This is my third post in a row about poetry. Deal with it.
I went to the LA Festival of Books at UCLA yesterday. My first mistake: assuming that the weather was going to be as witch tit cold as it had been the previous few days. I wore a huge exceptionally warm woolen sweater, and was very proud of myself for being so prepared for my outside excursion. Alas, the sun came out, and within five minutes of setting foot on the UCLA campus, I was cranky, I was hot, and I could feel little balls of chocolate brown wool adhering themselves to the various trickles of sweat forming on my torso. Camus would have been proud me for this close communion with the sun and the resulting pain, all in the name of my art. But Camus can fuck himself. I went to the first kiosk that sold t-shirts not in kid sizes (it took a surprisingly long time to find one.) The brand name was Spicy Brown, some sort of Japanese line, I have no idea what they were doing at the books festival, but I snagged me a nice cottony-light t-shirt with a cartoon of a baby seal across my chest, captioned by some Japanese characters. I could give two shimmies what the characters meant: even if my shirt said "Hiroshima was God's natural plan" in Japanese, I still would have worn it with pride.
But that's not even the point of this. What I really wanted to talk about was my accidentally stumbling across the poet's corner. Of course I wanted to stay for a sec and see what the poet was all about. I never caught his name, but he had the silky cocoa smooth voice, and the groomed silver demeanor of a poet. It seemed promising. He talked some about his inspiration, where he lives, who he was, and then read a snippet of some of his poetry. Something about a flower catalogue he receives in the mail, and a flower that's called "the anvil of darkness." In my very amateurish but strong opinion, he was crap. I could only take his flower stump speech for about a minute.
We moved on, my friend Jess and me, roamed for a little while, and found ourselves at the poet kiosk. poet is a group, I think located only in Los Angeles, that brings literacy to underprivileged teens by introducing them to poetry, and encouraging them to slam and thus find their voice. From what I've heard, this organization takes the teens to buses, to subway stations, to street corners, basically to unlikely places, and they recite to whomever will listen, sometimes their own words, sometimes great poems that speak to them. At the kiosk, four teens were performing, two girls and two boys. And I listened to them all. Each kid recited a classic, one was Hughes, one was Angelou, and they were fantastic. They were self-possessed, committed, in love with what they were saying. They made eye contact with every member of the crowd, and you could really see each teen owning him/herself in that moment. And this in spite of the vendors passing by, screaming LEMONADE and COTTON CANDY, and a touristy woman with a camera loudly insisting that Harry get closer to the sign so she could take the picture. At one point, one of the girl teens, in the midst of her poem, caught my eye and started to crack up, which made the whole experience that much better.
And what was it? What made these kids more special than the silver poet with the liquid tongue who had his very own stage, removed from the vendors and the screamers, with an audience easily five times the size of theirs? Why did I pass him by so quickly, and then stay and listen to every single word the teens gave me? Did the difference come from within me... was it my Marxist inner child coming out, wanting to support the proletariat teen? That same part of me that always cries at the end of movies like "Cradle Will Rock" or more embarrassingly, "Sidney White," when the underdogs rise up together, and through sheer will, make the world a better place. Were these kids really more noble because of their meager beginnings? Who's to say that they won't all grow up to be just like Mr. Flower spouting his catalogue nonsense?
Or was I just content because I was finally wearing a Japanese baby seal t-shirt? You decide.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Saturday, April 17, 2010
I touch what?
Applications. Who comes up with them? Who are these people, holed up in their darkened offices, shunning their families, not eating, peering at a computer screen, trying to figure out how to convince iTouch and iPhone users (oh, let's not forget iPad) that they desperately need a portable way to smash zombies, or compete against Twitter friends for most productivity, or transform a rectangular mini-computer into an umbrella?
Today, I did a little search for an iTouch application that might help me write poetry on the go. Why I wanted to write poetry on the go, I don't know. Why I thought this poetry, having been written on the go, would have any art or relevancy... search me. But it seemed like a good idea at the time, and at the very least, afforded me an opportunity to peek into the minds of these application creators. I found an application that would let me take the words from all the Shakespearean sonnets, turn them into refrigerator magnets, and write my own poetry with them. I found another application that transforms famous poems into meditative visual spirals that you can watch trickle across your screen. There's another one, this one you have to pay for, that gives you access to the work of self-published amateur poets across the country. Fun. Have you ever looked at the work on poetry.com? Go ahead. Right now. Go take a look. Go to "Search" and read the poems listed under the "Drugs" tag. And then come back here, and tell me in a comment on this entry that you would pay for an application that gives you access to the works of self-published amateur poets across the country. I dare you.
