I do not wish to deceive you with my title. I don't mean to imply that I was a contestant in the games that have just concluded. Those of you who know me and are aware of my athletic prowess, know that can't be the case. Alas, I will never represent my country in the Olympic games, that is unless Trivial Pursuit or Scrabble become events (which, if you ask me, have just as much merit as a biathlon: Trivial Pursuit is much more interesting and Scrabble requires more mental capacity and endurance than skiing across flat land and shooting a pellet gun, which I feel would be a whole lot more entertaining if all but one of the bi-athletes were given sniper rifles and the one without a weapon was given a 5 minute head start). I also don't wish to mislead you and make you think that I attended the Olympic games. That would require me to go to the place I like to refer to as America's hat. Those of you who know me and are aware of my distaste for all things not American know that can't be the case either. I wish instead to share with you my view point of these Olympics and the Olympics in general.
I love the Olympics. I really do. I love America and cheering for all those representing the red, white and blue. I love America and cheering against all of her adversaries. When Americans do well, I jump to my feet and pump my fist just like Tiger Woods (it is the ONLY thing I do like Eldrick). I don't want you to get the idea that I hate foreigners. I don't...mostly! There are a few I don't care for, but I don't really hate them. I don't care for Canada, but I think its mainly because of its proximity and that helps develop a rivalry. Canada wouldn't be that bad if it were say in Asia and if it weren't filled with Canadians. Now when I say rivalry, I don't mean like when the Redsox play New York or the Giants and Dodgers go at it. I mean like when San Francisco plays San Diego, it means way more to San Diego when they beat the Giants than when the Giants beat the Padres.
I love the Olympics because it makes things matter that don't usually matter. As it was pointed out to me earlier, we only ever care about "Bob and his stupid sled" once every four years. There are somethings that engender true interest regardless of who is playing or when it is being played. However, very few of them are Olympic events. Even the hugely popular swimming events that are the hot ticket in the Summer games are forced to run (if they're aired at all) on Espn 16 at any other time of the year. The Winter games have more of these events than their summer counterparts.
I would like to state that not all of the games that are played should be considered sport. This does not mean that it doesn't require athleticism, they are just not sports. Take Ice Skating for instance. I do not question the apparent athleticism that is required to do a triple salchow (and yes I had to google that because I neither know about Ice Skating nor do I care). There are two reasons that I feel Ice Skating should not be a sport: 1. Any "sport" that can easily be morphed in to dancing is not really a sport at all. You don't see Kobe or Lebron taking up a partner for a little Hard court Hustle or Peyton Manning and Drew Brees coming together to trip the light fantastic on the turf. You see, because one is a sport with a definitive winner and the other an exhibition whose whiner, oops, that is the loser, winner is determined by an ever corrupt group of judges. 2. It has something that is referred to as a "kiss and cry area" which is decidedly not sporting! Nothing more really needs to be said about that.
Some of these events are difficult to tell apart from each other. I really can't tell the difference between the Skeleton and the Luge. Now please don't flood my inbox (assuming that a response from each of my four followers would constitute a deluge) with an explanation of the differences. I could google it if I cared but you see, I don't. I may have been interested last week or even yesterday while the Olympics were still relevant, but as of 9-ish last night they closed the Olympics and I have returned to not caring about Hockey and various other events.
Which leads me to my next subject, Hockey. Now I enjoy a good fight as much as the next guy, but I prefer it take place in a ring not a rink. I proudly confess that I have no idea what icing is nor do I know (or care) what exactly constitutes being offsides. In football, it is very simple. If you are on the other team's side, you are offside. In hockey, you can be practically anywhere on the ice and still be called for being offsides. Again, please don't attempt to explain to me what that entails, I have exceeded my capacity for caring about hockey as of 3:00 pm yesterday.
I must confess that I thoroughly enjoyed watching the ski and snowboard cross. It was very reminiscent of a post-apocalyptic sport you would see in a winter version of Escape New York. I can just see Snake Plissken with the President on his back and the Duke hot on his heels.
I wish to conclude by saying that I am extremely proud of America. The way they went into someone else's house and completely dominated the entire world (an accomplishment that every one from Dr. No to Pinky and the Brain would be proud of). I am proud to be an American and if they ever decide to make Wii sports an Olympic event, than I shall answer the call of my country and proudly don the red, white and blue. I can almost hear the chants now...USA, USA, USA!!!
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
My Jury Duty
I've posted these for the sake of keeping them all together.
Day One:
8:06 am
I arrived at the courthouse early on this February morn, happy to fulfill my civic duty (and not just because I got to sleep in past 4am on a Monday). Let me first state that I have always been fascinated by our court system and even considered being a lawyer at some point in my life. So I am one of the few people who are genuinely excited to be here. I'm not doing cart wheels in the portico mind you, but I do want to be here.
Upon my arrival, the first thing that I noticed is that it is difficult to tell prospective jurors apart from those whose case they are waiting to hear. It can be truly stated that these defendants today will be tried by a jury of their peers. That's not to say that the lawyers blend in as well. No, you can spot them a mile away. They're the ones who exude confidence (even if it’s only manifested in the immediate presence of their clients and quickly subsides once they move on). They can also be easily noticed as they flit in and out of the security line like humming birds, greeting clients and laying the groundwork for prospective ones. They are smartly attired in a cheap business suit, (I don't mean to be disparaging but let's face it these aren't exactly the high profile cases and big money lawyers about which John Grisham writes) and have either a worn out old briefcase or an array of multi-colored file folders tucked under their arm.
I've made it through security, not that I was worried, though you never know what small item, like a rivet on your pant pocket, may set those metal detectors off, causing a cacophony of bells and whistles to chime as they usher you into a side room with bare walls and a Nurse Ratchet character waiting to do unspeakable things. Okay so maybe I was a little worried, but it was completely unfounded.
8:34 am
As I stepped into the Juror Assembly Room, the pungent smell of desperation and despair assaulted my nostrils. I beheld the group of prospective jurors that somewhat resembled a “who's not” of Riverside county. They seemingly came from all walks of life. I say seemingly, because I've neither the time nor the inclination to interview each juror to discover their background and learn their world paradigm. Most of them are here because they have no other choice. There are a few of us who desire to be here. But for the most part many would rather be anywhere else than here missing a day of work and being forced to watch reruns of animal planet shows. I can't abide listening to Mario Lopez go on and on about how special some stupid cat is. Why do I care that some lady has nothing better to do than spend years training a rebellious feline to do tricks it would take a week for a dog to learn? Besides, I was always more of a Zack Morris fan anyway.
