Last night I got a thrill when a woman told me she wanted me. Okay, it was a recording, and she just wanted me for jury duty, but I take whatever little successes come my way.

So this morning, bright and early, I worried over what to wear and took an uneventful bus ride to the courthouse to follow her command. There was a long line of people waiting to enter the building and go through the metal detector, so I lingered a bit, hoping to be behind someone attractive and interesting and ended up settling for someone about like me. After meandering along for fifteen or twenty minutes, I was at the door when a man about my age in a suit came out of nowhere and took a spot right in front of me.

"I'm sorry," I said, a bit taken aback. "Did you just cut in front of me?" As you can tell, I was feeling a bit bold.
He had the decency to look a bit sheepish before replying, "I'm a lawyer."
"I'm a human," I said, which was as cutting as I could come up with on a moment's notice. I have, since then, come up with many, better responses, my favorite being "Why don't you take the special lawyer's entrance, then?" to which he'd tell me there isn't one. "Oh," I'd say, "I guess you're not as entitled as you think."

Anyway, I entered before he did and, when I looked back, he wasn't behind me, either. Maybe others were equally unimpressed.

So I got to the jury pool waiting room and was only ten minutes late. Since nothing happened until 9:00, I'm thinking it's one of those "we say 8:30 so you'll be here by 9:00" things, which annoy me no end. Around nine one of the women manning the place came out and gave a boring speech, letting us know that there looked to be two or three panels called out that day and promising us a judge would be by to talk with us soon. If we were lucky, she said, there was a sixty percent chance we wouldn't be called and would be excused around four, and be done with jury service for the next year.

The judge came, talked, and left. After over an hour of reading magazines, we were given a break, and then it was another hour or so before we were set off on a two hour lunch. I was halfway through my magazine by this time, some trade publication for grocers, and found a place that served a decent fried rice. It would have been better had I been able to get pork fried rice, but I had to settle for beef.

After lunch, I finished the magazine and discovered that in the past few hours all of the Internet capable computers had broken (they all had that "system drive error" notice, so I wondered who was trying to boot from a floppy). I stood my ground and refused to pay $12 for a computer for a day, or even $5.00 for an hour's browsing, and returned to my magazine.

Then, we all got evacuated from the building and descended eight flights of stairs.

The streets were filled with police and sherriffs, and two bomb squad vans were parked right out front. I'm not sure if it was a bomb threat (we were never told), or if those vans just get called out whenever any emergency situation occurs, but we all gathered outside before being told to move down the block.

I found the woman who was in charge of us in the jury waiting room and told her I hoped this wouldn't interfere with my scheduled afternoon break. She said, but not officially, we should probably all just go home. It was evident that was her desire, but instead of doing that, the cops all told us to move another block away.

Then, another.

I was still hanging around her, and she told me this was the farthest she'd ever been evacuated. I felt pretty proud to be part of this, but the other woman who worked with her pointed that, at other times, they'd also had helicopters.

We had no helicopters.

We eventually got back in, and an hour later, without anyone, ever, being called to serve on a jury, we were dismissed. It was nearly five.

I made my way to a bus stop and about fifteen minutes later my bus came by. I stood under the sign, waved at the driver, and was rewarded by seeing him return my wave with one of his own while he drove right by. Sweet. I was left to contemplate the vagaries of our judicial system while staring at a chain link fence completely covered with flowering bougainvillea. They were exploding with color, but I'm not sure what that maroonish color is so I'll call it color X.

Nearly half an hour later another bus came by and this one was kind enough to stop.

We'll see what happens next year.

You may not be able to tell by looking, but I'm still busy with jury duty. It's fairly obvious that I'm being saved up for a really big case, maybe one with that Lousiana Congressman or someone who was in charge of Fanny Mae. In any case, after three days they've yet to find a suitable trial, one demanding my many areas of expertise.

Today, though, I became a bit sad. While it's true that every day I realize just how lucky I've been and how many wonderful things have happened, and continue to happen, to me, I had a stunning blow while perusing the aisles of the grocery store. Over near the bakery, I was stricken to my core.

For sale there were hotdog buns, which in and of itself isn't surprising, but one of the packages proclaimed the buns to be "home style."

