07.30.04

Well, mah nipples explode with delight. *ahem* Today was jury duty day in fabulous, downtown Hillsboro, OR.

While the obligation of serving on a jury every few years is a pain, it's a small price to pay for the privilege of voting. And it is a privilege, let's not forget.

However, is it necessary to treat us with the disdain normally reserved for cretins, dog shit, and lawyers?

Woke at 6:30AM. You know that morning isn't copacetic with me. Rushed about, still feeling the tender lump on my noggin from the other day, and got dressed. Put The Big Book of Masturbation in my bag. Took it out. Put it back. Cooler heads prevailed. Took it out.

Up to the county seat, and the "old" courthouse. (Old is a relative term here. I think the building was built in the late 19th century.) Shunted into the basement jury assembly area. Like a freakin' rabbit warren in there. We got yapped at...well, here's what I wrote during the orientation:

Jury Duty

Court clerk/jury wrangler stands in front

of the basement room.

(No matter that there's purple carpet

and purple chairs, it's

still a basement with lock bars on

the windows.)

Her voice cuts through our impatience

like a bastard file scraping teeth

"Gretchen," she squeak/screeches,

thanks us for being here.

Blowing smoke up our collective ass.

She had a public-speaking class,

she sounds like a kindergarten

teacher with adenoids,

cat in heat,

fingernails in cotton.

We're so lucky, she says, it's Friday

and Fridays are for one-day trials.

God, she's got the funniest tits.

We watch a video.

Groundswell trumpet blast, violins,

Statue of Liberty and the National Archives

"In Washington, DC," says the talkinghead as if

that's something special.

I threw up on the steps of the Archives

one night,

reeling through town,

after hitting the strip

clubs to see my friends dance.

Besides the squeaky-voiced jury wrangler (who I'm sure is a lovely person with an unfortunate voice), the wretched coffee, the purple chairs and carpet, the never-ending cell phone calls were annoying as can be.

Every conversation consisted of,

"What're you doing?--Yeah?--Nothing much.--Yeah.--I'm at the courthouse.--What?--Yeah." Bloody scintillating. Are these people so terrified of their own company that they can't shut up for an hour?

I retreated to an area with tables and did some revision on a short story. At least I used the time well. Killed some darlings. Gosh. I hope it improves the story. I took Samuel Johnson's advice, "Read over your compositions, and wherever you meet with a passage which you think is particularly fine, strike it out." Y'know, that ain't a bad guideline.

Still, it all worked out. Got dismissed at 10:30AM--duty done and they can't call me for two years. I hope to be gone well before I'm eligible again.

Went over to step-pater's restaurant and got some sushi for later noshing. Took the back roads to the house. It's a beautiful day. High in the low 80s (fahrenheit, bien sur), sun shining. Rolling hills marching away to the Coastal Range, crazy-quilted with fields and farms. Farmington View school with maize planted almost to its front door. Alpacas and llamas worriedly grazing. A horse pissing in a field. Bucolic, eh?

Got back to the house. Surprised Mater who was starkers in the garage. There's a good reason--that's where the washing machine is. She was doing a teensy load of darks, felt guilty about doing such a small load, and threw her dark blue yukata in the machine. She felt the need to over-explain.

"No worries, Ma. It's your house and if you wanna run around stone nekkid, knock yourself out," I said.

Settled into sushi-time and watching the end of Cleopatra Jones. Happy happy happy.

Got online for mah writing fix, man. Had a lovely IM conversation with Hato-kun.

Hang on. I'm going to my Happy Place.

Ahhh.

Okay, I'm back. Belly full, writing and in love. How can a girl be so lucky?Dang. That's quite a change, neh? Life. What a kick in the ass.

Back one. ||||| Forward one.