Uncle Sam's Fireworks (The giant-blue-gorilla-of-explosive-fun wishes you a very happy 4th.)

Jury Journal:* Round 1

I had my first day of jury duty this past Wednesday. I will serve every Monday and Wednesday in July. I can't say how I'll feel a month from now, but after Round 1, the verdict is: Totally fascinating.

We were told to arrive for 8:30. I parked in the jurors' parking lot across the street by the Falstaff building, Froggered across four lanes of speeding crosstown traffic, and entered the humble jurors' entrance on the side, through the metal detector, through the basement parking garage, and checked in at the jurors' lounge which was already packed, cheek by jowl,** with something on the order of a couple hundred-ish other newbie jurors. I found a spare seat and started my first little spell of waiting in what will undoubtedly be a cornucopia of waiting in the coming weeks.

A brief survey of the activities of my fellow jurors:

• watching TV ("Fresh Prince of Bel Air", "Charmed", etc.)
• reading ("Star" magazine, "Correct Your French Blunders", something in Braille, *** etc.)
• drifting off to sleep
• grumbling mildly
• grumbling mildly while drifting off to sleep
• fiddling with cellphones
• making awkward whispered phone calls, the main subject of which seemed to be the poor cellphone reception
• discreetly glancing around at one's cheek-by-jowl neighbors
• et cetera, et cetera
  

Some time later, we received a brief orientation. We were welcomed, thanked profusely (almost sycophantically), and given the rundown:

1. There were a bunch of courts: A through L. (If my alphanumeric skills don't fail me, that makes twelve.)
   
2. Each morning, in no particular order, the judges call down for a pool of prospective jurors. The request might come first thing in the morning. It might come much later, after the judge has worked through his or her docket. (I'm still a little fuzzy on exactly what it means to "work through" a "docket", but I'm sure it's a good thing.) As our juror's pamphlet reminds us, "The wheels of justice turn slowly."
3. Jurors are randomly selected by "the computer" to fill a given request.
4. When a juror is selected for a given court, they are assigned a number that is used in the subsequent court proceedings.
5. After being called, jurors are escorted to the requesting court in numerical order.
6. In the courtroom, jurors will be asked a variety of questions, after which, they either will or will not be selected to actually serve on the jury for that particular trial.
7. If not selected for a trial, the juror returns to the lounge. If courts are still calling jurors, he or she might be called again.
8. A big red digital counter on the wall counts down from twelve as the courts make their calls. When the counter hits zero, we're done for the day.
   

We waited some more. The first call came around 9:30—Court L needed fifty jurors. They read the names and I was number eight. We were shuttled upstairs in the elevator, ten by ten, reassembled in numeric order, led into the courtroom, and seated in the audience chairs, again in exact numeric order. (As we were waiting to enter the courtroom, I was reminded what a small town our city is: I recognized about half of the lawyer-folk ambling up and down the hall in their crisp suits.)

The judge welcomed us, briefly explained how he intended to run the show and the nature of the case—possession of marijuana with intent to distribute—and introduced the various parties:

The DAs: Young professional women. The lead prosecutor was a Ms. Cannizzaro. (Leon's daughter, perhaps?)

The defense attorney: Older than the prosecutorial whippersnappers, slender, and birdish.

The defendant: Dressed in brand new clothes, looking nervous.

Our pool of fifty jurors was further subdivided. The judge called up an initial subset of twenty to the jurors box for the first round of selection, one by one in numerical order: one through seven, then skipping me, then nine through twenty. As the first three rows of jurors filed to the box and I was left sitting by my lonesome, I got decidedly paranoid: Why aren't they choosing me? Have I somehow already been blackballed before the proceedings even started? When the judge reached the end of the list, he looked up and got momentarily flustered, "...only nineteen. I'm missing..." He scanned the room, spotted me, confirmed that I had been inadvertently skipped, and then I too was called to the box (forcing jurors nine through twenty to all scoot down a seat).

The questioning was a strange mix of public and personal, conducted in a room full of sixty-ish people, but the prosecutor and defense attorney each made a point of singling out jurors by name ("Mr. _______", "Ms. _______"), discreetly glancing at their seating chart cheat-sheets:

• "Ms. _______, if I place my pen on the table am I in actual or constructive possession of it?" (Following a brief tutorial on the distinction between the two.)
• "I'm not a mind reader, am I? How can I establish intent to distribute? Mr. _______, what do you think?" (Followed by a lengthy analogy: At a Saints game, how can one tell that the beer vendor intends to sell the beer in his possession and not merely drink it all himself?)
  
• "Why would he have twenty beers all for himself? I mean, for one thing, they're gonna get warm, right? Why not just buy them one at a time? I'm not aware of any beer drought, are you?" (This got a laugh.)
• How do you decide if testimony is credible?
• "Does anyone here believe marijuana should be legalized?"
• "If someone finds cocaine in my bag, and I say that 'That's just fish bait, 'cause you know, the fish really love that stuff,' is that credible testimony?" (This analogy got a little jumbled with the questioner finding herself in a cocaine-qua-recreational-drug vs. cocaine-qua-fish-bait tangle that I don't think she'd really intended.)
• Is it possible for a police officer to lie?
• If a defendant doesn't testify, is that a sign of guilt?
  