When I was looking for this holy grail of a poetry writing application, all I wanted was -- I have no idea. I was looking for some magical application that would somehow break through my writer's block and inspire me to write the poetry I used to write in college, like the French poem that wn mean herb garden and 2 miniature snail statues. I wanted to find an application that would act as a better version of my brain. One that would know exactly what I'm feeling, and how I string words together, and how I view the world, and parse it into a few choice sentences and phrases, and just... do it for me. And there. That's the vulnerability the application gods are hovered over, in their darkened offices, waiting to prey on. The moment where us iUsers flip over, and start to rely on our portable electronic devices more than on ourselves, and look to our new pantheon of near-sighted isolationist demi-gods for the answers to why our lives don't work, and why we're not the people we always thought we were meant to be.
That last part? I plagiarized that from my newest application: iSoapbox. A bargain at only $3.99.
Incidentally, there's another "what's hot" application that allows you to create music by hitting leaves with stones, and stones with leaves. This is supposed to relax you.
Today, I did a little search for an iTouch application that might help me write poetry on the go. Why I wanted to write poetry on the go, I don't know. Why I thought this poetry, having been written on the go, would have any art or relevancy... search me. But it seemed like a good idea at the time, and at the very least, afforded me an opportunity to peek into the minds of these application creators. I found an application that would let me take the words from all the Shakespearean sonnets, turn them into refrigerator magnets, and write my own poetry with them. I found another application that transforms famous poems into meditative visual spirals that you can watch trickle across your screen. There's another one, this one you have to pay for, that gives you access to the work of self-published amateur poets across the country. Fun. Have you ever looked at the work on poetry.com? Go ahead. Right now. Go take a look. Go to "Search" and read the poems listed under the "Drugs" tag. And then come back here, and tell me in a comment on this entry that you would pay for an application that gives you access to the works of self-published amateur poets across the country. I dare you.
When I was looking for this holy grail of a poetry writing application, all I wanted was -- I have no idea. I was looking for some magical application that would somehow break through my writer's block and inspire me to write the poetry I used to write in college, like the French poem that wn mean herb garden and 2 miniature snail statues. I wanted to find an application that would act as a better version of my brain. One that would know exactly what I'm feeling, and how I string words together, and how I view the world, and parse it into a few choice sentences and phrases, and just... do it for me. And there. That's the vulnerability the application gods are hovered over, in their darkened offices, waiting to prey on. The moment where us iUsers flip over, and start to rely on our portable electronic devices more than on ourselves, and look to our new pantheon of near-sighted isolationist demi-gods for the answers to why our lives don't work, and why we're not the people we always thought we were meant to be.
That last part? I plagiarized that from my newest application: iSoapbox. A bargain at only $3.99.
Incidentally, there's another "what's hot" application that allows you to create music by hitting leaves with stones, and stones with leaves. This is supposed to relax you.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
A book can fuck you up
So I just bought this book (though I wish I had stolen it now) called The Outlaw Bible of American Poetry. It's been in my possession for only about an hour, but already it's gotten to me. Fucked me up in the best possible of ways.
This book. It makes me want to go somewhere - not by myself, that wouldn't work - but with a someone who's subliminally outraged, like me. This place. Has to be a place fashioned for shouting, yelling, dare I even say yawping, or is that too easy? It has to be outdoors and have reachable vistas where we can call/text/im to the gods, and expect an answer. An answering bloop, or sound bite from Gabriel's "Games Without Frontiers." Which incidentally is my text alert. Not a very long or interesting story, but sentimental to me.
I found pink post-its in my drawer that 2 weeks ago I couldn't access, because the drawer was too close to the bottom of my desk, and I couldn't fit my hand inside or even for that matter see what was stored in there. All that changed when I had the brilliant idea to switch out the contents of that drawer with a lower one, which contained things like a personal library stamping kit for lending out books, and Fellini greeting cards. Things I wouldn't mind my hand being too gigantic to grab.
And I post-it'ed the mother out of this book. Now it's got a hot pink sort of mohawk, marking odes to toilets and flash the lights to the children on the streets. d.a. levy, my new favorite poet, I'm his new personal hairdresser and I gave him a mohawk. And at 10:41p on a Tuesday night when I haven't done pretty much fuckall all day except people watch and obsess at Mexicali on Ventura, that feels pretty empowering.
