Haven’t posted in a while because I’ve been bubbling with rage. About nothing in particular but generally everything. Wake up in the morning and just want to hate. I was going to list everything that I hate but I didn’t for two reasons:
1. It would be very offensive to some people (lookin’ at you, honkeys)
2. I got my bike back from the shop today
BIKE BIKE BIKE BIKE BIKE BIKE BIKE BIKE BIKE BIKE BIKE BIKE BIKE BIKE BIKE BIKE BI-
And I am fucking elated. I got it tuned up for the season and it rides better than when I got it (they even painted over the dinged up bits). I would highly recommend Kater Street Bicycle to anybody in the city.
I’ve told people (multiple times) that all I want to be happy is my bicycle and Eagles season tickets. I’m halfway there and it feels GREAT. Gonna go ride around FDR park and try and avoid all the white people who are out jogging.
Noticed this when I was posting the last blog and it made my day. I can (kind of) see who’s looking at my blog and where the pageviews are coming from. Check out this damn commie from the USSR reading my most patriotic blog ever .
Yeah, this damn commie only read one page but it’s probably because afterwards this guy was so mentally shattered by our ‘Murican superiority that he blew his damn commie brains out in the Red Square.
Putin, if one of you or your Kremlin goonies is reading this you can kiss my red, white and blue ass.
This has been occurring progressively since I finished college. I don’t know why. My food and sleep schedule is that of an infant’s.
If no one tells me to eat, or I forget, I get cranky. I get all confused and irritable until I realize I’ve forgotten to eat. I’m not above a little bit of sobbing.
When I do eat, I make a mess. There’s food in my beard, on my desk, on my clothes, and I don’t notice because I’m so damn hungry I’m just shoving food down my gullet.
I eat too much too fast. I get gassy/sleepy (in some order). If I’m watching TV, in a car/train, especially on my couch, I will fall asleep in a matter of minutes.
Best (worst?) of all, I drool in my sleep. I wake up on a damp pillow or with crusty saliva in my beard. I’m extremely disoriented and usually have to use the bathroom.
The transformation into a baby will be complete when I start shitting myself. At my current rate I’m expecting this to happen by July 4th.
So I’m standing in the petty cash office at work and there’s a TV droning CNN nonstop. I was playing Flappy Bird (ha!) and overheard some stats about people who don’t believe in climate change (something along the lines of “only 42% of Americans believe in climate change that’s influenced by man”).
People who deny climate change are right wingers/dolts (mutually inclusive). I’m paraphrasing some of the rest of what I heard:
“There are facts that unequivocally point towards climate change, yet people like Marco Rubio still deny it exists.” Also, sky is blue.
“I don’t think most Americans can name a single scientist.” If true, this is more a black eye on Americans than anything else. If asked, you can say your buddy govinbhai is a (fledgling) scientist.
And here’s the quote that really pissed me off, “The scientists most Americans are familiar with is the fictional Dr. Sheldon Cooper [of The Big Bang Theory], who is brilliant, condescending, and narcissistic. Given this representation of scientists it is understandable that scientists do not inspire confidence in many Americans.” This was infinitely more infuriating than Flappy Bird.
Working in academia I tend to spend a lot of time will well educated, scientifically literate people (scientists). Ask any faculty member at Temple University or elsewhere and they will be in staunch agreement that humans have have influenced our climate to our own detriment. Climate change deniers are their own special type of stupid, but CNN brought up a thoughtful point (for once): that the general public woefully misconstrues climate change and the scientific community at large because most of their exposure to “scientists” is a terrible fucking television show.
Not only does The Big Bang Theory incorrectly stereotype scientists, lack any sort of meaningful character development, rely on terrible writing and a forced laugh track.
CRINGEWORTHY
But in general, it isn’t a show about real scientists. Physics PhDs aren’t spending their free time at comic book stores or arcades. They aren’t entirely socially inept losers. If the show was accurate, the PhDs on the show wouldn’t be relatable, white Americans. Look at this faculty directory and tell me how many Sheldon’s and Leonard’s you see. A show about reading scientific journals, developing and testing experimental hypotheses, and examining evidence to draw conclusions wouldn’t be too popular (that’s an indictment of the American public and mainstream media).
Jury duty is finally over. I was going to write about it midweek, but my mental state was alternating between fury, melancholy, and hopelessness so quickly that I could only compose gibberish. I expected to feel some sense of delight or positivity when I was done, but it’s more akin to removing broken glass from a cut. Yeah – it’s gone but it’s gonna hurt like a bitch for a while.