• If the defendant does testify, is that a sign of innocence?
• If a defendant acts nervous, is that a sign of guilt?
• How do you rule if you think the defendant is guilty but you kind of aren't quite sure?
  
• et cetera, et cetera
  

During the questioning, the other thirty jurors sat in the audience, still in order, watching the proceedings with expressions of mild curiosity/boredom. The sherriff's deputies milled around the room with looks of total boredom. We answered diligently. When the questioning was over, the various parties retreated into various corners and backrooms, broke and regrouped, conferred, whispered, huddled intently over their lists, making notes.

And then finally, after a good long while, the court reconvened. The judge took his seat, announced that six jurors had been selected, read off the names, of which I was not one, and sent the rest of us on our way. (I'm pretty sure my answers got me pegged early on as a patsy for the defense**** and earned a big strikethrough on the prosecutorial list.)

Back to the jurors lounge. The big red counter read zero. Our civic duty had been served for the day. And off we went, into the sweltering early-afternoon heat, back to our respective lives.

Monday: Round 2.

* Say that twelve times (and one alternate time) fast.

** I love that expression.

*** How does that work? What sort of arrangements are made for a blind juror if there is visual evidence?

**** Not that I actually am a patsy for the defense, but I would be inclined to make the prosecutor do some work for a guilty verdict (which, as I understand the law, is more or less as it should be).

Pink crape myrtle, pink house

Saint and Sinner

Through a slightly complicated series of events, June has acquired a little pocket-sized book of blessings.* Through a rather straightforward series of events (namely, swiping it from my bar shelf), June has a acquired a little pocket-sized book of cocktail recipes. They both perfectly match her Criteria for Totability, and as a consequence, she can often be seen traipsing through the house, humming some little ditty, with the two little compendia, one in each hand.**

I can only assume this means she will grow up to be a honky-tonk chanteuse, knowingly singing songs of both Saturday night revelry and Sunday morning regret.

* "Book of Blessings: 52 Graces from Around the World"

** An almost literal embodiment of that gag from old cartoons where an angel perched on one shoulder and a devil on the other (respectively) whisper virtuous and nefarious advice.

June in sunglasses, with sister Louise, and my left hand

Pearl

Forgive the bloggy-lull. Extreme heat plus a low grade flu-bug (which has now thankfully passed) makes Slim a dull boy:

Meet Pearl, the newest addition—all 1 lb. 1 oz. of her*—to our boisterous multi-species househould:**



Pearl's ultimate origin is unknown, but her proximate origin is as follows: The other evening, there was a commotion down the block—a bunch of kids and their pet pit bull (on a leash but with no one holding the other end) were all whirling around some unseen (to me) cause of the commotion, shrieking and laughing. A small commotion-eddy broke off from the larger commotion-vortex—two boys racing up the sidewalk and then up our walkway. At the foot of our steps they stopped and thrust a small kitten at me. "Can you take this cat?"

I'm not in the habit of taking kittens from strangers. I answered with caution, "Where'd you get that cat?"

A (near-)breathless story tumbled out:

"Wefounditaroundthecornerunderthathouseand [gasp] wetookitcauseitwassosmallandtherewasn't [gasp] ..."

I missed some of the minor details, but the basic facts were clear:

1. The kitten had no traceable ownership.
2. A bunch of unsupervised kids and their pet pit bull did not make a particularly good foster family for the little creature.

I acquiesced, "Alright, give it to me. I'll figure it out."

And then, of course, well, she was really teeny-tiny and really cute. And then the girls saw her. And then, within the hour, I'd named her.*** And then, well, that pretty much sealed the deal...****

So Pearl is here to stay, keeping busy with a long list of kitten-ish activities:

• Frolicking amidst our pillows while we try to sleep.
• Growling her teeny-tiny growls when Penny tries to maternally nuzzle her. (Penny, dog though she may be, is a devoted feline-lover.)
• Receding submissively when Delilah hisses at her. (Delilah, cat that she is, feels absolutely no love for any feline upstart that hones in on her well established kitty-territory. But she'll get over it.)
• Squirming, wide-eyed, as June lugs her from room to room. (Pearl is precisely the right size to match June's Criteria-of-Totability, though she is somewhat wigglier than the typical objects of June's tote-fixation.)
• Squirming, wide-eyed, as June rocks her like a baby, coo-ing at her.
• Attacking books as the pages turn.
• Attacking feet as the toes move.
• Attacking just about anything and everything within her teeny kitty reach.
  

I think she'll fit in just fine.

* As of a few days back. She's been eating ravenously since then, so she may have put on a couple of additional ounces.

** Though our household may be diverse in species, it is trending towards extreme asymmetry in gender, I being the lone male, now outnumbered six-to-one by the fairer sex: one lady-human, two girl-children, one lady-dog, one lady-cat, one girl-kitten. But I will stand tall as a Bastion of Testosterone in these ever-encroaching Estrogen Seas.

