Something has been bothering me about the Phil Spector trial. And it’s not that he’s an insane drugged-up gun-waving woman-hater. It’s this:
Can you say “Channeling Carol Channing” 5 times fast?
My friend Mike has jury duty today. Luckily for him, he has a fancy wireless doodad hooked up to his laptop so he can send email. Theoretically, he can also IM - but he’s not doing that, much to my disappointment. I forget some people have actual work to do.
Anyway…it brought to mind my experiences with jury duty, which I have had the pleasure of being called for more than once. One of the problems with constantly moving to different states is that when you register to vote each time, your jury duty slate is all fresh and clean in your new locale - so you get called. Almost immediately. Or I should say, I get called, because Emil has only been called one time and we moved the following week. I guess it’s another one of those ME things. Like when a giant Giant GIANT roach landed on my hand at a bar last week, instead of on the hand of any one of the 25 people standing around me. Of 52 available hands, mine gets the monster bug on it. Figures. (How come good stuff doesn’t randomly happen to me? Only things with bugs or embarrassment.)
So - the last time I got called, it was the middle of the winter. NYC. In Manhattan, you must go to jury duty for a minimum of 3 days of jury selection, unless you are chosen for a trial on days 1 or 2. If not - you must sit there, getting rejected for 3 whole days.
On the morning of day 1, Emil took one look at my nice black suit and cashmere turtleneck and said “What are you wearing? Are you TRYING to get picked?!”
“I’m not going to the courthouse dressed in JEANS or something! It’s disrespectful!” I said.
He shook his head and sighed. “Oh you are SOOOO getting picked!”
“No, I’m not. I’ll just lie about whatever they ask me.”
“Yeah. See you in a few days!” he smirked. Emil knows I can’t lie well.
After sitting in the jury room for an hour, watching a video of Jane Pauley explaining how noble it is to be a juror, and noticing that everyone else was wearing jeans or worse, I panicked and formulated a plan: I am just going to have to pretend to be a racist or an anarchist, depending on the questions I get asked.
Voir dire time - interesting questions abound. “Ms. Smith, do you think our current system of justice is fair and impartial?” (Ms. Smith is excused.) “Mr. Brown, have you or anyone you know ever been the victim of a robbery?” (Mr. Brown is excused.) “Ms. Jones, what are your feelings about racial bias in the workplace?” (Ms. Jones is excused.)
“Ms. Rensing - do you think a person is innocent until proven guilty?”
“Uh…yeah?” I said and waited for a follow-up question.
“I have no problem with this juror.” “Neither does the defense.” “Juror #5, please remain in the jury box.”
Wait!!! That’s it?! Don’t you want to ask me if I think black people are too often falsely accused of crimes, or if anyone I know has been mugged, or if I watch too much Law & Order, because Yes Yes Yes!!!! Please! Give me another chance! I can be excused! I promise!
I had to sit there hopeless while dozens more went free for such uncreative reasons as “I don’t speak English” and “I can’t read”. How could they ask me such an unfair question?! Who says NO to the innocent until proven guilty question?! They knew they had me with that one! That was SO unfair!
Finally, we had our sorry-ass group of 12 jurors and 2 alternates. 14 schmucks who were too nervous to lie, or who dressed too nicely (well, 2 of us, anyway), or who really needed the $40/day. And then the final twisting of the knife…”Ladies and gentleman of the jury - this will most likely be a 2-3 week trial.” Kill me now.
If you’ve never served on an actual jury, you probably have some glamorized notion of 12 relatively smart, mature, respectfully dressed, thoughtful people who are earnestly doing their civil duty. Really, it’s more like sitting in a box at some comedy show that you all went to because someone down the block was giving out free tickets. Your fellow jurors are from all walks of life, all levels of intelligence, and in all manner of dress. Many of them can’t help but giggle and not-so-quietly mutter “Oh, no he di’int!” and “mmmmm-Hmmmm!” during crucial testimony, which causes more giggling. And when you actually deliberate, you realize that many of your fellow jurors simply don’t understand what a juror’s job is, even though Jane Pauley explained it very well.
After the 3 weeks of a dramatic trial that included a faked seizure by the defendant and 2 days of deliberations in which a lot of testimony was read to us because certain jurors hadn’t been paying attention the first time around, we never reached a verdict because the defendant pled guilty. We actually were about to be a hung jury because, even though all 12 of us knew the defendant was guilty, one juror felt bad for the guy and thought he had suffered enough by having this trial. I said “Dude, we have ALL suffered enough because of this trial and it’s HIS fault there even is a trial!” The general consensus was “Girl, you got dat right!” and “mmmmm-Hmmmm!”
Not being able to convict a guilty man after a ridiculous 3 weeks is very frustrating, but actually, having no verdict was the luckiest thing that could have happened.