Before I recount my harrowing experience, let me provide some background: on the questionnaire I filled out Monday I answered “No” to all of the questions, except one. This question was (paraphrased): “Would you be less inclined to believe the testimony of a police officer due to their occupation?” I answered “Yes” because 1. I was pissed off and hoped this would get me removed from the jury pool (spoilers: it didn’t) 2. Cops are dicks, especially suburban ones. They’ll lie through their teeth in the case of traffic violations, noise complaints, etc. This would inevitably bite me in the ass.
Tuesday
Got called for a panel of 35 first thing in the morning. Well, that’s relative. Because everything moves glacially in the judicial system and the administrators seem to receive sadistic pleasure from watching us squirm anxiously in our seats. Maybe an hour after my name was called we’re led to (an admittedly impressive) courtroom. Sexual harassment case. Fuck my life.
The defendant was a pale and scrawny dude with thinning, oily hair. The prosecution was spearheaded by…a police detective. Husky, crewcut hair, asshole, the whole shebang. The lawyers questioned the jury, so they could whittle their jury list down to 13. “Do you have any relation to any members of the legal proceedings that would prevent you from being a fair and impartial juror,” “Have you or a family member ever been accused of sexual harassment” “Have you ever been the victim of sexual harassment” and whatnot. I was dead behind the eyes, because none of these applied to me, and because I wanted to be dead. If I had been selected I could have been done by Wednesday. But then, in the flesh, the question: “Would you be less inclined to believe the testimony of a police officer due to their occupation?” I bit my tongue. Did they even look at my questionnaire? Fuck the police, but a detective’s a little more credible and wouldn’t lie about an accusation like this. I just wanted to get this done with. The lawyers and judge then spent about an hour talking quietly among themselves to decide who would be selected to the jury. Needless to say, I was not selected and returned to the jury pool.
Dismissal for midday bloody marys lunch. Pensive self-reflection on the banks of the Susquehanna river. Contemplating faking my death via drowning. Narrowly deciding against it. Back to the courtroom. I tried to read Slaughterhouse-Five, but I had found a comfortable chair and fell asleep immediately. Waking up after an hour with drool on my chin, I felt a little better, simply because I was less cranky. Around 2 PM, they performed a humane act by dismissing us early. Sure, we had to be back at 8 AM the next day, but I was at the parking garage faster than you can say “Usain Bolt”.
Wednesday
Stop me if you’ve heard this before. First thing in the morning I’m selected to a panel. For a sexual harassment case. The prosecution is represented by a police detective. I am not selected to the jury.
On the bright side, the bartender at Arooga’s started making my bloody mary as soon as I walked in the door. And we got released at 3 PM, after some light reading and heavy napping.
Thursday
Called for another panel first thing in the morning. They didn’t even bother taking us to a courtroom this time. In fact, I sat in the waiting room all day. So did everyone else (they mentioned the case may be settled out of court, though provided no definite answers). So from 8 AM until 2 PM we waited for a non-existent case. My panel was dismissed, to return on Friday at 8:15 AM. The remaining 12 jurors who weren’t selected to any panels? They were sent home at 3 and given Friday off.
Friday
This had to be my last day as a juror. Didn’t make me feel any better about it. Got to “downtown” at 7:45, and needed coffee and checked my phone for a nearby Starbucks. This is where I made an interesting discovery: There’s 1 SB in Harrisburg’s city limits. It is adjacent to the Whitaker Center’s gift shop. There are a grand total of 6 locations on that map (I live in the green circle at the top right, for reference). Whereas there are at least 10 locations in center city Philly alone. Pay close attention to the scale of the maps.
It also confirmed my sneaking suspicion that Harrisburg is a poor excuse for a city.
8:15, and we wait. And we wait and wait. Thankfully, Fatty isn’t around to tell his piss-poor jokes. Just a bunch of obese old ladies discussing how much butter they eat and how little they exercise, keeping us in the dark about when we’ll be dismissed. It’s approaching 11:30, that’s usually bloody mary lunch time, so I’m getting anxious and thirsty hungry. The spherical, annoying bitch from Monday decides we’re finally allowed to leave – because the judge was not in today but had not returned any calls until that point. Before we could finally leave, we had to receive an official piece of paper that states that we are cleared for jury duty for 3 years. Of course, these papers are handed out in alphabetical order, and I am the second-to-last person to receive mine. After 30 hours over 5 days, I am released. I am compensated 77 dollars (at a rate of $2.56/hour). I am selected to three panels, and 0 juries. So it goes.
