Jury Doody!

My wife got the mail that fateful day, said "uh-oh," as she tossed the inexplicably foreboding government letter toward me. Surprise! I'd been chosen for jury duty! (Cue the wah-wah-wah-wahhhh mocking trombone).

Noooo! (Rendering it an even larger injustice, for years my wife has actually longed to pull jury duty. It's a cruel world).

Well, I'd managed to dodge the jury duty bullet twice before in my life time. (Years ago, I'd written the Government that my dad was in a wheelchair {true!} and that I was needed to take care of him {kinda true, but not really!}. It'd worked twice.) Feeling invulnerable, I figured I could dodge the bullet a third time. I wrote that my mother was ailing (true and constantly!) and that I was "on-call" at all times to take care of her (sorta' true if you kinda smudge the boundaries of what's "true" and whatever). This time, the cold-hearted judge didn't take pity on me.

So, on a recent cold, snow-storm threatening Monday morning, I hauled myself through gridlocked highway traffic to Olathe (and why in the world they'd put the Big Courts clear out there was beyond me). Like lemmings driven to their death, tons of people grumpily shuffled toward the courthouse. As it was Monday morning, I'd never seen quite a collection of bleary-eyed, clearly hung-over, grumpier people together at once.

At the security check, I de-shoed, unbelted, emptied my valuables into a bucket, got beeped at, then was sent through the puzzling labyrinth of the courthouse. Worse than a rat in a maze, I had to go down a flight of stairs to a room, up another flight, down the hall, down another flight, then up another flight. Finally, I entered the courtroom.

A woman who made Fran Drescher sound absolutely dulcet directed us toward where we were expected to sit. She looked at my paperwork and laughed. Actually laughed! "You're juror number one," she managed between sadistic guffaws. 

This didn't bode well. So much for a fast exit. All week long, I'd been working on a strategy to be dismissed during the "voir dire" process (oral and visual examination of the potential jurors). I figured I might try a surly and mean "hang 'em all and hang 'em high" attitude. But all now seemed lost as I settled into chair number ONE.

And there I sat for an hour. By my estimation, over a hundred potential jurors crammed into the courtroom. A lot to choose from, I thought as I looked at my non-existent wristwatch. An older man sat down in front of me, flying his flannel and sporting a mess of Grizzly Adams beard and hair. My peer. Breathing like a pneumatic nail gun, his face redder than a fire hydrant, he turned around and angrily huffed at me like some kind of out-of-control Lifetime movie husband, the only guy grumpier than me in the courtroom. At that point I figured it was gonna be a long trial.

Not Fran Drescher did her best to entertain us, answer questions, and warn of the oncoming snow storm. While she couldn't get into the specifics, she did say this was a criminal trial--a big one!--and could take up to several weeks. My Spidey Senses started tingling. Even though I didn't want to be there, the trial might provide some excellent writing research and ideas.

Some woman asked Fran Drescher's twin how they picked potential jurors. "Driving and voting records and bad luck," she said. The woman's question was two-fold, however. "But this is the fourth time I've been here this year," the woman implored. "What's up with that?"

Pseudo Fran Drescher responded, "That sucks." (A truly governmental response if I've ever heard one.)

Suddenly a yuppie--flashy in Friday casual wear--took the podium. He said he was our judge (No robe, no liver spots, no tremors while rattling a gavel. Feh. Not my kinda judge.) and apologized for keeping us waiting. Apparently they'd reached a plea agreement and we were free to go.

What?

Just as I'd resigned myself to a long drawn-out affair, almost excited about the sordid adventure awaiting me, then POOF, we were ushered out of the courtroom (and up stairs, then down stairs, then up again, and...).

Oddly disappointed, I trawled home. But at least I wouldn't be called again for another year. Then again...that "rule" didn't hold true for the poor four-time lottery loser in the courtroom.

To paraphrase Almost Fran Drescher, "That sucked!"

A jury of peers has declared Bad Day in a Banana Hammock a very funny mystery with a finding of a 4.2 rating. 22 jurors surely can't ALL be wrong.

Hear ye, hear ye, click here to read the book in session!

Donald's Diary

For your perusal this week, I present something very special: a page torn from President Trump's diary. (The cover displays unicorns caught in bear-traps).

I know what you're thinking...how in the world does our President have time to maintain a diary when he's busy tweeting 24-7? Good question. But the facts don't lie.

Here we go...

"Dear Diary:

It's me, Donald. You know, it's really, really, really hard making America great again, but I'm up to the challenge. I'm pretty much super-human, after all. And there are a lot of white, privileged, angry, rich men counting on me.

Stupid checks and balances, bah. Congress keeps trying to stop my rise to greatness. Aided, of course, by liberals, CNN, and the evil vampires from Twilight. Not the good ones, like Robert Pattinson. They're firmly on my side.

Melania says I need to do something fun to cheer up. Maybe I'll declare it open hunting season on baby seals. Or maybe I'll make a reporter cry, that's always good for a couple of laughs.

No, wait, I got it! I'll start World War III, my very own war! That'll be really, really neat. Where's my phone?

