Back In The Box
Hello World,
Happy Presidents Day weekend! I hope that your days will be filled with appropriate pomp and circumstance, executive privilege, and all sorts of hail. Hail to the Chief, I mean. We also can't overlook Valentine's Day, which occurred earlier in the week, and you know that I always say that any day that starts with presents is a good day. But, alas and alack, there is no joy in Moosejaw, not to mention, Manitoba, Montreal, Minnesota, Montpellier, Minot, or anywhere else that grown men strap tiny metal blades to their feet and chase around after a frozen rubber disc. No, I'm not talking about the upcoming Academy Awards (oh, hit that easy target!) but rather the unwelcome news that the NHL has become the first national sports league ever to lose an entire season to a labor dispute. So not only has there been no hockey from October to now, but there won't be any from now to May, besides. And I don't mind telling you that I'm disgusted with the whole bunch of them. And that goes double for the federal government, which instead of throwing itself an inauguration party with my tax dollars, should have stepped in while this whole hockey crisis was unfolding right in front of their faces. Oh, way to go, eh?
In other sports-related news, at least we have pitchers and catchers reporting to spring training down south, and it's always a pleasure to see young men playing ball in the warm weather, especially in these chilly times. There's nothing like pre-season baseball to put a spring in your step, a glimmer of hope in your heart, and renew your faith in mankind. It's like a little Christmas present in February, and a good thing too, because there's not all that much else to look forward to. In fact, I was saying that to my fellow jurors just the other day.
Now, I know what you're thinking. "But I thought you were finished with that horrible trial!" Yes, it is true that the trial-that-would-not-end did, in fact, end just before Christmas, which made a dozen or so people very happy, and their families as well. And I will admit that at the time, we were mostly miserable and grouchy, and the deliberations featured more yelling and fistfights than desired. But as the case began to wind down, and I suppose the Stockholm Syndrome sets in, and after two months, it seemed unthinkable that we would never see these people ever again in our lives. It's true that we were thrown together unwillingly, and a motley assortment of humanity of all different backgrounds and personalities. But after all, for those eight weeks, we spent more time with each other than with our families, neighbors or co-workers, with no chance to be apart at any point during the day for lunch, phone calls or a breath of fresh air. We may as well have been tied together, because from the time the van picked us up in the morning until it dropped us off at night, we were never separated. Under those conditions, even the most dissimilar people will find commonality, which is why, I suppose, that summer camp is so popular.
And just like youngsters who become pen pals after going home from summer camp, the jurors decided to keep in touch after the ordeal was over. (Actually, I said to Bill that it was more like being abducted by aliens for two months, where they do unspeakable things to you, but after they finally send you back home, you still can't believe that you're never going to see them again.) So, a few weeks ago, I got a call from one of the ladies on the jury, who said there was a plan to get together for lunch, and I jumped right on board. We had a mix of people from the city and the suburbs, and it was decided to meet in the city near Grand Central, since we had all gotten so familiar with that area. It turned out to be one of those warm and sunny days in early February, and we had a wonderful lunch at Bloom's on Lexington at 40th Street. It was fun to see them again, and we had a great time rehashing the case and making rude comments about the attorneys. I had asked Bill to make us all matching buttons of secret jurors (with paper bags over their heads) and our juror numbers, and they were a big hit. The people at Bloom's figured that we were just a bunch of lunatics who had escaped from an insane asylum.
The funniest part of the whole thing was that while we were being secret jurors on the case, no one used their real names the entire time. The court staff always referred to us by our jury seat numbers, and we always had to stay in the same seats. We thought numbers were too impersonal outside of the courtroom, so we had nicknames to communicate among ourselves, like Kewpie, Sunshine or Pops. I can't tell you how funny it was when we got together afterwards, and found out everyone's real name, and how it seemed that somehow, their real name didn't really fit them as well as their nickname that we knew them by. We kept saying things like, "Paisley just doesn't seem like a Karen to me," or "I'll never get used to calling Flannel, Jeff." It was so funny. We had a great time at lunch, and unlike Jury Duty with its insipid cafeteria food day after day, we had a great meal besides.
I don't mind saying that when I had to get up every day at 5:30 to catch a train and drag down to the city, spend all day in court and then drag back home again in the dark, week after week, I hated it every step of the way. And yet, when it came time to go back for our "class reunion," it was an entirely different experience, and a welcome change, I can tell you that. Of course, it was sunny and warmer, and I didn't have to get the train until 10:30 instead of 7:00 AM. People on the train and in the station were tourists like me, out for fun, and not cranky business sorts going to work. (In fact, the woman sitting in front of me had dyed hair that was hot pink in the front and bright purple in the back, and you can believe me when I say that I never saw anything like that when I was commuting!) Everything was less crowded, more relaxed, friendlier, unhurried. I saw all of the familiar landmarks in a new light, with an almost wistful appreciation, all of their old bad associations stripped away. I was enjoying myself in a way that would have seemed impossible just two months ago. In fact, everyone said that even though it was out of their way, they all walked over to the secret van pickup location on 43rd Street, just for old time's sake. Your Honor, the jury rests.
For some reason, it's been about 150 degrees in my office all this week, the whole building in fact, even with the windows open, and the poor air conditioners really don't want to know about cooling things off inside, when it's 30 degrees outside where they are. And yet at the same time, there's no hot water in the bathroom. We don't dare say anything about the water, figuring that in order for them to give us hot water in the sinks, it will somehow manage to make our offices even hotter than they are now. Honestly, after 100 years of climate control, you would think that they would have more of a handle on this stuff. I have the feeling these were the same people involved in the hockey negotiations. Oh well, try not to think about it and have a jolly week.