–
Jury duty is henceforth categorized with the Dallas Cowboys and The Big Bang theory as the things I hate most on this planet. A couple hours removed from this most awful life experience, I’m finally recovering.
Let’s quickly rehash all the good things that happened this week, because life’s too awesome to be a negative nancy! That’s all the negativity I can muster for the rest of the summer, so it’s all smiles from here on out.
-Had a phone interview with one of my former professors at Temple. Going back to Philly August 20th for a formal interview! I have a future! Woohoo!
-Discussed ideas for our future sketch comedy/webseries with “JT” and “Merc”. Coming to a youtube channel near you!
-Got a new phone! My trusty dusty Droid X’s battery had finally gone kaput. Got the Samsung Galaxy SIII, and it’s phenomenal. Until the next iPhone comes out, or I drop it, I’ll have a top-of-the-line phone that works as it should! Feels good man!
-Read through Slaughterhouse-Five which Crazy Al lent me many months ago. Awesome book. (And the subject of an upcoming blog post? I say that a lot, don’t I?)
-Brother’s birthday party is tomorrow, so I get to troll a bunch of little kids for a few hours!
Haven’t had to wake up early in weeks and couldn’t sleep well last night knowing I’d have to be awake early today. I wanted to hit the snooze button, I couldn’t. I didn’t want to leave the warmth of my bed, I had to. My eyes burned. My muscles were stiff. Stumbled to the shower, shaved a week of scruff, and choked down breakfast hours before I was ready to digest anything whilst wistfully longing for REM cycles that could never be mine.
Commute downtown. Traffic. Parking garage. Missed the parking garage. Circle around the block. Parking garage. Concrete structure turned NPR to static, made me realize I was listening to NPR. Elevator with 3 blue haired old ladies, and their summons. “How many people are going to be here?” “I’m juror 238!” “I’m 17!” Looking down at my summons, I’m juror #2. Couldn’t bring myself to contribute to the conversation, or even smile and feign interest. I was there a solid 30 minutes early.
Walk into an underground entrance, there’s a line all the way through the courthouse and a bunch of metal detectors. Saw my old roommate’s mom. An acquaintance from high school I haven’t seen or spoken to in years. It felt like a lucid dream, the surroundings were so surreal. I wasn’t sure whether I’d actually woken up or not. Small talk. “Yeah I finished school in December and got a job in Hershey!” “Congratulations! Yeah I finished school in December too, and still haven’t found steady work!” Nope, I was awake.
Through the metal detector. Signing in. Girl in front of me, the only one I’d seen close to my age, someone who I could talk to and keep sane. “Is this your current address?” “Actually that’s not my current address, I live in Lancaster county now.” She’s turned away, as she’s no longer a Dauphin county resident, no questions asked. She’d escaped. I’m up next, I know exactly what they’re going to ask.
Clipboard, questionnaire. Name: Vyas, Govinda. Occupation: unemployed, self-loathing. It’s 8 AM. Eons later, it’s 8:15 and people are still signing in. A perfectly spherical woman who is trying her hardest to quell an impending revolt takes up the microphone. “My name is annoying bitch, and believe me, I don’t want to be here as much as you do!” Laughs. Sighs. Groans. “The honorable judge fuckface will be here soon, I left him a voicemail, I hope he heard it! Teehee!” She went on to explain how we’d be stuck there for five centuries days. How we’d be compensated on a payscale developed in the 60’s that hasn’t been adjusted for inflation ever since (spoilers: I was paid $9 for 8 hours today. I spent $9.81 on a burrito and iced coffee for lunch). “I hope you’re off your case by Wednesday so you can be paid by Friday! Otherwise, I’m going on vacation and you won’t be paid for two weeks!” Rage. Fury. Blood in my eyes.
A similarly rotund man puts in a DVD explaining why we have to be there. Filmed sometime between 1980 – 2000, there’s a “hip” and “edgy” courthouse cop making bad jokes (“Jury duty isn’t bad, but the coffee in the cafeteria sure is!”), how it’s our civil duty to be party of the jury, how the founding fathers wanted it this way, how some French bastard was blown away by our judicial system during the War of 1812. You could see the pain in this man’s expression as he became aware that this 10 minute video would be the pinnacle of his acting career. Finally, it was over.