*** We're partial to giving our animals old lady names. (We're also partial to giving our kids old lady names. And in fact, we briefly considered "Pearl" for our second-born but decided we couldn't quite pull it off. But it's perfect for a cat. (And weirdly, I was flipping through the channels last night and briefly settled on some random movie with Sylvester Stallone and that-red-headed-actress-whose-name-I-can't-remember-right-now, and prominently featured in the scene was a calico cat named Pearl.))

**** The rule is simple: Don't name any animal you intend to give away. (Just like back on the farm we had the rule: Don't name any animal you intend to eat.)

My lady, feeling the beat of the rhythm of the night. We went to a wedding last night, and Sarah, if I may brag a little, was a force to be reckoned with on that dance floor (as she usually is). If the low-income-housing-thing ever falls through, I'm pretty sure she could get a job as one of those people party planners hire to get parties revved up. (I snapped this photo during one of the interludes when I wasn't staring obsessively at the band. Wedding bands—with reason—get pegged as purveyors-of-cheese, but I confess, I was smitten with admiration as I watched them: hard-gigging work-a-night musicians who never missed a beat, knew exactly which song to play at which moment to bring the party to full fruition, and importantly, seemed to be having a rather fine time in their own quirky insular little corner of the big-elaborate-shindig.)

Hot as Frak

It's hot as frak here right now, and not just in our usual every-summer always-hot-as-frak way but as in extra-frakkin'-hot, like an-extra-five-or-six-degrees hot, which pegs us somewhere just around a hundred, which combined with our typical heavy-duty-humidity and an atypical lack of summer showers makes the out-of-doors pretty damn miserable. Even the pool is less than adequate consolation as the water turns bathwater-tepid and the pavement sears the feet. I confess, it's put something of a damper on my usual summer-fetish. But this too (hopefully) shall pass (though if the forecasts are correct, not any time particularly soon).

Daddy Yo

Happy Daddy Day, daddy-os. All the best to you and yours.

Crabby crab

Genuine Conversations with Little People: Honky Tonk Edition

"Papa?"

"Yes?"

"Why do you always listen to songs like this?"

"Like what?"

"Like... like country guitar songs about men who love sassy women?"

"I don't know. I guess they just speak to me."*

* Those who know my lady will know, she is nothing if not sassy.

Petty's Metropolitan A.M.E. Zion Church. (This is this.)

Me-ouch!

Is there any sight sadder than that of a cat leaping towards some intended destination, miscalculating, and missing—falling short of the table top, smacking awkwardly against the edge, clinging for one wide-eyed moment with splayed claws, sliding backwards, before tumbling chaotically to the floor, landing with an inelegant whump, and striding away with an excess of poise that fails to hide its profound humiliation?*

When a dog goofs up—rushes over-eagerly to greet a visitor and skids into the doorjamb—it's, honestly, funny. Dogs are supposed to do stuff like that. But when a cat messes up, it's just wrong.**

* This rumination was prompted by the sight of our little Delilah—an exceptionally capable creature, even by feline standards—suffering exactly this sequence of indignities. Poor D.

** Though also, still, a teeny-tiny bit funny. But wait until the cat has left the room before you start laughing.

Frenier, LA

Like Dan Rathers in a Simile Storm

The other day, for some reason, I fell into using folksy Dan Rathers-esque similes all day long.* At work, our server was running slow, and I told our sysadmin that it was running:

"like a turtle on cough syrup"

I have no idea where that came from, but I was rather proud of it. (Good Slim. [pat, pat]) What folks-isms do you like to kick around the ol' vernacular patch?

* I do stuff like that sometimes; I don't know why. I think it's a specific, intermittent sub-varietal of my Beat-Dead-Horse-itis.

Mustache #3

We've had a hard time finding an unambiguously un-ironic mustache. What about this guy?

Can we safely peg him at the sincere end of the Ironic/Sincere Mustache Spectrum?

"Jesus Is Lord"—"Now Open": Speaking of hand painted signage, this little white church is a remarkable specimen. I hope the painter got paid extra (in monetary or spiritual dividends) for working on that decidedly non-planar stone surface.

Funny Word Swap

New week, new game.* This week's amusement: "Funny Word Swap", in which we each, in turn, present the funniest word we can think of. No competition,** just:

1. I offer up a funny word. We chuckle and snort.
   
2. You offer up a funny word. We chuckle and snort.
3. He/she/it offers up a funny word. We chuckle and snort.
4. Rinse and repeat.
   

The funniest word I can think of at this particular moment in time is:

kegels

Okay, your turn. Whatchya got?

* Not that we're necessarily throwing in the towel on our Investigations into the Mysteries of the Ironic Mustache. But that topic has proven far more complex than we ever imagined and is clearly beyond the scope of a frivolous bloggy-game.

** Since, of course, the International Panel of Funny Word Judges was disbanded in 1993 (following Z.D. Sprachen's brilliant and devastating "Proof of the Non-Ordinality of Funny Words").