the rollie pollie jewlery organizer, in the post-modern era, Predestination and only remembering the good parts of life.   “I don’t know, does everybody do this? Sometimes my conscience has John Waters voice.” For more on what “Days of the Dead” has coming up, go to: http://www.daysofthedead.net/

A special release from the archives of the Dodge Intrepid radio show! This recording features a revised script that edited together the four separate installments into a single show. Recorded at Arcade Comedy Theater on June 12, 2013, and featuring … Continue reading →

A special release from the archives of the Dodge Intrepid radio show! This recording features a revised script that edited together the four separate installments into a single show. Recorded at Arcade Comedy Theater on June 12, 2013, and featuring … Continue reading →

It’s the debut of the Dodge Intrepid spin-off series POSTAL OPS, written by Mike Rubino and James Catullo. Jerry and Wilson Topplebottom are fresh recruits to the Beaver County chapter of the United States Postal Service crime unit: Postal Ops. … Continue reading →