Why is this lucky? Because I will never serve on a jury again and I don’t have to lie to ensure that. During voir dire, they always ask if anyone has served on a jury and if that jury reached a verdict. If there was no verdict, they don’t want to take the chance that you hung the jury - and you are excused! Also, I can rant about how I think that juries are a joke and how easy it is for one stupid person to hang a jury because he or she “feels bad” and they are going to want to shut me up before any other potential jurors get any bright ideas. And as extra insurance - I’m going to make sure I wear old sweatpants and that I smell really bad.
In case you’re interested in what the trial was about and how it has forever changed my purse-carrying habits:
I have to say that the worst part of that experience was that I could not talk about the trial during the 3 weeks it was going on - and that was very difficult. The trial had to do with a huge business of larceny and identity theft that would all start very simply with a person reaching their hand into a lady’s purse and taking her wallet. All of these purses would be slung over chairs in lunch places, like McDonald’s or sandwich shops, etc. So for three weeks, I kept insisting that my friends keep their purses in their laps but I couldn’t really tell them why, other than to say “pickpockets” and hope that they took it seriously.
But now - I can tell everyone: DO NOT PUT YOUR PURSE OVER YOUR CHAIR ANYWHERE IN PUBLIC. There are so many sneaky ways into your purse, you have no idea. False bottomed bags: you think the person sitting behind you is reaching into their bag on their chair, but there’s a false bottom or side, so they reach out of their bag and into yours. Hole in their coat pocket - you think they are reaching into their coat pocket, which is over their chair behind yours, but they are reaching out of a hole in their pocket, into your bag. It’s so sneaky. Keep your purse in your lap or on the table. (And also be aware of your purse when in a crowd because the same techniques can be used.)
And now, whenever I look at the passenger-side airbag compartment, I think of how you can fit 3 stolen handguns and 6 stolen Rolexes in it. And how putting your seat back, flicking on your high-beams, and putting your right turn signal on is an example of a way you might open such hidden compartments in cars.
I learned a lot. But mostly to dress like a slob and act surly during jury selection. (”Stupid” doesn’t seem to work.)
Summer is nearing its sweltering climax and it is getting HOT out here! We are in the middle of a heat wave and I am loving it because it’s the “dry heat” we east-coasters hear so much about. It’s lovely.
Here’s what I don’t love: the fact that we live across the street from the pool.
The only time that the pool isn’t a salty stew of children is in the middle of the day when the kids are at camp and it’s 107 degrees. When it finally cools down to a chilly 90 degrees in the afternoon, all the kids are home and the parents have sent them to the pool, as if camp didn’t wear them out enough.
Having recently quit my job, I have been home during kiddie pool-time every day. I haven’t been this close to screaming profanities out of my window since my college days when everyone was doing it. (The “Soylent Green” skit was new on SNL. You can just imagine how much sleep could be had at the dorm.)
I have decided that when the day comes that I just plain lose it (this will be soon), my defense for any subsequent illegal actions will set a precedent. I will call it the “Marco Polo Defense”, and I think that it will stand up in a court of law.
It’s like the insanity defense. Because listening to 15-30 minutes of little grating voices calling “Marco!” followed by a chorus of other equally grating voices replying “POLO!“does make a person insane. You don’t think so? Your kids play this game and you don’t see a problem? Perhaps you played it yourself as a child?
Try this: Record your children, or yourself, playing Marco Polo for 30 minutes. Then digitally alter the voices so that they sound like other peoples’ children. Play it back while you are trying to relax or work or sleep or eat or exist. You will want to cause someone or something harm in a very painful way in about 11.67 minutes. Guaranteed.
You should wait to do this experiment until after I’ve had my day in court because by then, the Marco Polo Defense will be on the books and we both can go on the Today Show and talk about how a society of hands-off parenting has caused us to become such monsters.
Whatever happened to the other fun pool games like hand-stand contests, “guess-what-I’m-saying-underwater”, and the ever-popular “how-long-can-you-hold-your-breath” game? You know, the quiet games that mostly took place beneath the surface of the water? I see these kids at the pool and their games don’t seem to have much to them except screaming and splashing. We had synchronized swimming, races, underwater toy retrievals, and who could create the most complex series of flips and handstands: Games of skill and endurance. We may have had a few screams and splashes but that’s ALL these kids have do the pool these days.
And that’s another thing - why on earth are children allowed to scream so much? This little girl stood outside my window the other day and SCREAMED for her friend “ASHLEY!!!!” for seriously 10 minutes. What parent lets their little girl do this? ASHLEY!!!! was only 5 houses down, playing with some other little girls.
Maybe my memory is inaccurate, but I don’t recall being permitted to scream like that as a child. In fact, I’m pretty sure I was a quiet and reserved and polite little girl who played quietly with her sisters and friends and made up intricate games that required creativity and intelligence. These were some of our favorite outdoor games:
- Spanish immigrant family living in a tenement. (We listened to the Spanish radio station for authenticity.) In this game, we pretty much utilized every babydoll we could find in the house, and snipers were a daily nuisance. There were many casualties. (We were dark and dramatic children.)