Happy Presidents Day weekend! I hope that your days will be filled with appropriate pomp and circumstance, executive privilege, and all sorts of hail. Hail to the Chief, I mean. We also can't overlook Valentine's Day, which occurred earlier in the week, and you know that I always say that any day that starts with presents is a good day. But, alas and alack, there is no joy in Moosejaw, not to mention, Manitoba, Montreal, Minnesota, Montpellier, Minot, or anywhere else that grown men strap tiny metal blades to their feet and chase around after a frozen rubber disc. No, I'm not talking about the upcoming Academy Awards (oh, hit that easy target!) but rather the unwelcome news that the NHL has become the first national sports league ever to lose an entire season to a labor dispute. So not only has there been no hockey from October to now, but there won't be any from now to May, besides. And I don't mind telling you that I'm disgusted with the whole bunch of them. And that goes double for the federal government, which instead of throwing itself an inauguration party with my tax dollars, should have stepped in while this whole hockey crisis was unfolding right in front of their faces. Oh, way to go, eh?
In other sports-related news, at least we have pitchers and catchers reporting to spring training down south, and it's always a pleasure to see young men playing ball in the warm weather, especially in these chilly times. There's nothing like pre-season baseball to put a spring in your step, a glimmer of hope in your heart, and renew your faith in mankind. It's like a little Christmas present in February, and a good thing too, because there's not all that much else to look forward to. In fact, I was saying that to my fellow jurors just the other day.
Now, I know what you're thinking. "But I thought you were finished with that horrible trial!" Yes, it is true that the trial-that-would-not-end did, in fact, end just before Christmas, which made a dozen or so people very happy, and their families as well. And I will admit that at the time, we were mostly miserable and grouchy, and the deliberations featured more yelling and fistfights than desired. But as the case began to wind down, and I suppose the Stockholm Syndrome sets in, and after two months, it seemed unthinkable that we would never see these people ever again in our lives. It's true that we were thrown together unwillingly, and a motley assortment of humanity of all different backgrounds and personalities. But after all, for those eight weeks, we spent more time with each other than with our families, neighbors or co-workers, with no chance to be apart at any point during the day for lunch, phone calls or a breath of fresh air. We may as well have been tied together, because from the time the van picked us up in the morning until it dropped us off at night, we were never separated. Under those conditions, even the most dissimilar people will find commonality, which is why, I suppose, that summer camp is so popular.
And just like youngsters who become pen pals after going home from summer camp, the jurors decided to keep in touch after the ordeal was over. (Actually, I said to Bill that it was more like being abducted by aliens for two months, where they do unspeakable things to you, but after they finally send you back home, you still can't believe that you're never going to see them again.) So, a few weeks ago, I got a call from one of the ladies on the jury, who said there was a plan to get together for lunch, and I jumped right on board. We had a mix of people from the city and the suburbs, and it was decided to meet in the city near Grand Central, since we had all gotten so familiar with that area. It turned out to be one of those warm and sunny days in early February, and we had a wonderful lunch at Bloom's on Lexington at 40th Street. It was fun to see them again, and we had a great time rehashing the case and making rude comments about the attorneys. I had asked Bill to make us all matching buttons of secret jurors (with paper bags over their heads) and our juror numbers, and they were a big hit. The people at Bloom's figured that we were just a bunch of lunatics who had escaped from an insane asylum.
The funniest part of the whole thing was that while we were being secret jurors on the case, no one used their real names the entire time. The court staff always referred to us by our jury seat numbers, and we always had to stay in the same seats. We thought numbers were too impersonal outside of the courtroom, so we had nicknames to communicate among ourselves, like Kewpie, Sunshine or Pops. I can't tell you how funny it was when we got together afterwards, and found out everyone's real name, and how it seemed that somehow, their real name didn't really fit them as well as their nickname that we knew them by. We kept saying things like, "Paisley just doesn't seem like a Karen to me," or "I'll never get used to calling Flannel, Jeff." It was so funny. We had a great time at lunch, and unlike Jury Duty with its insipid cafeteria food day after day, we had a great meal besides.
I don't mind saying that when I had to get up every day at 5:30 to catch a train and drag down to the city, spend all day in court and then drag back home again in the dark, week after week, I hated it every step of the way. And yet, when it came time to go back for our "class reunion," it was an entirely different experience, and a welcome change, I can tell you that. Of course, it was sunny and warmer, and I didn't have to get the train until 10:30 instead of 7:00 AM. People on the train and in the station were tourists like me, out for fun, and not cranky business sorts going to work. (In fact, the woman sitting in front of me had dyed hair that was hot pink in the front and bright purple in the back, and you can believe me when I say that I never saw anything like that when I was commuting!) Everything was less crowded, more relaxed, friendlier, unhurried. I saw all of the familiar landmarks in a new light, with an almost wistful appreciation, all of their old bad associations stripped away. I was enjoying myself in a way that would have seemed impossible just two months ago. In fact, everyone said that even though it was out of their way, they all walked over to the secret van pickup location on 43rd Street, just for old time's sake. Your Honor, the jury rests.
For some reason, it's been about 150 degrees in my office all this week, the whole building in fact, even with the windows open, and the poor air conditioners really don't want to know about cooling things off inside, when it's 30 degrees outside where they are. And yet at the same time, there's no hot water in the bathroom. We don't dare say anything about the water, figuring that in order for them to give us hot water in the sinks, it will somehow manage to make our offices even hotter than they are now. Honestly, after 100 years of climate control, you would think that they would have more of a handle on this stuff. I have the feeling these were the same people involved in the hockey negotiations. Oh well, try not to think about it and have a jolly week.
posted by El Tango Fandango @ 7:44 PM
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