My mother, for all her many and varied cooking skills (a term I use as broadly as possible) never once made homemade hot dog buns. Nor, for that matter, hamburger buns. I thing the closest may have been the occasional biscuits, but I can't imagine having a hot dog in a biscuit.

These must have come from someone else's home.

Today I may look different, but there's a reason for it: I'm working, only, well, not really.

Jury duty, my civic resonsibility, begins today, and it began with a resounding thud. Here I am, all eager to be paid for my opinions, and I'm not wanted. Someone, with her or his hopes and future on the line, is as of this moment squirming in a chair while attorneys laugh and act all businesslike.

This person, faced with a "jury of his peers," will look in vain for me, because the court's (I assume) are saving me up for a bigger, more involved case, later this week.

I can hardly wait.

I've been practicing looking thoughtful and attentive, but I'm as sad as always that the American Justice System doesn't allow the jurors to ask any questions. That's where I'd really shine. We can't permit that sort of thing, maybe because law is too complicated or too special to be practiced by just anyone, and us laypeople don't fully grasp the intricacies of evidence. It must be something like that.

Anyway, I have my juror number and phone number to call, and later tonight I'll see if my services are needed tomorrow. The suspense, as you can imagine, is palpable, but the good news is it's raining this morning so I was able to avoid showing up soaking wet.

Now to get back to answering a week's worth of e-mails. The best news is that the cat I was watching was taken to the vet and the x-rays were negative. For some reason, she isn't eating, and it was a relief to know it wasn't my doing.

Yesterday I went to a delightful late breakfast, as long as you consider the company I had, which overshadowed the food a hundredfold. I had a Belgian style waffle, which was similar to every other waffle I've eaten and differed only in being served with clarified butter.

I'm not sure what that's about, but my hunch is either they're not certain their waffles will be warm enough to melt butter or clarified is, somehow, cheaper. Maybe it's supposed to be fancier, I just don't know.

In addition to the above-mentioned company, this late breakfast was noteworthy because of the location, a genuine 1950s coffee shop, as well as our decision to eat on the "patio." I use the term loosely, the same way Pann's must. What passes for a patio for many of the LA eating establishments is no more than a section of sidewalk, hermetically sealed in plastic and overheated by those huge propane devices.

It would be funny if it weren't such a sad commentary on 21st century humanity.

Los Angeles may be many things, but clementis one of the more used words to describe our temperature. This year we had a brief battle with sub-fifty degree nights, only to emerge safely. It may not yet be summertime temperatures, but no one would complain about being outside, not unless you asked those eating on patios or driving.

The cars on the road were all sealed up, all the residents isolated with the temperature safely under their car's control, and the other patrons at Panns were all protected from even the slightest breeze by thick plastic curtains, which served to intensify the sounds of our fellow diners.

My parents, at one time, poured the thinnest possible covering of concrete on the ground just outside the back door, This we called the patio, and it was open to the elements and supported a barbecue and not much else. I'm not sure what the dictionary definition of a patio is, but I think it carries with it some notion of being outside, not merely extending the indoor experience to an adjoining paved area.

This brunch didn't feature any music, only the welcome sound of conversation.

The other day when shopping I picked up some organic bananas, something I'd never had before. From my science classes I knew that "organic" meant there was carbon in them, and I wondered if I could taste it. I don't taste as well as I used to, but even if I couldn't taste the carbon I figured it would do me some good. Maybe help my kidneys with the filtering or, if I were lucky, it might make me lightweight and stealthy.

I didn't have any choice, really. The market didn't have any "regular" bananas, not that I could see, but everyone shopping there just looked so much healthier than those I normally see that I knew I was onto a good thing. And, not only healthier, but I had a hunch they were all wittier and also better in bed. These were the people I could see at one glance that were the ones reaping fully of the benefits of living in 21st Century America. Gods and Goddesses, every one.

I wasn't too fooled about the banana, though. In spite of the carbon I knew it was the same banana I'd been eating all my life. Since the early 1920s there's only been one banana sold in the US, and by "one banana" I mean exactly that.

Bananas are one of my favorite fruits, but I realize they're a marvel of cultivation and genetic modification. They're sterile, we've bred the seeds right out of them, and each and every banana is genetically identical. They're clones, if you will, and if you thought there was really only one banana plant and all they were doing was hacking of bits of it and replanting it to make two plants, you'd be right.