Judge still hadn’t shown up. The last of 160 people had finished signing in. The rotund man (hereby referred to as Fatty) went over the procedure. He’d call up groups of 35 (and butcher any non-Anglicized name) of which 14 would be selected to a series of trials. The rest of us could sit around with our thumbs up our bumholes waiting for our names to be called. As he’s calling the first group of 35 he comes across a very Hispanic sounding name, which he butchers and follows with, “Can’t your name just be George Smith? I like names like that!”. My tolerance for Fatty was declining rapidly.
Group 1 is seated, and nothing happens for over 30 minutes. The judge comes out, explains the process again as if he were addressing an elementary school class, and takes off to do cocaine off of a transvestite prostitute’s genitals (I assume). Group 2 is seated (I am unseated). During this role call Fatty comes across a special name, the last name was Gingrich. “Now that’s a great last name!” Internal monologue 3. ChewonbrokenglassFatty
Around 10:30, the Group 1 is taken upstairs as I play solitaire on my phone, angrily. Fatty starts making jokes, “These are all true stories,” which he would continue to do periodically throughout the day. The jokes are at worst, PG rated, and allude to Christian themes and Washington D.C. taxing anything they possibly can.
Internal monologue 4. If I were to murder Fatty in front of a room full of people, I’d be put on trail, perpetuating the need for others to attend jury duty. But at least they wouldn’t have to hear Fatty’s lame jokes.
I had played too much solitaire. Way too much, my phone’s battery was at 50%. So I read a Popular Science and Rolling Stone, from March and April respectively cover to cover. It’s 11:40, I’m on the verge of tears. Fatty drops the first good news of the day, “You’re free to take a lunch break until 1 PM!”, and I burst out of the courthouse.
It was before noon, so I made a beeline for Arooga’s and ordered a bloody mary. I am not one to condone wanton drinking, let alone by myself and before noon, but I needed this one (and in my defense, a couple other people from the courthouse were there getting completely shitfaced). After this, the culinary highlight of my day – Neato Burrito (got a cowboy crunch, with hot sauce). I sat outside and enjoyed most of my burrito, until a wasp the size of my pinky landed on the little bit that was left.
Internal monologue 5
Found a deli and bought a cup of awful iced coffee, nevertheless the ambrosia was sweet and rejuvenating. For the next 30 minutes I sat and contemplated the meaning of life, the universe, and everything on a bench near the Susquehanna river (admittedly one of the most pleasant parts of Harrisburg). Walking back to the courthouse I make eye contact with the cute bespectacled brunette who’s also serving jury duty. I’m still too chicken to talk to a stranger on a full stomach and stiff bloody mary. No surprise there.
After I return to the dungeon courthouse and try my best to tune out Fatty (jokes about a parrot and calling up Group 3), I spend the better part of an hour staring at my shoes. Why am I here? Why have I been so forsaken with this most dull obligation? Why is this burrito digesting so poorly and giving me terrible gas? With alcohol and caffeine coursing through my veins, my self-deprecation took me to the darkest places in my soul. Hell is jury duty.
Around 2 PM, Group 1 returns to the waiting room. My old roommate’s mom wasn’t selected for the trial, so she’s once again playing the waiting game. It was kind of nice having someone to talk to, even if the subject matter was car insurance and having courses changed for her teenage kids. Misery loves company. At this point I read through an issue of Money magazine, which may have been written in Klingon because none of it made sense to me. Disgusted, I returned it to the shelf and picked up a relatively recent issue of Mental Floss. The magazine had plenty of curious factoids to keep me entertained. Did you know Stan and Jan Berenstein (of the bears fame) started their careers with a book about sex? Did you know that the Easter Island heads have bodies? Did you know that if you’re confined to a stale, lifeless basement all day that outdated magazines become the apex of entertainment?
Must be 3 o’clock or so. The small talk, interesting literature and caffeine are helping the day move along a little more quickly. Fatty is calling Group 4. If you’re keeping count at home, this covers 140 members of the jury pool, of approximately 160. I’m anxious, maybe if I’m not called for this, I’ll be free to go home. 35 names later my name isn’t spoken (though it may be because Fatty is too ignorant to attempt to pronounce it). My momentary elation is deflated by a grizzled jury duty veteran. “If you’re not called today, you’re doing the same thing tomorrow. Bring a book.” My stomach sinks, though it may have just been the burrito.
But there, on the horizon in my inbox! An e-mail from a former professor! I’d e-mailed her previously asking about a research assistantship, though she was on vacation for a few weeks so it was surprising to hear back so soon. She’d like to talk to me about the job! With an intelligent, well-connected, very accomplished professor in Temple’s psych department who taught my favorite Psychology class (if you’re somehow reading this ass-kissing, please hire me)!