9:27 am
I was just treated to a bit of comedy. A young man who had received a jury summons came in to explain why he should be excused from service. His first argument, which was specious, was that he had school and had already missed one class just by showing up. Putting aside the fact that he doesn't strike me as a person overly concerned with class attendance, school is only good for a postponement at best. Once that was shot down, he moved on to his second argument which failed in a more spectacular fashion. His excuse was that he had a job and his only day off was Sunday. The master-juror looked at him as though he was the dumbest person alive. Which I feel if he's not, he's certainly in the running. As if the 180 person juror assembly room was entirely populated by unemployed people with nothing better to do than hang out at their local courthouse begging a trial judge to end their boredom and place them on a case. .
10:02 am
Judge Mark Mandio just addressed this motley crew. Nice guy- rambled on a bit but he struck me as a man who was good at his job. He was unfazed by some of the stupid questions thrown at him, answering them in a manner that was frank but also conveyed the idea that he thought it was a good question, even though it was not. One such question directed at him by a man with a fu-Manchu, who strongly resembled that dad from American Choppers, was, “Why are there some forty-plus criminal trial judges and only 7 civil trial judges?” The man stated that in his opinion and I quote "that's just not fair". I wanted to explain to the mustachioed man that life was not fair and that it was probably because there are a whole lot more people out there performing criminal acts than there are people suing over the loss of a limb. Judge Mandio explained those exact sentiments in a much more diplomatic and less abusive manner.
10:33 am
A twenty minute break was just announced and a flood of people rushed to the bathrooms. A scene reminiscent no doubt of the halftime rush in the homes and venues of those watching the Super Bowl without a DVR and the ability to pause live TV. The problem I have is this, it’s not like we are in school. We are in a juror assembly room. It even has a "quiet room" set aside where the lights are left off for the expressed purpose of "closing your eyes and relaxing". The phrase of the day here is "down time". My question is why did they wait for recess like so many school children not daring to ask the teacher for permission? It's moments like these that make me relieved to be a prospective juror and not in need of a jury.
10:45 am
I've begun my own jury selection comprised of the twelve jurors and three alternates I feel are best suited to hear my imaginary client's case. The schoolboy with a job and the American Choppers guy has already been dismissed. As have the guy in the Dallas Cowboys T-shirt and the man in the nice suit and white tube socks. I feel they cannot be trusted. I've also dismissed the guy with the bad toupee'-he obviously has no desire to uncover the truth. Now you would probably think that I would excuse the guy who is making his way around the room trying to pick up women. But I appreciate the whole "bloom where you're planted" mentality. I've just dismissed the woman beside me. I don't feel anyone should serve on a jury if they should be on trial for murdering the English language.
11:08 am
I would like to take this moment to thank the previous jurors for their donated fees and mileage that have paid for the free coffee, tea and hot cocoa. I am appreciative despite the fact that I'm pretty sure it’s the same coffee that was left over from when you served. Does anyone know the ratio of water to coffee at which point the liquid substance can still be legally referred to as coffee?
11:10 am
The first round of names has been selected to go to the next process in jury selection. I'm not a little disappointed that my name was passed over, especially since the schoolboy and the man who suited up with white socks were selected. I'm not worried as only two of my jurors were selected. I did have to add one person to my juror list. Anyone named John McClain has to be trustworthy.
11:28 am
They just started the second round of names and I've been selected. This judge is about to get the best juror ever! Now we get to go to lunch. Selection process will begin immediately following.
1:14 pm
As I wait for the court room to begin calling us in, I am amazed at how people pass the time so differently. To my right there are a group of jurors silently reading and minding their own business. To my left are a group of people minding everyone else's business and doing so quite loudly.
Their observations range in substance: Outrage at the length of the security line which is now extended beyond the doors and almost to the parking lot, all because the court system is unwilling to employ a second set of guards to man the second check point. The ringleader (which I figure is by default since he is the loudest) says it is more logical to do it his way but "what do I know?” Apparently what he knows is minimal and what he doesn't know is too expansive to list here. But he is right, it's way more logical to pay three more guards 8 hours a day with benefits so that they can ease the 20 minute rush coming back from lunch. Their latest tangent is watching a couple of officers search a car in the parking lot with what appears to be bags of marijuana now piled on the hood. Commenting on and I quote "the stupid people who do stupid things at stupid times in stupid places". Their mastery of descriptive adjectives is to be commended.
I am also amazed at the things people will share with one another just for the sake of conversation. For instance I now know that the gentleman next to me has passed three kidney stones in the past month and the smallest one was the size of a piece of Kix cereal. Note to self: thank this man later for ruining Kix for you forever. Why couldn't he have said peas? I'm already not extremely fond of them.
1:43 pm
We have all been called in and introduced to the defendant who shall remain unnamed, except to say that his middle name is Lee. It seems to me that the majority of criminals have this particular middle name. Which is not to say this individual is guilty (that is yet to be determined) or that anyone saddled with this middle nomenclature is a criminal. I myself bare this middle name, which then leaves me to wonder at the prospects my parents held for me when they named me.
The judge is an honorable old chap. He tends to repeat himself a lot. Not just once but it seems that he will say the same thing three different ways and then once more as it was stated originally. This is what I'm saying; I'm saying this; this I am saying; I said this. This leads me to believe that he either is getting on in years and can't remember what he's said from one moment to the next moment; or he believes he is dealing with a group of morons.
2:15 pm
They have begun to give us the general instructions for jurors. The first thing they said was that jury service is not like in the movies. They then went on to describe the exact scenario which has been played out in every movie based in a courtroom that I've ever seen.
After hearing a few potential jurors answer the questionnaire, I'm inclined to believe that his Honor is not getting up there in years but is in fact dealing with a class “A” group of morons. How hard is it to follow instructions that were stated so clearly no less than three times each.
4:26 pm
We've recessed for the day and are all headed home. Eight men and women have been deferred or excused, leaving 72 of us to fill out the 12 jurors and three alternates. I fear that there are not 15 people here who have the capacity to do so, but only time will tell. See you tomorrow.
Day 2:
8:36 am
I arrived at the court house to the customary security line. Thankfully I avoided Nurse Ratchet again. I walked to the floor where the court room is and saw the usual suspects. I've discovered that the ring leader is actually the jury foreman for that particular case. Apparently he feels his duties go well beyond the walls of the jury box as he commandeers and directs every conversation his jurors have. After hearing he and his jurors talk for the last few minutes I feel strongly about two things. One: they may be the densest jury to serve since that Pauley Shore movie and Two: that we would all be better off as a species if the phrase "it is what it is" were expunged from our vernacular.
9:01 am
They've called in several of the potential jurors who wished to discuss their issues with service in private. We'll see if that's any more effective in getting them excused.
9:44 am
The courtroom inhabitants appear bright eyed and bushy tailed this morning. Our court stenographer is a dead ringer for Chloe O'Brien from 24, complete with the look of sarcastic consternation etched into her furrowed brow.