So my question I pose to you: would you like a mohawk? Because I will give you one.
This book. It makes me want to go somewhere - not by myself, that wouldn't work - but with a someone who's subliminally outraged, like me. This place. Has to be a place fashioned for shouting, yelling, dare I even say yawping, or is that too easy? It has to be outdoors and have reachable vistas where we can call/text/im to the gods, and expect an answer. An answering bloop, or sound bite from Gabriel's "Games Without Frontiers." Which incidentally is my text alert. Not a very long or interesting story, but sentimental to me.
I found pink post-its in my drawer that 2 weeks ago I couldn't access, because the drawer was too close to the bottom of my desk, and I couldn't fit my hand inside or even for that matter see what was stored in there. All that changed when I had the brilliant idea to switch out the contents of that drawer with a lower one, which contained things like a personal library stamping kit for lending out books, and Fellini greeting cards. Things I wouldn't mind my hand being too gigantic to grab.
And I post-it'ed the mother out of this book. Now it's got a hot pink sort of mohawk, marking odes to toilets and flash the lights to the children on the streets. d.a. levy, my new favorite poet, I'm his new personal hairdresser and I gave him a mohawk. And at 10:41p on a Tuesday night when I haven't done pretty much fuckall all day except people watch and obsess at Mexicali on Ventura, that feels pretty empowering.
So my question I pose to you: would you like a mohawk? Because I will give you one.
Monday, March 29, 2010
One Year in My Life
Today, my roommate is pa'ing (office style) for the first time ever. I referred her for the job, so she's working with people I know and very much like. And it got me to thinking about when I was a set PA, a time about which I have very strong feelings. Mixed feelings. I want to get them down before that year of my life fades even more into nostalgia.
What was it that I hated about PA'ing? First and foremost, the military aspect, which makes me glad I didn't listen to my father and go to Annapolis for college. Even if it was free. Being a PA is about: standing at attention, ready to "fight" in an instant, to answer to your superiors in the affirmative when possible. Add to that: there's a real Sisyphean nature to the job. It takes, oh about 700 days, give or take, to be promoted to a 2nd AD in the Los Angeles. A long boring process I won't go into here. And day to day, it's the same thing over and over. You rehearse the shot, light the shot, shoot the shot, break down the shot, and do the whole thing again with another shot. You do this for at least 12 hours, then go to sleep, and come back in about 6 hours to do it all over again. You strain yourself to the limits, depleting all bodily fluids, and for what? For a crapass television show that most of your audience views as a good way to kill a half hour/hour or so each week.
The trickier part is what I truly love about set PA'ing. Those are the things that have leeched themselves to my conscious, and are now a part of who I am. I forget about the military, forget about Sisyphus, forget about meaninglessness... and am left with the people. There is a strange and wondrous breed of human that is attracted to television production. They're kind, devoted to their work family, mischievous, and genuinely happy with their jobs, no matter how long the hours, or how brutal the conditions. The people I was lucky enough to meet during my year of shall we say "boot camp" -- some of them will remain good friends of mine forever.
Then there's the language of the walkie. The 20's and 10-1's, the "go to Channel 2," the "c'mons" and "copies," the sass, the efficiency. My amazement that every single person using the walkie has mastered the etiquette, knows when to talk and when not to. Hand in hand with this is the extraordinary efficiency of a well run set. It's a joy to see over a hundred people all working toward a common goal, and doing it with ease and precision.
There's the challenge of pushing yourself to the limits, and still being able to do it all again the next day. Standing in the rain for 12 hours, then going home and taking the best shower of your life. Not sitting for 12 hours, and going to CVS on the way home to buy a desperately needed foot massager. Learning the trick of changing socks and shoes during lunch, so your feet don't cramp. Breaking in your ear mold so it fits into your ear channel with no discomfort. Finding the perfect pair of cargo pants that has the right amount of pockets in the right places, holds your belt (heavy with batteries, walkie, set bag, etc.) at the perfect place on your waist so your back won't give out. Having the right tools on you at all times: the ubiquitous flashlight, walkie batteries, spare walkie accessories, sharpie (red and black), sides, call sheet, Leatherman, chapstick (surprisingly important,) gum, 4-colored pen, hi-liter, clicker, etc. The intricacies of inputting the PR, and scrambling for scraps of time to complete it during the day, so you don't have to stay 2 hours after everyone else has left, and get only 4 hours of sleep that night.