- Native American family who had to continually offer food to the volcano god (the compost pile) to ensure the safety of our village. This game was played in the fall when our dad’s garden had to be harvested and composted. It helped him out. (See? We were creative and helpful children!) I would always get cold and bored and end the game early by pretending to sacrifice myself to the god. (no, I didn’t jump in - it was pretend. Yuck.)
- A gang of scrappy homeless children in London who had to break into rich peoples’ houses (our house) to steal food. I played the rich girl who befriended the tough street urchins (my sisters and friends.)
- French orphans who were discovered in a rainstorm (the sprinkler) and were taken in by kindly nuns (mom and grandma) to live in their convent. Of course, we had to sneak out to see boys.
- And our all-time favorite game in summer - when the camper was set-up to be cleaned before or after a camping trip: Southern family who ran a diner out of their trailer. That was the best one because we could do a southern accent like we were born and raised in Alabama or something. (our dad is from Virginia. It’s in our blood.)
(People ask me why I don’t have a New York accent. I don’t think I used my own accent much growing up - notice the ethnicities above. If we couldn’t use a different accent, it wasn’t a fun game. Even my prank phone calls were in French or an Asian gibberish.)
Psht! Marco Polo! You could teach a chicken to play Marco Polo (maybe not the swimming part.) I don’t think kids today even know what a sniper is - but they may soon find out if this marco polo shit doesn’t stop.
A few weeks ago, I spent 2 days in Vegas, having a lovely time with friends. And then this happened:
We decided to stop by Haagen Daz in The Venetian hotel for a tasty afternoon treat, when I noticed a large plaster ice-cream cone statue - like Mr. Peanut, but an ice-cream cone. Anyway, it was holding coupons in its hand and without really thinking about it, I go up to take a coupon and of course, like an idiot, it doesn’t occur to me that it’s a person dressed up like an ice-cream cone and just as I reach for a coupon, he snatches his hand away and I jump about 4 feet. And then ALL of the 107 customers in Haagen Daz and the 3 employees, and the thousands of people walking by all start to laugh hysterically and point at me. I was not amused. Yet I played it off - haha, yes how funny. He sure got me! hardy har har.
Well the ice cream cone would not let it go. He followed me into the store and continued to harass me! I tried to have a polite sense of humor about it until I could swear that the little slit where his eyes must have been was pointed significantly south of my necklace, and then I had enough. When he handed me a third coupon, I grabbed onto his hand and insisted “No, really. You can stop now. In fact - seriously! Go. Away. NOW.” He slithered off to embarrass others.
I really hate those kinds of characters and I want to know: What parole board or prison-outreach program casts them? And then I want to know why these weirdos always pick me! Ok, in this case I walked right into it - but normally, they pick on me when I am innocently minding my own business. I’ve had a balloon-animal maker guy actually HIT me in the head with balloons during his little shtick - I guess trying to be funny or flirt with me or something. (My 2-year-old niece was glaring at him with daggers in her eyes. She’s a little protective of me.) I’ve had those living statue people reach out and touch me. I swear that Minnie Mouse was a little too friendly a few years ago outside those spinning teacups. And now I have this pervert rapist ice cream cone incident. Vegas, as you may know, is FULL of living statues, wax statues, plaster statues, all kinds of statues. I was a paranoid post-traumatic wreck for the rest of the trip! Even at a diner in the middle of the desert 190 miles out of Vegas, I kept one eye on my french toast and one eye on the Elvis statue next to me.
I think that these characters can be grouped in with Clowns as a category of weird scary beings who are obviously dangerous and should be avoided if at all possible.
I have met people who were Disney characters, and I don’t include those people in this category (even the lesbian Minnie Mouse, since lesbianism isn’t a form of depravity.) I consider the Disney character people to have a rather odd manifestation of masochism.
The “clown” category people are those who display a form of sadism in which they get off on forcing the shy public to interact with them by inflicting some form of extreme embarrassment - but all from behind the shield of a bizarre costume and a “happy” character. No emotionally healthy person who choose this job. Please - you know it’s true. There could be a whole group of laughing joyful fearless children, and who does the clown pick as his victim? The shy child who is clinging to her mom. We’ve all witnessed this. Ask 10 people on the street what they think of clowns and 8 will shudder. Try it!
No one likes these characters. Have you ever heard anyone say “Oh, look! A funny ice cream cone man! Oooo I hope he comes over to me!”? Never. Everyone reacts the same way: They mutter “oh sh*t, I hate those things.” Then they avoid eye-to-slit contact with the cone and try to leave the area as quickly as possible without attracting any attention. No one wants to play with the creepy ice cream cone.
It is my opinion that only a truly sadistic person with an extremely low self-esteem dresses up as a faceless object and tortures a person in an ice cream store for a good 5 minutes. And only a girl who REALLY wants $1 off her ice-cream purchase and simultaneously takes a leave of absense from her brain would naively reach for a coupon from such a perv. Next time I’ll kick him first and hope he drops all the coupons. Eh, screw the coupons. I’ll just kick him.