10:02 am
I've just personally excused one of the jurors. His resemblance to Kenny G wasn't enough to get him excused yesterday but it did push him close to the edge. The thing that carried him over was the T-shirt with the imprint of a white collared shirt and black tie with skulls all over it. See ya later song bird.
I'm seated next to a woman who bears a striking resemblance to the grandmother character Jonathan Winters used to portray. Even her voice is right on. I've excused her from service but asked her to stay purely for my own amusement.
10:45 am
We are now recessed for a morning break. The two ladies who wished to speak to the judge in private are nowhere to be seen. They've either been excused or exiled for having entered a judge's chambers and sworn to secrecy and entered into the witness protection program.
11:30 am
The opening round of questions has resumed and I have excused 4 more potentials. Most notably the young man beside me who won't stop shaking his legs and thus the bench on which we are seated, and the George Takei dopple-ganger just because he's a nice old man who doesn't wish to be here.
The judge has found a bosom-companion who also worked at Illinois Bell which was discussed at length.
My name was called so I entered the front part of the court room and took a seat behind the assistant D.A. next to a kind elderly Filipina. Her knowledge of the English language was very minimal and after trying to procure discounts for all the assembled at her children's restaurants in Beverly Hills, to no avail, the judge dismissed her.
It is my turn to answer the questionnaire and I made sure to mention my beautiful piano teaching wife and her reasonable rates, which are now a matter of court record.
1:12 pm
Lunch has been called and we are now waiting for the court to return to session. Potentials are milling about discussing their particular lunch menus. The woman across from me is describing in all too vivid detail the reaction her body has to most fast food. She explains that she sat in her car eating the chicken salad she had left in her car this morning. I fear that chicken salad left in a warm car for 5 hours can't have too different of an impact on one's body. I've excused her lest we see her graphic tales on live display.
I marvel at the things people wear in public, let alone the relative formality of a courtroom. I've dismissed the following people for obvious reasons: the young man in the plaid pajama pants, the man with "git-r-done" hat, the man with a Dodgers T-shirt and the woman who just came back from the restroom with her skirt tucked in her underwear. She's suffered enough.
2:36 pm
Once court resumed after lunch, things began to move fairly quickly. The judge dispensed with his final questions but not before giving us several scenarios to consider trying to evaluate whether or not we could make the right decision. My favorite was the Donut Caper. In this example, we were told of a little boy named Heathcliffe. No, that is not the crime. It seems Heathcliffe’s mother has given him explicit instructions not to spoil his dinner. His mother then exits the kitchen leaving a powdered donut on the table. I feel this is entrapment but that’s a different charge than the one which we shall try here. Apparently, the mother goes outside and stakes out the donut through the window (another argument for entrapment). At any rate, she watches as little Heathcliffe comes in and eats the donut. She comes back in and accuses the little imp who promptly denies the charges. This is an example of direct evidence. The little boy is guilty based on his mother’s eyewitness testimony (How she can serve as judge and jury is left unexplained). In the second scenario, Heathcliffe is back, the window is gone but the donut and the over-officious mother remain. This time the evidence is bite marks in the donut and a powdered crumb trail leading to little Heathcliffe. This is circumstantial evidence, which contrary to the movies is not only admissible but should be considered with the same weight as direct evidence so long as you can only make one inference without reasonable doubt. Heathcliffe is no less guilty despite the absence of eyewitnesses. In the final of the donut scenarios, the window is still gone, mother, Heathcliffe, the donut and the crumb trail are still there, but we have been introduced to a third character, Fluffy the family dog. I don’t know what kind of family would actually name their dog Fluffy, the same kind that would name their son Heathcliffe, I suppose. This time when asked about his guilt, Heathcliffe claims that little Fluffy jumped on to the table, bit into the donut, jumped into Heathcliffe’s arms, licked his face (thus the powder trail on him), and fled to the outdoors where he is now eating dirt and destroying all possible evidence (allow me to state that I feel that if this is the case that somehow the mother and Fluffy are in cahoots). This is also circumstantial evidence but now two inferences may be made. Either Heathcliffe is telling the truth and fluffy is guilty of the best frame up ever, or Heathcliffe is falsely accusing Fluffy to hide his own guilt. In either case, a not guilty verdict is to be rendered based on the fact that the burden of proof lies with the prosecution, as reasonable doubt has been established. Both culprits, although one is certainly guilty, must be declared innocent in a court of law based on the preponderance of the facts. Obviously though, a mother who would trap her son into the crime in the first place is not interested in true justice and would have probably declared both guilty and punished them severely.
4:03 pm
Now the Lawyers have addressed the potentials to determine which ones they would like to dismiss preemptively. Once they finish with their questions, they start in turn dismissing the potentials they feel will not help their case. Potentials are now dropping like flies and I have moved from the 17th position, as fifth alternate, to juror number six. But alas, this is where my story ends. Before I could even warm the juror’s chair, the people of California excused me without as much as a howdy-do. The judge thanked me and invited me back at some later point in my life. My only regret is that I did not get to render my verdict on little Heathcliffe
Day One:
8:06 am
I arrived at the courthouse early on this February morn, happy to fulfill my civic duty (and not just because I got to sleep in past 4am on a Monday). Let me first state that I have always been fascinated by our court system and even considered being a lawyer at some point in my life. So I am one of the few people who are genuinely excited to be here. I'm not doing cart wheels in the portico mind you, but I do want to be here.
Upon my arrival, the first thing that I noticed is that it is difficult to tell prospective jurors apart from those whose case they are waiting to hear. It can be truly stated that these defendants today will be tried by a jury of their peers. That's not to say that the lawyers blend in as well. No, you can spot them a mile away. They're the ones who exude confidence (even if it’s only manifested in the immediate presence of their clients and quickly subsides once they move on). They can also be easily noticed as they flit in and out of the security line like humming birds, greeting clients and laying the groundwork for prospective ones. They are smartly attired in a cheap business suit, (I don't mean to be disparaging but let's face it these aren't exactly the high profile cases and big money lawyers about which John Grisham writes) and have either a worn out old briefcase or an array of multi-colored file folders tucked under their arm.
I've made it through security, not that I was worried, though you never know what small item, like a rivet on your pant pocket, may set those metal detectors off, causing a cacophony of bells and whistles to chime as they usher you into a side room with bare walls and a Nurse Ratchet character waiting to do unspeakable things. Okay so maybe I was a little worried, but it was completely unfounded.