So, I guess what I really wanted to put down in this entry: despite the fact that I would cry every night on my way home, at least towards the end of my year as a PA, at the same time, I actually and truly enjoyed myself and the job, and will never consider 2008-2009 a wasted year. But you can bet your sweet bippy -- I will never EVER do it again.
What was it that I hated about PA'ing? First and foremost, the military aspect, which makes me glad I didn't listen to my father and go to Annapolis for college. Even if it was free. Being a PA is about: standing at attention, ready to "fight" in an instant, to answer to your superiors in the affirmative when possible. Add to that: there's a real Sisyphean nature to the job. It takes, oh about 700 days, give or take, to be promoted to a 2nd AD in the Los Angeles. A long boring process I won't go into here. And day to day, it's the same thing over and over. You rehearse the shot, light the shot, shoot the shot, break down the shot, and do the whole thing again with another shot. You do this for at least 12 hours, then go to sleep, and come back in about 6 hours to do it all over again. You strain yourself to the limits, depleting all bodily fluids, and for what? For a crapass television show that most of your audience views as a good way to kill a half hour/hour or so each week.
The trickier part is what I truly love about set PA'ing. Those are the things that have leeched themselves to my conscious, and are now a part of who I am. I forget about the military, forget about Sisyphus, forget about meaninglessness... and am left with the people. There is a strange and wondrous breed of human that is attracted to television production. They're kind, devoted to their work family, mischievous, and genuinely happy with their jobs, no matter how long the hours, or how brutal the conditions. The people I was lucky enough to meet during my year of shall we say "boot camp" -- some of them will remain good friends of mine forever.
Then there's the language of the walkie. The 20's and 10-1's, the "go to Channel 2," the "c'mons" and "copies," the sass, the efficiency. My amazement that every single person using the walkie has mastered the etiquette, knows when to talk and when not to. Hand in hand with this is the extraordinary efficiency of a well run set. It's a joy to see over a hundred people all working toward a common goal, and doing it with ease and precision.
There's the challenge of pushing yourself to the limits, and still being able to do it all again the next day. Standing in the rain for 12 hours, then going home and taking the best shower of your life. Not sitting for 12 hours, and going to CVS on the way home to buy a desperately needed foot massager. Learning the trick of changing socks and shoes during lunch, so your feet don't cramp. Breaking in your ear mold so it fits into your ear channel with no discomfort. Finding the perfect pair of cargo pants that has the right amount of pockets in the right places, holds your belt (heavy with batteries, walkie, set bag, etc.) at the perfect place on your waist so your back won't give out. Having the right tools on you at all times: the ubiquitous flashlight, walkie batteries, spare walkie accessories, sharpie (red and black), sides, call sheet, Leatherman, chapstick (surprisingly important,) gum, 4-colored pen, hi-liter, clicker, etc. The intricacies of inputting the PR, and scrambling for scraps of time to complete it during the day, so you don't have to stay 2 hours after everyone else has left, and get only 4 hours of sleep that night.
So, I guess what I really wanted to put down in this entry: despite the fact that I would cry every night on my way home, at least towards the end of my year as a PA, at the same time, I actually and truly enjoyed myself and the job, and will never consider 2008-2009 a wasted year. But you can bet your sweet bippy -- I will never EVER do it again.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Jellyfish and Hot Dogs
Looking back on that title, a gruesome combination, no?
Christmas Eve, my family and I went to the Long Beach Aquarium. While there, I learned some very valuable things.
First and foremost, it's a great place to on Christmas Eve. There's no one there, and one of the drivers wears a Santa wetsuit while feeding the fish in the big tank when you first walk in. Right next to the trains chugging around the Christmas tree. Nearly blew my nephew's mind, a man in the water with the fish AND a choo choo? What?!
I also witnessed the perfect example of the intrinsic difference between my Daily Show lovin' brother and Fox News worshippin' father. There's this great water fountain park near the sea lions where kids can sit on statues of crabs and fish, spray each other with water, or take refuge from the water fight in a little dinghy. In the boat was a kid about twice Carter's size, who, rather than share the captain's wheel with Carter, decided to push him down. To the ground. A nearly two year old. This isn't about the potentially sociopathic leanings of this child though, so back to my father and my brother. My father, he went red in the face, leaned down to scream in the kid's face, came very close in my opinion to punching him. The kid couldn't have been more than 6 or 7. Awesome. And my brother. A few minutes later the kid was sitting on a porpoise, spraying water on Carter until he was soaking wet, and so my brother calmly leaned over and redirected the spray through his hand so it shot back into the kid's face. And right there, that's the difference. That's the difference between my brother and my father.