You can make some good money in bars with this information. Pick anyone under eighty and bet them they've never had more than one banana. Everyone we know, most likely, and us have all been eating the same banana all our lives.

That's going to change, however, once the banana blight kills off this plant. I understand banana scientists are hard at work right now trying to find a successor to our current banana, which I think is called the "cavendish." It replaced some "gold" or "golden" something or other, the banana that I'm told was tastier but was wiped out and generated the song "Yes, We Have No Bananas."

I doubt a similar song will be spawned, but one can hope.

Anyway, this organic banana, not surprisingly, tasted good, and I could hardly discern the carbon.

Okay, I admit it, yesterday I had moment's smugness and, for once, it wasn't directed at those who get their news and opinions from Fox news or Drudge. I didn't know it at the time, but it was on Palm Sunday, too, a day when I should know better than to be sinning.

Still, I don't think pride, or prideful gloating, is against any of the Commandments, just one of the sins talked about by the one, true Church. Even so, it can't be a good thing to be so smug, but I can't say I feel very bad about it.

And, I'm nowhere near the first to notice this. I think mention of it pre-dates jokes about airline food.

I took a little walk from the home I'm watching to visit a store and buy some bread and other food. On the way, after leaving the street with practical stores withSpanish names and turning onto the one whose stores had names like "sensual" (lower case) or "Infinitude" and who sold goods that can only be described as "luxury," I ran across yet another place advertising itself as "LA's finest gym." It took me a moment to register that I was walking in front of three or four guys carefully dressed in co-ordinating outfits who were lazing along on treadmills.

It took me but a moment more to realize they were doing the same thing I was (walking), but I was doing it for free, as a consequence of going to the market, and they were doing it as a goal, after having driven to the gym.

There was a big sign out front of the gym ($119 for three months), which isn't a bad price, I guess, but for their money these guys get personal trainers who produce specialized regiments, and the use of a wide variety of state of the art equipment. I'd like to try some of those things out, but as far as walking goes, well, I think I got a better view than they did.

It was on the way home that it dawned on me that it was Palm Sunday. I passed a church, and that was written on the placard out front. There was a steady stream of women with children walking toward the church, but I didn't say any men with them. This struck me as odd, but maybe there was a big game on the TV, or (more likely) the men were all home nursing hangovers.

The only other thing I considered noteworth was the name of the church: St Francis of Assisi Catholic Church. I don't know as too many non-Catholic religions would name a church after a Catholic saint, so I consider their specifying that it's a Catholic church is unnecessary. Maybe there's been some pushing and shoving with the Anglicans or Greek Orthodox, though, so it may be a necessary distinction. I have to say that when I see a church named after a Catholic saint, my first guess is it's a Catholic church.

When I see a church named "Christ's Salvation," I have no idea what to make of it, but I think if I were to found one, I'd call it "Sweet Mother of Christ." That sounds religious enough.

Years ago I read a review in Consumer Reports about shampoos. I don't remember who won, but I do remember them saying the two following things:

1) Shampoos, they said, are chemically identical to dishwashing soap, but with the addition of fragrances. This is no longer true, I don't think, since my dishwashing soap smells like apples.

2) No matter which shampoo you use, you should use another one every so often. Evidentally, each shampoo leaves part of itself as a residue, and that can only be removed by using a competing product.

I was thinking about those things when I recently used, for the first time ever!, some deep pore cleanser product. As soon as I spread it on my skin, I wondered how the less deep pores would feel about being neglected, and felt bad for them. The stuff is gritty, and it felt identical to Lava, a soap I used quite a bit earlier in life, and which I now see is owned by the WD-40 people.

I don't know how much this deep cleaning potion costs, but I have a hunch it's more than either Lava or the more masterly Boraxo. I once had a job, one in an office, where the men's room had Boraxo, and I always considered that to be a nod toward our gonads. No women's room, ever, has Boraxo!

I have another hunch. Marketeers may have learned that people will pay more for any product that's described as a "body wash" or cleanser, much more than they would for a soap. This is the kind of thinking that not only keeps our country great, but profitable as well.