8:34 am
As I stepped into the Juror Assembly Room, the pungent smell of desperation and despair assaulted my nostrils. I beheld the group of prospective jurors that somewhat resembled a “who's not” of Riverside county. They seemingly came from all walks of life. I say seemingly, because I've neither the time nor the inclination to interview each juror to discover their background and learn their world paradigm. Most of them are here because they have no other choice. There are a few of us who desire to be here. But for the most part many would rather be anywhere else than here missing a day of work and being forced to watch reruns of animal planet shows. I can't abide listening to Mario Lopez go on and on about how special some stupid cat is. Why do I care that some lady has nothing better to do than spend years training a rebellious feline to do tricks it would take a week for a dog to learn? Besides, I was always more of a Zack Morris fan anyway.
9:27 am
I was just treated to a bit of comedy. A young man who had received a jury summons came in to explain why he should be excused from service. His first argument, which was specious, was that he had school and had already missed one class just by showing up. Putting aside the fact that he doesn't strike me as a person overly concerned with class attendance, school is only good for a postponement at best. Once that was shot down, he moved on to his second argument which failed in a more spectacular fashion. His excuse was that he had a job and his only day off was Sunday. The master-juror looked at him as though he was the dumbest person alive. Which I feel if he's not, he's certainly in the running. As if the 180 person juror assembly room was entirely populated by unemployed people with nothing better to do than hang out at their local courthouse begging a trial judge to end their boredom and place them on a case. .
10:02 am
Judge Mark Mandio just addressed this motley crew. Nice guy- rambled on a bit but he struck me as a man who was good at his job. He was unfazed by some of the stupid questions thrown at him, answering them in a manner that was frank but also conveyed the idea that he thought it was a good question, even though it was not. One such question directed at him by a man with a fu-Manchu, who strongly resembled that dad from American Choppers, was, “Why are there some forty-plus criminal trial judges and only 7 civil trial judges?” The man stated that in his opinion and I quote "that's just not fair". I wanted to explain to the mustachioed man that life was not fair and that it was probably because there are a whole lot more people out there performing criminal acts than there are people suing over the loss of a limb. Judge Mandio explained those exact sentiments in a much more diplomatic and less abusive manner.
10:33 am
A twenty minute break was just announced and a flood of people rushed to the bathrooms. A scene reminiscent no doubt of the halftime rush in the homes and venues of those watching the Super Bowl without a DVR and the ability to pause live TV. The problem I have is this, it’s not like we are in school. We are in a juror assembly room. It even has a "quiet room" set aside where the lights are left off for the expressed purpose of "closing your eyes and relaxing". The phrase of the day here is "down time". My question is why did they wait for recess like so many school children not daring to ask the teacher for permission? It's moments like these that make me relieved to be a prospective juror and not in need of a jury.
10:45 am
I've begun my own jury selection comprised of the twelve jurors and three alternates I feel are best suited to hear my imaginary client's case. The schoolboy with a job and the American Choppers guy has already been dismissed. As have the guy in the Dallas Cowboys T-shirt and the man in the nice suit and white tube socks. I feel they cannot be trusted. I've also dismissed the guy with the bad toupee'-he obviously has no desire to uncover the truth. Now you would probably think that I would excuse the guy who is making his way around the room trying to pick up women. But I appreciate the whole "bloom where you're planted" mentality. I've just dismissed the woman beside me. I don't feel anyone should serve on a jury if they should be on trial for murdering the English language.
11:08 am
I would like to take this moment to thank the previous jurors for their donated fees and mileage that have paid for the free coffee, tea and hot cocoa. I am appreciative despite the fact that I'm pretty sure it’s the same coffee that was left over from when you served. Does anyone know the ratio of water to coffee at which point the liquid substance can still be legally referred to as coffee?
11:10 am
The first round of names has been selected to go to the next process in jury selection. I'm not a little disappointed that my name was passed over, especially since the schoolboy and the man who suited up with white socks were selected. I'm not worried as only two of my jurors were selected. I did have to add one person to my juror list. Anyone named John McClain has to be trustworthy.
11:28 am
They just started the second round of names and I've been selected. This judge is about to get the best juror ever! Now we get to go to lunch. Selection process will begin immediately following.
1:14 pm
As I wait for the court room to begin calling us in, I am amazed at how people pass the time so differently. To my right there are a group of jurors silently reading and minding their own business. To my left are a group of people minding everyone else's business and doing so quite loudly.
Their observations range in substance: Outrage at the length of the security line which is now extended beyond the doors and almost to the parking lot, all because the court system is unwilling to employ a second set of guards to man the second check point. The ringleader (which I figure is by default since he is the loudest) says it is more logical to do it his way but "what do I know?” Apparently what he knows is minimal and what he doesn't know is too expansive to list here. But he is right, it's way more logical to pay three more guards 8 hours a day with benefits so that they can ease the 20 minute rush coming back from lunch. Their latest tangent is watching a couple of officers search a car in the parking lot with what appears to be bags of marijuana now piled on the hood. Commenting on and I quote "the stupid people who do stupid things at stupid times in stupid places". Their mastery of descriptive adjectives is to be commended.
I am also amazed at the things people will share with one another just for the sake of conversation. For instance I now know that the gentleman next to me has passed three kidney stones in the past month and the smallest one was the size of a piece of Kix cereal. Note to self: thank this man later for ruining Kix for you forever. Why couldn't he have said peas? I'm already not extremely fond of them.
1:43 pm
We have all been called in and introduced to the defendant who shall remain unnamed, except to say that his middle name is Lee. It seems to me that the majority of criminals have this particular middle name. Which is not to say this individual is guilty (that is yet to be determined) or that anyone saddled with this middle nomenclature is a criminal. I myself bare this middle name, which then leaves me to wonder at the prospects my parents held for me when they named me.
The judge is an honorable old chap. He tends to repeat himself a lot. Not just once but it seems that he will say the same thing three different ways and then once more as it was stated originally. This is what I'm saying; I'm saying this; this I am saying; I said this. This leads me to believe that he either is getting on in years and can't remember what he's said from one moment to the next moment; or he believes he is dealing with a group of morons.
2:15 pm
They have begun to give us the general instructions for jurors. The first thing they said was that jury service is not like in the movies. They then went on to describe the exact scenario which has been played out in every movie based in a courtroom that I've ever seen.
After hearing a few potential jurors answer the questionnaire, I'm inclined to believe that his Honor is not getting up there in years but is in fact dealing with a class “A” group of morons. How hard is it to follow instructions that were stated so clearly no less than three times each.
4:26 pm
We've recessed for the day and are all headed home. Eight men and women have been deferred or excused, leaving 72 of us to fill out the 12 jurors and three alternates. I fear that there are not 15 people here who have the capacity to do so, but only time will tell. See you tomorrow.