One more thing: I went to Big Wang's for dinner tonight (yes, size does matter,) and noticed something called the Jon Van Shake on the menu. So I think, oh delicious, something chocolatey, creamy, possibly malty... and then I read the description. It's a buffalo chicken pizza with garlic sauce and blue cheese, etc. This totally grossed me out. Not because I don't like buffalo chicken pizza. Normally, I'm all for buffalo chicken pizza, but because I expected it to be sweet and ice cream based, the reality of it was the most disgusting thing ever. The human mind is a perverse beast.
Christmas Eve, my family and I went to the Long Beach Aquarium. While there, I learned some very valuable things.
First and foremost, it's a great place to on Christmas Eve. There's no one there, and one of the drivers wears a Santa wetsuit while feeding the fish in the big tank when you first walk in. Right next to the trains chugging around the Christmas tree. Nearly blew my nephew's mind, a man in the water with the fish AND a choo choo? What?!
I also witnessed the perfect example of the intrinsic difference between my Daily Show lovin' brother and Fox News worshippin' father. There's this great water fountain park near the sea lions where kids can sit on statues of crabs and fish, spray each other with water, or take refuge from the water fight in a little dinghy. In the boat was a kid about twice Carter's size, who, rather than share the captain's wheel with Carter, decided to push him down. To the ground. A nearly two year old. This isn't about the potentially sociopathic leanings of this child though, so back to my father and my brother. My father, he went red in the face, leaned down to scream in the kid's face, came very close in my opinion to punching him. The kid couldn't have been more than 6 or 7. Awesome. And my brother. A few minutes later the kid was sitting on a porpoise, spraying water on Carter until he was soaking wet, and so my brother calmly leaned over and redirected the spray through his hand so it shot back into the kid's face. And right there, that's the difference. That's the difference between my brother and my father.
One more thing: I went to Big Wang's for dinner tonight (yes, size does matter,) and noticed something called the Jon Van Shake on the menu. So I think, oh delicious, something chocolatey, creamy, possibly malty... and then I read the description. It's a buffalo chicken pizza with garlic sauce and blue cheese, etc. This totally grossed me out. Not because I don't like buffalo chicken pizza. Normally, I'm all for buffalo chicken pizza, but because I expected it to be sweet and ice cream based, the reality of it was the most disgusting thing ever. The human mind is a perverse beast.
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Shamed
My friend, JMoney, shamed me (completely unconsciously) into writing in my blog again. And some thoughts have been rumbling in my brain, and now I will make absolutely no attempt to put them in any kind of order.
Lacunae. These are the spaces naturally present in a story, an argument, a relationship. Gaps, missing pieces of information. I like to think of them as tidal pools; accidentally caught between rocks, almost an afterthought, but more representative of the essence of the seaside than any ocean or beach could be. Tidal pools trap the small things, like crabs or starfish or guppies... seemingly picayune details when looked at in terms of the entire ocean, but when grouped together in a small pool, all of a sudden they take on a greater meaning. They become a microcosm, they become their own contained world.
I wonder what we could learn from, oh, let's say a relationship, because that's of course what's foremost in my thoughts, me being a single girl in my 30s, one who's apparently fond of commas and run-on sentences... anyway, what could we learn if we focused on the lacunae of a relationship. First of all, we'd have to define what the lacunae are. Are they the things unsaid? Or undone? Are the lacunae the mundane details of an established relationship? I'm going to choose unsaid, because it's the most intriguing option, and because I'm a fan of Pinter. Not really.
So things unsaid. The next question that needs to be answered: how do we know they're unsaid? Is it an unnatural pause (see Pinter) or is it represented in small talk? Because we all know that small talk is just thinly disguised tension. No one really wants to engage in small talk. They're just afraid to talk about what they're really thinking.
Yeah, let's say the lacunae is in the small talk. Let's say that when someone says "Did you hear there's a chance of rain on Thursday?", what they really mean is "oh my God, seriously, I need to rip off your clothes right now, because I'm Krakatoa, and you're the poor island villagers running for their lives." When someone says, "No, I thought it was sunshine for the rest of the week, they're actually saying "Back off, Koresh, or I'll blast 5,000 decibels of "Sweet Child of Mine" in your child-loving, cult-freaky ass."
I told you I wasn't actually going to organize my thoughts. Or even find meaning or logic in them, for that matter.
See ya.