Internal monologue 6
With jittery fingers I replied to the e-mail. By the time my heart rate returned to normal and I had stopped shaking it had struck 4 PM. After confirming my fears that we’d have to return tomorrow, and going over parking pass protocol, Fatty finally, mercifully released us. Day 1 of 5 was in the books. I may have a real job within a month. Slowly but surely exiting the parking garage, I felt ecstatic. There is a life beyond jury duty, and I was one step closer to the promised land.
~~~1600 words later, I’ve recounted my first day of jury duty in excruciating detail. If you managed to read through all of it, I salute you. If you are selected for jury duty in Dauphin county (or anywhere), do your best to get the fuck out. You’ll thank me later. I may follow-up on this post after the week, or if there’s a particularly exciting story to tell sometime in between. For live tweeting coverage of my shenanigans, follow me using this shameless Twitter plug. Was this post a warning? Or just a build up to get more Twitter followers? A juror never reveals his secrets!
And we’ve come full circle with another GOB gif. Thanks for reading! Go watch Arrested Development!
My car has miraculously come back to life, so I’ve been driving around with the old, burned CDs I made throughout high school and college. I popped in the Red Hot Chili Peppers’ Californication late tonight and was overcome with nostalgia, manifest as chills and goosebumps. Though it was a pretty drastic change from their earlier work, it’s going to go down as a seminal piece of American rock music, and one of their best albums ever. This is stuff I’ll be sharing with my kids and grandkids. Or, they’ll buy RHCP shirts at Kohl’s without knowing who the hell these guys were. But I digress, hearing it reminded me of this awesome music video:
The song “Californication” had just about the coolest music video ever (n.b. – I was probably 10 when I first saw it). I didn’t even like music too much at that age (all my knowledge of music came from my cousins, and that TV channel “The Box”), but the video was just really fucking cool. First of all, it was all futuristic and computer generated – it looked like it could be a new game for the Sega Dreamcast (which was also brand new when I first heard this). There were (apparently) rock stars, which my cousins had to inform me of later, and they played cool instruments and didn’t wear their shirts – how cool!
Anthony swam underwater and punched sharks – then he drove a sweet ass-car around the city all Crazy Taxi-style. Flea escaped from bears and rednecks and climbed a big ass-tree. John was too busy recovering from his heroin addiction and stuff to do anything really exciting, but he ran around LA and jumped through a giant doughnut as the city collapsed in an earthquake. And Chad went motherfucking snowboarding – then he boarded down a goddamn bridge – how the fuck do you do that? That’s so fucking radical.
As a 10 year old, that video was the crux of cool. Maybe that’s why 12 years later (boy does that make me feel old) I’m still drawn to this music and that video. Sure it didn’t age well, but at the time it was on the cutting edge of popular music and media. It identified an epoch of mass information, digital effects and a seismic shift in musical styles. In a more abstract sense, these musicians became artificial, interactive, electronic avatars of themselves – a telling sign of the era that had just begun. The video is resolved when this digital world comes apart at the seams, and these people are freed from their digital incarnations and their flesh-and-bone bodies are restored. If only it was that easy to escape from our electronic alter-egos, and nonchalantly laugh it off with our friends. If only…
I got on the orange line today at Tasker-Morris station in south Philly. With all the seats filled with butts and/or trash, I stood by the door. Next stop, Ellsworth-Federal, and the last guy on the train looks to be about my age, or younger. I think he was hispanic, but he had a few pieces of paper with some kind of Asian script on it.
He looked confused, his eyes were wide open, not to mention bloodshot and glassy. “Is this going to center city?”
“Yeah.”
“….what year is it?”
Oh god it’s a crazy. “2012, my man.”
“Really? Really?! No way man.”
“Are you a time traveler, or just really stoned?”
“Time traveler, man.” Right. “What year is it?”
“Two thousand twelve.”
At that point he was standing directly in front of me. “No way man, I thought it was like 1985. Definitely like 1984-1985”
He’s wearing clean and new DC shoes. Should I be scared? Lombard-South. Oh my god. “Those shoe’s aren’t from the 80’s.”
“Oh yeah man someone gave these to me. Everything looks kind of different. Are things different? I gotta make some phone calls.”
He walked away. Nervous laughter, cold sweat. Oh my god, Walnut-Locust, and the express train was waiting across the platform. I dashed out the door, I was safe. I just met a time traveler (or a teenager on drugs) and survived to tell about it.
govinbhai 