Day 2:
8:36 am
I arrived at the court house to the customary security line. Thankfully I avoided Nurse Ratchet again. I walked to the floor where the court room is and saw the usual suspects. I've discovered that the ring leader is actually the jury foreman for that particular case. Apparently he feels his duties go well beyond the walls of the jury box as he commandeers and directs every conversation his jurors have. After hearing he and his jurors talk for the last few minutes I feel strongly about two things. One: they may be the densest jury to serve since that Pauley Shore movie and Two: that we would all be better off as a species if the phrase "it is what it is" were expunged from our vernacular.
9:01 am
They've called in several of the potential jurors who wished to discuss their issues with service in private. We'll see if that's any more effective in getting them excused.
9:44 am
The courtroom inhabitants appear bright eyed and bushy tailed this morning. Our court stenographer is a dead ringer for Chloe O'Brien from 24, complete with the look of sarcastic consternation etched into her furrowed brow.
10:02 am
I've just personally excused one of the jurors. His resemblance to Kenny G wasn't enough to get him excused yesterday but it did push him close to the edge. The thing that carried him over was the T-shirt with the imprint of a white collared shirt and black tie with skulls all over it. See ya later song bird.
I'm seated next to a woman who bears a striking resemblance to the grandmother character Jonathan Winters used to portray. Even her voice is right on. I've excused her from service but asked her to stay purely for my own amusement.
10:45 am
We are now recessed for a morning break. The two ladies who wished to speak to the judge in private are nowhere to be seen. They've either been excused or exiled for having entered a judge's chambers and sworn to secrecy and entered into the witness protection program.
11:30 am
The opening round of questions has resumed and I have excused 4 more potentials. Most notably the young man beside me who won't stop shaking his legs and thus the bench on which we are seated, and the George Takei dopple-ganger just because he's a nice old man who doesn't wish to be here.
The judge has found a bosom-companion who also worked at Illinois Bell which was discussed at length.
My name was called so I entered the front part of the court room and took a seat behind the assistant D.A. next to a kind elderly Filipina. Her knowledge of the English language was very minimal and after trying to procure discounts for all the assembled at her children's restaurants in Beverly Hills, to no avail, the judge dismissed her.
It is my turn to answer the questionnaire and I made sure to mention my beautiful piano teaching wife and her reasonable rates, which are now a matter of court record.
1:12 pm
Lunch has been called and we are now waiting for the court to return to session. Potentials are milling about discussing their particular lunch menus. The woman across from me is describing in all too vivid detail the reaction her body has to most fast food. She explains that she sat in her car eating the chicken salad she had left in her car this morning. I fear that chicken salad left in a warm car for 5 hours can't have too different of an impact on one's body. I've excused her lest we see her graphic tales on live display.
I marvel at the things people wear in public, let alone the relative formality of a courtroom. I've dismissed the following people for obvious reasons: the young man in the plaid pajama pants, the man with "git-r-done" hat, the man with a Dodgers T-shirt and the woman who just came back from the restroom with her skirt tucked in her underwear. She's suffered enough.
2:36 pm
Once court resumed after lunch, things began to move fairly quickly. The judge dispensed with his final questions but not before giving us several scenarios to consider trying to evaluate whether or not we could make the right decision. My favorite was the Donut Caper. In this example, we were told of a little boy named Heathcliffe. No, that is not the crime. It seems Heathcliffe’s mother has given him explicit instructions not to spoil his dinner. His mother then exits the kitchen leaving a powdered donut on the table. I feel this is entrapment but that’s a different charge than the one which we shall try here. Apparently, the mother goes outside and stakes out the donut through the window (another argument for entrapment). At any rate, she watches as little Heathcliffe comes in and eats the donut. She comes back in and accuses the little imp who promptly denies the charges. This is an example of direct evidence. The little boy is guilty based on his mother’s eyewitness testimony (How she can serve as judge and jury is left unexplained). In the second scenario, Heathcliffe is back, the window is gone but the donut and the over-officious mother remain. This time the evidence is bite marks in the donut and a powdered crumb trail leading to little Heathcliffe. This is circumstantial evidence, which contrary to the movies is not only admissible but should be considered with the same weight as direct evidence so long as you can only make one inference without reasonable doubt. Heathcliffe is no less guilty despite the absence of eyewitnesses. In the final of the donut scenarios, the window is still gone, mother, Heathcliffe, the donut and the crumb trail are still there, but we have been introduced to a third character, Fluffy the family dog. I don’t know what kind of family would actually name their dog Fluffy, the same kind that would name their son Heathcliffe, I suppose. This time when asked about his guilt, Heathcliffe claims that little Fluffy jumped on to the table, bit into the donut, jumped into Heathcliffe’s arms, licked his face (thus the powder trail on him), and fled to the outdoors where he is now eating dirt and destroying all possible evidence (allow me to state that I feel that if this is the case that somehow the mother and Fluffy are in cahoots). This is also circumstantial evidence but now two inferences may be made. Either Heathcliffe is telling the truth and fluffy is guilty of the best frame up ever, or Heathcliffe is falsely accusing Fluffy to hide his own guilt. In either case, a not guilty verdict is to be rendered based on the fact that the burden of proof lies with the prosecution, as reasonable doubt has been established. Both culprits, although one is certainly guilty, must be declared innocent in a court of law based on the preponderance of the facts. Obviously though, a mother who would trap her son into the crime in the first place is not interested in true justice and would have probably declared both guilty and punished them severely.
4:03 pm
Now the Lawyers have addressed the potentials to determine which ones they would like to dismiss preemptively. Once they finish with their questions, they start in turn dismissing the potentials they feel will not help their case. Potentials are now dropping like flies and I have moved from the 17th position, as fifth alternate, to juror number six. But alas, this is where my story ends. Before I could even warm the juror’s chair, the people of California excused me without as much as a howdy-do. The judge thanked me and invited me back at some later point in my life. My only regret is that I did not get to render my verdict on little Heathcliffe
My Parking Space
Hi, my name is Jared (everyone says "Hi, Jared"); I'm a condo- owner. (Words of encouragement rise from the crowd).
That's right, I'm not too proud to admit my weakness. Owning a condo isn't something I'm proud of. I've tried to give it up several times. I just can't seem to quit no matter how hard I try. I was doing well, coping with it, for a while but I've had another lapse.
There are so many things to discuss when it comes to living in a condo complex. I'm sure there will be many more rants, but for this particular one I choose to rant about the parking spaces and the inability of my fellow residents to park in them.
First things first, and that is the quantity of the spaces. There is a gross shortage of parking spaces in our complex. Now by gross I don't mean the shortage is disgusting. I mean that we are at least 144 spaces short. The idea is that everyone parks a car in their garage and parks their other car in the spaces provided. This is good in theory, that theory being that people have no more than two cars and just enough stuff to fill their house and not their garage. However, seeing that everyone owns at least two cars (and most own three) and their garage is filled to overflowing (because even if you have just the bare essentials it's still way more than you can fit in an 890 sq. ft. Condo) the few spots provided are like twinkies at a Jenny Craig convention, they go fast and people are willing to fight for them. So when you pull up to the parking lot, and that ray of light bursts through the clouds and shines on the one vacant spot while the Hallelujah chorus rings out, you pull in as fast as you can. He who hesitates is lost, and forced to park by the pool or possibly outside of the complex.