Lacunae. These are the spaces naturally present in a story, an argument, a relationship. Gaps, missing pieces of information. I like to think of them as tidal pools; accidentally caught between rocks, almost an afterthought, but more representative of the essence of the seaside than any ocean or beach could be. Tidal pools trap the small things, like crabs or starfish or guppies... seemingly picayune details when looked at in terms of the entire ocean, but when grouped together in a small pool, all of a sudden they take on a greater meaning. They become a microcosm, they become their own contained world.
I wonder what we could learn from, oh, let's say a relationship, because that's of course what's foremost in my thoughts, me being a single girl in my 30s, one who's apparently fond of commas and run-on sentences... anyway, what could we learn if we focused on the lacunae of a relationship. First of all, we'd have to define what the lacunae are. Are they the things unsaid? Or undone? Are the lacunae the mundane details of an established relationship? I'm going to choose unsaid, because it's the most intriguing option, and because I'm a fan of Pinter. Not really.
So things unsaid. The next question that needs to be answered: how do we know they're unsaid? Is it an unnatural pause (see Pinter) or is it represented in small talk? Because we all know that small talk is just thinly disguised tension. No one really wants to engage in small talk. They're just afraid to talk about what they're really thinking.
Yeah, let's say the lacunae is in the small talk. Let's say that when someone says "Did you hear there's a chance of rain on Thursday?", what they really mean is "oh my God, seriously, I need to rip off your clothes right now, because I'm Krakatoa, and you're the poor island villagers running for their lives." When someone says, "No, I thought it was sunshine for the rest of the week, they're actually saying "Back off, Koresh, or I'll blast 5,000 decibels of "Sweet Child of Mine" in your child-loving, cult-freaky ass."
I told you I wasn't actually going to organize my thoughts. Or even find meaning or logic in them, for that matter.
See ya.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Jury Duty
So, tomorrow at 7:30am (if only, if only I had pre-oriented myself online... oh, to report at 9am like the smart people,) I'm reporting for jury duty. At the Stanley Mosk Courthouse. For the second time in my life. It may surprise you to hear, but I'm actually really excited about it. Not only because one of my best friends is called for service at the same time (almost, she's one of the smart people who actually did the pre-orientation online... dammit!) and location, but because last time I served, I learned something surprising about myself. Which of course I'm going to share with you.
The case in 2005 was silly. It was Denny's franchise, it was at will employment, it was a whole lot of he said he said. There was a corporate lawyer on our jury (strange, right?,) I took copious notes which I never looked at again, at lunch everyday I ate a Starbucks egg sandwich by the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion fountain... it was a good life. I was content.
Until I learned I am Juror #8. You know, from 12 Angry Men? The juror that alllllllll the other jurors want to slap? To clarify: If I'm forced into a jury deliberation with 11 other people, I can now safely say that I'll be the one with the strongest convictions, the one who railroads the discussions, and the one, potentially, who keeps the deliberations (read: screaming matches?) going for hours longer than they really should. And you know what? I was proud of myself. I didn't believe any of the testimonies on either side, and I said so. I thought that our decision should be made from documentation, and only documentation, and I said so. I thought that Juror #5 was a raging moron whose mouth should be sewn shut with baling wire, but only after his mother was tarred, feathered, and ridden out on the rails for allowing her son to live past the age of 7, and I said so. I was a good juror.
And now the county of Los Angeles is privileged to have me on their judicial team again. I hope this time I get a murder trial.
The case in 2005 was silly. It was Denny's franchise, it was at will employment, it was a whole lot of he said he said. There was a corporate lawyer on our jury (strange, right?,) I took copious notes which I never looked at again, at lunch everyday I ate a Starbucks egg sandwich by the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion fountain... it was a good life. I was content.
Until I learned I am Juror #8. You know, from 12 Angry Men? The juror that alllllllll the other jurors want to slap? To clarify: If I'm forced into a jury deliberation with 11 other people, I can now safely say that I'll be the one with the strongest convictions, the one who railroads the discussions, and the one, potentially, who keeps the deliberations (read: screaming matches?) going for hours longer than they really should. And you know what? I was proud of myself. I didn't believe any of the testimonies on either side, and I said so. I thought that our decision should be made from documentation, and only documentation, and I said so. I thought that Juror #5 was a raging moron whose mouth should be sewn shut with baling wire, but only after his mother was tarred, feathered, and ridden out on the rails for allowing her son to live past the age of 7, and I said so. I was a good juror.
And now the county of Los Angeles is privileged to have me on their judicial team again. I hope this time I get a murder trial.
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