• Stuttering to the Airport Courthouse through the steely sludge of A.M. gridlock, I considered the irony of someone selecting me for jury duty. God knows that were the law to nab me for the illegal chimpanzee knife fights I hold in my parking lot, I’d be the last person I’d want on my jury. After all, I’m prone to gross generalizations, chimerical conspiracy theories and a keen avidity for the palliative properties of a medical marijuana prescription. Unfortunately, so is the rest of this county. I feared I was doomed.

• If you get called for jury duty, show up late. Bucking the inherent absurdity of an 8:00 a.m. arrival time, I showed up at five to nine; partially to protest the unholy wake-up call, partially on my correct hunch that the system of justice works on weed head time. More importantly, I wore a t-shirt of a halter-topped woman with a chainsaw. Which, I assumed, would either have me dismissed by noon or stop any and all garrulous goons from starting a conversation with me. (There is only one garrulous Goon, I respect and admire. Well, him and Mike Smrek).

• Waiting in the jury selection room is one of the more gruesomely dull experiences imaginable, though it was kind of weird to see a grim camaraderie settle in. At one point, despite my tacky t-shirt, I found a woman sympathetic to my wild jabbering about the lack of a coffee machine in the vicinity. It was ridiculous; I can’t even tie my shoes while un-caffeinated, let alone render fair and impartial justice.

• Living in Los Feliz/Silverlake, surrounded by a bunch of junior petite, Sparks victims, creates bit of a bubble. At a quick glance, the jury pool looked like the fat, floating coach potatoes from Wal-E, albeit with less cool robots and more blackberries. When I ate an apple at snack break, people looked at me like I was swallowing a gallon of arsenic-laced water.

• Only in Los Angeles will they try to get you amped for jury duty by boasting framed plaques of the various celebrities who had also opted to serve their community rather than face prison or hefty fines. By the computers, I was accosted by signs that read: “Now Playing at a Courthouse Near You: Jury Service, with a cast of hundreds of thousands, starring [insert photo of of celebrity here].” Among the bold-faced names included, Ed Asner, Jamie Lee Curtis, Harrison Ford, Weird Al and bafflingly, Judge Lance Ito. The meta nature was too much for me. I wanted to collapse. Instead, I tried to check my gmail on the abysmally slow court-supplied desktop. A new song from Vince P and Justice? Hmm….

• I’m embarrassed how rattled I got around 4:00 p.m., when they started randomly selecting jurors to go home. The losers would have to continue to another court room to potentially serve six more days. The Founding Fathers had promoted the virtues of a fair trial by jury. Men had died for that and other Democratic principles. And here I was, crossing my fingers, my toes and praying to my pocket-sized Jobu-like Devendra Banhart doll (now available at Insound). When they called my name, I felt like I was an NBA lottery pick, except much poorer, shorter and with less vertical leap. To paraphrase the great Homer, I had embodied the American way: you don’t quit your job, you just do in a half-assed fashion.

Download:
MP3: Chef Raekwon-”Jury”
MP3: 2Pac-”Only God Can Judge Me”

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