The particular incident which I shall now relate occurred last week. I came home from work hoping to find a spot near my house because I’m lazy and didn’t really want to walk that far. Lo, and behold, there is a spot just a few spaces from my back porch. I whip in and whisper a prayer of thanks for the great blessing which God has just bestowed upon me. Feeling the adrenaline rush of seeing the hand of God at work, I get out of my truck and start up the sidewalk with a spring in my step. Then I heard a diminutive voice call from behind me.
“Could you be careful next time?” the voice whispers.
I turned around and didn’t see anyone at first. Then I noticed a woman standing between my truck and a gray SUV. I asked her if she was speaking to me (not in the Al Pacino, “you talkin’ ta me?” way but in a very polite attempt to understand what she could possibly want me to be careful about). She repeated her previous statement, and followed it with, “You hit my car.”
A rush of panic ripped through my chest. I did quickly whip into the spot; did I happen to sideswipe her as I did so? Surely not, I would have noticed metal scraping by metal, right? She then explained that when I got out of my truck I hit her car with my door and she saw and heard the whole thing from her kitchen. She pointed back over her shoulder to her condo. Now, I was standing at the front corner of my car, with a direct view of the place my door ALLEDGEDLY struck her car and her back porch. There is no way she could have seen this happen from her house. The angle of the car to the house was all wrong. Once I explained that little nugget of information to her, she amended her statement to simply state that she had heard it happen.
If I may pause for a moment in my narrative, I believe it is relevant to the case before you that I explain what exactly I drive. My little beauty is a 1982 Dodge Ram 50 pickup. I am not quite certain if the 50 represents the horsepower my little monster pulls or if it is a reference to the size of the engine in cubic inches. Either way I think you get the idea that I don’t drive around a full size behemoth with the overinflated tires that are so popular nowadays. Nope, this is a throwback to a simpler time when miniatures were all the rage. As a matter of fact, I am fairly certain that you could drive my pickup into the bed of most of those larger trucks with enough room left over for a trip to Costco. You could practically park it sideways in one of our parking spaces and drop the tailgate without coming close to hitting another vehicle. The picture that I am trying to paint here is that the entire cab of my truck is barely three feet deep, leaving the door a few inches shorter than that. I would have had to park in her passenger seat to hit her. Get the picture, okay, back to the story.
I then explained to her that my truck door was not very big at all and probably wouldn't reach her vehicle. She asserted herself and proclaimed that she “heard what she heard!” (At this point I’m wondering if one of the many voices that occupy her head just belched or something and she mistook that for the sound of my door striking hers). In the interest of being a good neighbor, I explained to her that I was generally pretty careful about such things but if I did hit her which I don’t believe I did, I was sorry and assured her that I would pay special attention to exiting my car in the future, especially when I was parked next to her.
A few minutes later, after relating the incident to my wife, I went back out to my truck to get something off the front seat and I opened my door as wide as I could. There was no less than 8 inches between my fully extended door and her SUV. Feeling fully vindicated, I vowed to let this woman know that I was serious about my promise to pay special attention to her vehicle.
Now, whenever I pull up to my parking lot I look for her vehicle and if possible I park next to it. Even if there is a spot open closer to my condo, I park next to her. I get out of my vehicle, leave the door open and pull out the measuring tape that now sits on my front seat and measure the distance between my car and hers. Once I’ve done that, I turn toward her house, give her two thumbs up and call out the number of inches between our vehicles. Why? Because that’s the kind of neighbor I am, that’s why!
That's right, I'm not too proud to admit my weakness. Owning a condo isn't something I'm proud of. I've tried to give it up several times. I just can't seem to quit no matter how hard I try. I was doing well, coping with it, for a while but I've had another lapse.
There are so many things to discuss when it comes to living in a condo complex. I'm sure there will be many more rants, but for this particular one I choose to rant about the parking spaces and the inability of my fellow residents to park in them.
First things first, and that is the quantity of the spaces. There is a gross shortage of parking spaces in our complex. Now by gross I don't mean the shortage is disgusting. I mean that we are at least 144 spaces short. The idea is that everyone parks a car in their garage and parks their other car in the spaces provided. This is good in theory, that theory being that people have no more than two cars and just enough stuff to fill their house and not their garage. However, seeing that everyone owns at least two cars (and most own three) and their garage is filled to overflowing (because even if you have just the bare essentials it's still way more than you can fit in an 890 sq. ft. Condo) the few spots provided are like twinkies at a Jenny Craig convention, they go fast and people are willing to fight for them. So when you pull up to the parking lot, and that ray of light bursts through the clouds and shines on the one vacant spot while the Hallelujah chorus rings out, you pull in as fast as you can. He who hesitates is lost, and forced to park by the pool or possibly outside of the complex.
The particular incident which I shall now relate occurred last week. I came home from work hoping to find a spot near my house because I’m lazy and didn’t really want to walk that far. Lo, and behold, there is a spot just a few spaces from my back porch. I whip in and whisper a prayer of thanks for the great blessing which God has just bestowed upon me. Feeling the adrenaline rush of seeing the hand of God at work, I get out of my truck and start up the sidewalk with a spring in my step. Then I heard a diminutive voice call from behind me.
“Could you be careful next time?” the voice whispers.
I turned around and didn’t see anyone at first. Then I noticed a woman standing between my truck and a gray SUV. I asked her if she was speaking to me (not in the Al Pacino, “you talkin’ ta me?” way but in a very polite attempt to understand what she could possibly want me to be careful about). She repeated her previous statement, and followed it with, “You hit my car.”
A rush of panic ripped through my chest. I did quickly whip into the spot; did I happen to sideswipe her as I did so? Surely not, I would have noticed metal scraping by metal, right? She then explained that when I got out of my truck I hit her car with my door and she saw and heard the whole thing from her kitchen. She pointed back over her shoulder to her condo. Now, I was standing at the front corner of my car, with a direct view of the place my door ALLEDGEDLY struck her car and her back porch. There is no way she could have seen this happen from her house. The angle of the car to the house was all wrong. Once I explained that little nugget of information to her, she amended her statement to simply state that she had heard it happen.