Got it! Okay... I need to come up with some new names to call Kim Jong Un... I've already used short, fat, childish, terrorist, and rocket man. I really, really like that last one. How 'bout "Tweedledumbest?" No, wait, got it! "A human egg." Even better, a "Chinese weeble!"

Done. Tweeted and got my finger on the Big, Red Button as I write.

Whew! It's three in the morning and I've had a highly presidential day! Good night, world."

Before President Trump pushes that button, how about a little laughter in your life?

One click away from loads of laughs and action!

Floundering in the Path of Totality!

My wife had been prepared, super-hyped, for the eclipse for months. She'd picked up tons and tons of eclipse glasses. Scheduled her work around the day. The whole nine yards.

I said, "So, I know it's a big deal and everything. But, really, can't we just step out on our deck and look at a partial sun?"

Boy, was I ever schooled.

"You just don't get it," she said with a sigh. "This is a once-in-a-lifetime event. It only happens every hundred years or so."

I did the math. Figured I probably wouldn't be around for another hundred years. Unless they freeze me next to Walt Disney.

"In Kansas City," my wife continued, "we're going to be in about 98% of the path of totality. To truly experience 100% totality, we'll have to travel North about, oh, 45 minutes or so."

"The path of totality" was a new one on me. Matter of fact, I'd never even heard the word "totality" until my wife dropped it on me. 

"Wow," I said, "the word totality is kinda..." The term sounded downright apocalyptic. Bigger than me, than you, than the universe. Words betrayed me. I couldn't describe it.

But my wife did. "Sounds so total," she said with a knowing, scientific nod.

So, yeah, if the solar eclipse was such a big to-do that a new term was created for it, a term so full of awesome that it's only used every 100 years, then color me excited!

Slowly, the days passed leading to the big event. Every layman was using the very special word: "I completed my meal to totality. Soon I'll have to make a path of totality to the bathroom." (A term only scientists should probably use, really, if you think about it.)

The Big Day came! Rain storms ushered it in! Torrential downpours of Arkian proportions! Skies so cloudy, the sun was nowhere in evidence!

Wait...what?

Undeterred, yet holding out for the best, we headed North. I never voiced my optimism out loud, but I thought surely if this event only occurs every 100 years, we wouldn't be ripped off out of our chance to see it. Right? RIGHT?

My wife and I discussed our destination. Consulted various weather channels, charts, diagrams. Crystal balls. Just like scientists. And we postulated a very scientific conclusion: "We'll go to Weston, Missouri. We can drink wine. That way should it still be cloudy, it won't be a complete washout."

Spirits high, we traveled North! So did everyone else! Nothing could stop the path of totality! Epic!

In Weston, home of some of Missouri's finest wineries, people took to the streets. Frankly, being a macabre sort, I'd worried that the eclipse might have a strange effect on people. You know, turn them into rapid zombies or something.

To my great surprise, the impending event appeared to bring out the best in people. Jokes were made ("Sorry, folks, the eclipse has been called off."). Young hipsters offered strangers eclipse glasses. Doors were held open. Weather reports were passed on. Smiles shared. Politeness ruled. For the first time, since...well, since at least the last presidential election, I felt a sense of community. That we were all in it together.

Together in misery.

Hopes were dashed. Clouds remained and like big cumulus bullies, they were there to stay. Someone reported from her phone that in Kansas City, they had a clear view.

Dammit! Better 98% totality than none at all!

Quickly, we hopped in the car and raced back. Darkness fell. We pulled off in along the highway, chunked into a Ruby Tuesday's parking lot, for God's sake. So did a lot of people. And watched some totality. But not the whole shebang.

Crushing disappointment reigned. Made much worse by listening to the ecstatic nerds on NPR describe the path of totality they were experiencing. President Trump proved himself Bigger than Science when he looked directly into the eclipse with superhuman eyes, treating it with the same disdain he does that other great scientific hoax, global warming. (And scheduling his war talk the same day as the eclipse? Bad form, President Trump, bad! Honestly, isn't his ego big enough without having to compete with astronomical events? Is he vying for the Kurt Russell role in Guardians of the Galaxy 2 as "Ego, the Living Planet?")

And all we got for our month-long efforts was some wine and 48 leftover pairs of eclipse glasses. I'm selling them now. Cheap.

Or I'll just make some lifestyle changes and live to be in the next path of totality.

Hey, you guys visited Peculiar County yet? Oddly enough, it's in the path of totality a lot of the time. Click here! 

The Proper Etiquette of Meatsicles

Meatsicles are a beautiful thing.

When you're famished, when you wanna get right to it, when you don't want to hassle with such unnecessary utensils as knives, when you're absolutely exhausted, a meatsicle is your best friend.

Just jab a fork into a pork-chop and collapse onto the sofa in front of the TV. An oldie but a classic. If it ain't broke, don't fix it.

So, the other night--in an ongoing, concerted effort to get away from the TV while eating--we gathered for dinner at the dining room table. I served pork chops.