If I may pause for a moment in my narrative, I believe it is relevant to the case before you that I explain what exactly I drive. My little beauty is a 1982 Dodge Ram 50 pickup. I am not quite certain if the 50 represents the horsepower my little monster pulls or if it is a reference to the size of the engine in cubic inches. Either way I think you get the idea that I don’t drive around a full size behemoth with the overinflated tires that are so popular nowadays. Nope, this is a throwback to a simpler time when miniatures were all the rage. As a matter of fact, I am fairly certain that you could drive my pickup into the bed of most of those larger trucks with enough room left over for a trip to Costco. You could practically park it sideways in one of our parking spaces and drop the tailgate without coming close to hitting another vehicle. The picture that I am trying to paint here is that the entire cab of my truck is barely three feet deep, leaving the door a few inches shorter than that. I would have had to park in her passenger seat to hit her. Get the picture, okay, back to the story.
I then explained to her that my truck door was not very big at all and probably wouldn't reach her vehicle. She asserted herself and proclaimed that she “heard what she heard!” (At this point I’m wondering if one of the many voices that occupy her head just belched or something and she mistook that for the sound of my door striking hers). In the interest of being a good neighbor, I explained to her that I was generally pretty careful about such things but if I did hit her which I don’t believe I did, I was sorry and assured her that I would pay special attention to exiting my car in the future, especially when I was parked next to her.
A few minutes later, after relating the incident to my wife, I went back out to my truck to get something off the front seat and I opened my door as wide as I could. There was no less than 8 inches between my fully extended door and her SUV. Feeling fully vindicated, I vowed to let this woman know that I was serious about my promise to pay special attention to her vehicle.
Now, whenever I pull up to my parking lot I look for her vehicle and if possible I park next to it. Even if there is a spot open closer to my condo, I park next to her. I get out of my vehicle, leave the door open and pull out the measuring tape that now sits on my front seat and measure the distance between my car and hers. Once I’ve done that, I turn toward her house, give her two thumbs up and call out the number of inches between our vehicles. Why? Because that’s the kind of neighbor I am, that’s why!
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
My Disneyland Trip
First, I want to state that this is in no way designed to be a slight against Disneyland. I love it. I enjoy myself every time I go. I wouldn’t shell out the dough for season passes if I was miserable the entire time I was there.
That being said, I have a few issues I would like to discuss concerning the “happiest place on earth”. The first thing you are faced with when arriving is the Disneyland Parking Lot Attendant. To say that these people take their job seriously is an understatement. They tell you exactly where you will park and when you will park there. They are very similar in nature to the School Crossing Guard. There is not a fiercer and more aggressive group of mother bears than these people. With their reflective jackets and handheld stop signs, they dictate the flow of traffic like little Mussolinis. Just slightly less feral is the Disneyland Parking Lot attendant. I am not sure what would happen if you were to defy one of them. I imagine that the reaction would not be unlike that of the Corleone Family, swift and severe.
The next issue with which I would like to take umbrage deals with those cute little Mickey and Minnie Mouse Ear Hats. I firmly believe that there should be an age limit imposed when it comes to who is allowed to wear those little beauties. Don’t get me wrong, I love seeing a little girl zonked out in a stroller with her pigtails poking out of a Minnie Hat, and who doesn’t love to see a little boy strolling down Main Street with his hands in his shorts pockets, a Goofy shirt and a Mickey Hat donning his little head. What I think is ridiculous is when a grown man is wearing a pair. The most egregious offenders of this pet peeve are Chinese 20-somethings. I’m not sure if it is a rite of passage there or what but it seems like the majority are wearing them. Maybe it’s just on all of their bucket lists. Much like a bartender cutting off a louse who’s tossed back one too many, the park employees need to stop anyone old enough to do long division from purchasing them.
Which brings me to my last point; Merchandising and Marketing. I am a capitalist through and through, but I don’t believe that just because “somebody will pay money for it”, is a good enough reason to produce and sell something. No one does marketing quite like the Disney machine. Their merchandise and other products far outsell the films and attractions with which they are associated. Walt Disney was out to make a buck. (I don’t say that to disparage the man, it’s simply the truth. If it weren’t, then Disneyland would cost exactly enough to cover the money to keep it running.) But I am sure even he would drawback in horror at the things that are being sold. I have never been a fan of women wearing pants with things written across the caboose. No one should wear them but there are definitely some women who have no business drawing more attention to their considerable acreage. I am certain that Disney would faint dead away if he knew that there was some girl right now, with extremely large legs that blend into cankles, all stemming from a corpulent derriere with “Mickey” stenciled across it in size 5500 font trolling around his park. Again, just because someone is willing to pay $49.99 ($10 more for plus sizes) doesn’t mean that you should sell it to them. Please exercise a little discipline.
All that being said, I thoroughly enjoyed my day with my family. It is always a delight to see my son, Bryce, light up as we go through “It’s a Small World”, to watch people as they dodge out of the way of Henry as he races out of control across the concourse dividing the two parks. That is why I have gone and will continue to go. That and I really love Tower of Terror.
That being said, I have a few issues I would like to discuss concerning the “happiest place on earth”. The first thing you are faced with when arriving is the Disneyland Parking Lot Attendant. To say that these people take their job seriously is an understatement. They tell you exactly where you will park and when you will park there. They are very similar in nature to the School Crossing Guard. There is not a fiercer and more aggressive group of mother bears than these people. With their reflective jackets and handheld stop signs, they dictate the flow of traffic like little Mussolinis. Just slightly less feral is the Disneyland Parking Lot attendant. I am not sure what would happen if you were to defy one of them. I imagine that the reaction would not be unlike that of the Corleone Family, swift and severe.
The next issue with which I would like to take umbrage deals with those cute little Mickey and Minnie Mouse Ear Hats. I firmly believe that there should be an age limit imposed when it comes to who is allowed to wear those little beauties. Don’t get me wrong, I love seeing a little girl zonked out in a stroller with her pigtails poking out of a Minnie Hat, and who doesn’t love to see a little boy strolling down Main Street with his hands in his shorts pockets, a Goofy shirt and a Mickey Hat donning his little head. What I think is ridiculous is when a grown man is wearing a pair. The most egregious offenders of this pet peeve are Chinese 20-somethings. I’m not sure if it is a rite of passage there or what but it seems like the majority are wearing them. Maybe it’s just on all of their bucket lists. Much like a bartender cutting off a louse who’s tossed back one too many, the park employees need to stop anyone old enough to do long division from purchasing them.
Which brings me to my last point; Merchandising and Marketing. I am a capitalist through and through, but I don’t believe that just because “somebody will pay money for it”, is a good enough reason to produce and sell something. No one does marketing quite like the Disney machine. Their merchandise and other products far outsell the films and attractions with which they are associated. Walt Disney was out to make a buck. (I don’t say that to disparage the man, it’s simply the truth. If it weren’t, then Disneyland would cost exactly enough to cover the money to keep it running.) But I am sure even he would drawback in horror at the things that are being sold. I have never been a fan of women wearing pants with things written across the caboose. No one should wear them but there are definitely some women who have no business drawing more attention to their considerable acreage. I am certain that Disney would faint dead away if he knew that there was some girl right now, with extremely large legs that blend into cankles, all stemming from a corpulent derriere with “Mickey” stenciled across it in size 5500 font trolling around his park. Again, just because someone is willing to pay $49.99 ($10 more for plus sizes) doesn’t mean that you should sell it to them. Please exercise a little discipline.