My fork stabbed a chop, I hoisted it up. Before I took a bite, my wife shut me down.

"Stuart! What do you think you're doing?"

I looked around, looked at the dog, looked for logic. I kinda thought it was apparent what I was doing. "Um...eating." I gave the meatsicle a hearty shake.

"No. Use a knife."

"But...we always eat meatsicles."

"Not at the table we don't. Act civilized, for God's sake."

I said, "Fine, then let's go sit in front of the TV."

Well. That didn't sit well. 

Still, I couldn't understand where I'd gone wrong. I thought we'd long ago incorporated meatsicles into our culinary regimen. I was mistaken.

My wife went on to explain the rules about when and where meatsicles are properly accepted.

Stunned, I asked, "How come I've never heard of these rules before? Is there a book or something?"

"Just get a knife," she groaned, rolling her eyes into orbit.

This world is confusing enough without new rules being thrown at you left and right, especially when the rule-maker doesn't let you know. It's kinda like Trump tweeting new policy and unless you follow him on Twitter, you're in the dark.

Since the beginning of time, meatsicles have been a perfectly acceptable form of food and eating. Sure, cavemen didn't have forks, but it's a well-documented fact they'd jab meat onto sticks, an early precursor. And it's also a well-documented fact cavemen didn't have TV, so when they sat down at the dinner table, meatsicles were completely acceptable.

The way civilized people ate, not like those uncouth dinosaurs. 

Rules...feh.

Speaking of peculiar, you ain't seen nothin' yet! My new book, Peculiar County, is up for preorder and out July 31st. More about it next week.

In the meantime, click here to preorder one very peculiar reading experience (seat belts are mandatory).

Overnight, I became my Dad!

A couple weeks ago I ranted and kvetched about how there needs to be a time when you should stop bringing your parents to movie theaters due to their embarrassing behavior.

My mother-in-law responded with, "Watch it, Dad. It'll sneak up on you, too."

I started thinking about it. I'm not that guy yet, surely not. I'm way too enlightened to ever become that guy. Right? C'mon...right?

Carefully, I audited my behavior in theaters, out in public, restaurants, at church this Easter when my mom emotionally blackmailed me and my daughter into attending. And...and...

Oh, crap! I am that guy! 

In retrospect, my behavior at church had been pretty sucktacular. I imagined Baptists wanted to lynch me, conduct a good ol' fashioned, down-home, cross fry on my lawn. 

I can't say I blamed them.

During my excruciating stay in church, I made no secret about how I didn't want to be there. Sullen like a teen, I sighed, constantly checked the time on my phone, nudged and whispered to my daughter. I over-exaggerated the "polite chuckle" thing at the pastor's attempts at humor. Just trying to be the funny dad. You know...like in the good, old days. When my daughter thought I was actually hilarious and could do no wrong.

Sigh... Sad thing was I hadn't even realized how crappy I'd behaved until my daughter pointed it out to me. On Father's Day of all days.

She said, "Oh my God, you were worse than a little kid at church!"

When did everything change? When did I transform into my dad? When did I stop being the most important person in my daughter's world?

That last question can probably be traced back to many Halloweens ago...

"What're you dressing as on Halloween this year?" I asked.

"Slutty Red Riding Hood."

"Noooooooooo!"

My daughter and I had crossed a bridge that day, one I barely wobbled across. The Halloween before, my daughter would've been content as good, ol' what-the-hell's-wrong-with, plain-Jane, clean-cut, innocent Red Riding Hood.

But things change. Kids grow. And we, as parents, apparently revert back to awful, childish behavior by still trying to make our kids laugh in the most embarrassing ways.

Now I kinda get what my dad had been going for when he struck up an extremely loud, particularly unfunny, conversation with the characters on-screen last time I took him to the theater.

(Hanging head in shame...)

The "Cool" Dad

Ain't that an oxymoron-and-a-half?

When my daughter was younger, when I hosted sleep-overs (and parents, I'm warning you, always, ALWAYS invite an equal number of girls...never, EVER host just three. You're asking for trouble.), I always stuck my stupid self in the mix of things.

I never let the girls drink or smoke, but I kinda' think they were doing that on their own anyway. Yet there I was, using buzzy words and phrases ("I'd be so way down with that, home-fry, if it wasn't so cray-cray!"), acting kinda' dumb but believing I was cool.

Hey, the girls wanted to watch horror movies? No prob! As long as the flicks weren't too chock full of gratuitous nudity or  violence (kinda narrowed down our viewing choices). Pizza, you bet! Music? Man, I was up on all the alternative rock, could chat with the girls for hours. 

Problem was alt rock sorta became passe. So did I. And no one bothered to tell me.

When I used the word "hip" on my daughter, I kinda think that was the turning point.

"Dad, no one says 'hip' any more. If they ever did."

Now, the only "hip" around here is the one I'll break when I fall.

I sat back in my hoodie, scratched my soul patch, moved aside my beanie, made sure my tats were prominent, massaged my arthritic knee...and wondered when I got old.

Sometimes, you have to admit defeat.