All that being said, I thoroughly enjoyed my day with my family. It is always a delight to see my son, Bryce, light up as we go through “It’s a Small World”, to watch people as they dodge out of the way of Henry as he races out of control across the concourse dividing the two parks. That is why I have gone and will continue to go. That and I really love Tower of Terror.
Monday, February 15, 2010
My Physical
I'm not sure why all my notes begin at 8 or so in the morning. I don't generally sleep in past 7:30 but I'm not exactly a go-getter. Anyway, such as it is, here I sit at 8:14 on a Thursday morning. I'm at a clinic to have some blood drawn and a battery of other test run(more on those later).
I don't especially enjoy having my blood drawn. There's just something I don't like about needles. I'm sure many people share those sentiments. For some reason, I try to avoid making eye contact with the needle. Probably because I always envision it as being just slightly larger than the barrel of Dirty Harry's gun.
As to those other tests that must be run, I am due for a urine specimen and, wait for it, a stool specimen. Yes, that's right, I'm apparently at the age now that the Dr. is concerned about my poo. As a somewhat famous TV doctor once sang, "everything comes down to poo".
I won't go into detail, but the thing that I would like to mention is the manner in which I am to return my sample. I have the luxury of taking this test at home. But the thing is, I am supposed to MAIL it back. No, my caps lock didn't get stuck, the emphasis is my own. Mail?, as in go number two, put in the mailbox and raise the little flag? Won't my mail person be surprised! I wasn't aware, but this is actually a fairly common practice. Which makes me wonder how many times my Sports Illustrated or mortgage payment were sitting in a box next to an envelope of poo! I will never again try samples that are sent in the mail. The next time my mail person complains about job security with everyone going paper less, I'll just hand her my poo and tell her there are somethings we'll never be able to email.
The Phlebotomist did a wonderful job, I didn't even know she had started before she was done. It's time for me to go now. I've just one question, Does anybody know how to study for a stool test? Oh well, I'm sure it will be open book.
I don't especially enjoy having my blood drawn. There's just something I don't like about needles. I'm sure many people share those sentiments. For some reason, I try to avoid making eye contact with the needle. Probably because I always envision it as being just slightly larger than the barrel of Dirty Harry's gun.
As to those other tests that must be run, I am due for a urine specimen and, wait for it, a stool specimen. Yes, that's right, I'm apparently at the age now that the Dr. is concerned about my poo. As a somewhat famous TV doctor once sang, "everything comes down to poo".
I won't go into detail, but the thing that I would like to mention is the manner in which I am to return my sample. I have the luxury of taking this test at home. But the thing is, I am supposed to MAIL it back. No, my caps lock didn't get stuck, the emphasis is my own. Mail?, as in go number two, put in the mailbox and raise the little flag? Won't my mail person be surprised! I wasn't aware, but this is actually a fairly common practice. Which makes me wonder how many times my Sports Illustrated or mortgage payment were sitting in a box next to an envelope of poo! I will never again try samples that are sent in the mail. The next time my mail person complains about job security with everyone going paper less, I'll just hand her my poo and tell her there are somethings we'll never be able to email.
The Phlebotomist did a wonderful job, I didn't even know she had started before she was done. It's time for me to go now. I've just one question, Does anybody know how to study for a stool test? Oh well, I'm sure it will be open book.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
My Bad...errr...My Blog!
When I was ten or so I remember my sister telling me that I shouldn't make fun of some one because there was a good chance that I or my kids would wind up having traits similar to those that I was making fun of. This understandably worried me that I would have a kid who was half stupid and half Canadian, which I guess would make a whole Canadian. When my children were born, I was relieved that neither one of them were stupid. They are part Canadian but it comes from their mother's side and it's so minuscule that it can hardly be counted (not even enough to qualify for free health care or hockey tickets).
But I digress, the point I'm trying to make is that I have now become something that I used to make fun of. I am a blogger. I didn't make fun of them so much as I thought that the people who wrote blogs were pathetic whiners who had nothing better to do than bore the rest of the world with their mundane lives. The thing I really thought was ridiculous, was the seemingly endless number of troglodytes who encouraged this kind of behaviour by following these bloggers faithfully!
Recently I wrote some notes to my wife detailing the events of my day. I wrote these to keep my self from getting bored and to avoid that all too frequent conversation at the end of the day when she says, "What did you do to day?" and I say "Oh, nothing!" starting a whole new conversation about how women are better at remembering details than men. I usually respond that women purposely remember the details because they want something to talk about later, and that men purposely don't because they don't want to have to talk later. But that's a different rant for a different day. Anyway, she thought my notes were well worded (if poorly constructed grammatically) and that I should post them. So I did, because I like making people laugh and getting attention. There then followed several suggestions from friends to create a blog so that I could do this more often. At first I rejected the idea because I didn't want to be a "blogger", but when my wife explained to me that I could make a whole lot more people laugh and more importantly get a whole lot more attention, my curiosity was piqued.
So if you read this, Thanks. If you enjoy it, Thanks a lot! If you don't enjoy it than find some thing else to do, loser!
But I digress, the point I'm trying to make is that I have now become something that I used to make fun of. I am a blogger. I didn't make fun of them so much as I thought that the people who wrote blogs were pathetic whiners who had nothing better to do than bore the rest of the world with their mundane lives. The thing I really thought was ridiculous, was the seemingly endless number of troglodytes who encouraged this kind of behaviour by following these bloggers faithfully!
Recently I wrote some notes to my wife detailing the events of my day. I wrote these to keep my self from getting bored and to avoid that all too frequent conversation at the end of the day when she says, "What did you do to day?" and I say "Oh, nothing!" starting a whole new conversation about how women are better at remembering details than men. I usually respond that women purposely remember the details because they want something to talk about later, and that men purposely don't because they don't want to have to talk later. But that's a different rant for a different day. Anyway, she thought my notes were well worded (if poorly constructed grammatically) and that I should post them. So I did, because I like making people laugh and getting attention. There then followed several suggestions from friends to create a blog so that I could do this more often. At first I rejected the idea because I didn't want to be a "blogger", but when my wife explained to me that I could make a whole lot more people laugh and more importantly get a whole lot more attention, my curiosity was piqued.
So if you read this, Thanks. If you enjoy it, Thanks a lot! If you don't enjoy it than find some thing else to do, loser!
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