Attack of the Giant Mary

  It all started rather innocently.

  My partner, Terry, turned to me and uttered these deceptively benign words: “Johhna and Patty are going to Pecan Lodge for barbecue on Sunday for lunch. And then to The Anvil for drinks. Wanna go?”

  Me, taking roughly one second to consider all angles: “No.”

  Terry: “No on which part? The barbecue or the drinking? We have options here.”

  Me, slightly annoyed that I have to explain myself, because we’re in a long-term relationship, and there are certain things that should be instinctive by now. “Well, definitely no on Pecan Lodge. That place is insane. You can stand in line for two hours. And there’s no guarantee that there will be any food left by the time they bless you with entrance to the building.  I don’t understand why they don’t plan any better. They need to have more meat.”

  Terry: “We all need to have more meat.  Meat is good. If everybody had meat, we wouldn’t have war. But now I’m not sure what we’re talking about.”

  Me: “I can’t bear the thought of standing in the Dallas heat for hours and then not getting any meat. So, it’s a no on The Lodge. The psychological cruelty aspect is just too much.”

  Terry, adjusting his spreadsheets:  “Okay, no meat. But the drinks?”

  Me, already sensing that I may be venturing into Total Regret territory but not wanting to appear completely anti-social until it becomes popular to be that way again: “Yes, we can do drinks. Quick drinks. Then we flee.”

  Terry: “Got it.” Then he is immediately texting Johhna and/or Patty, using a complex mix of hand-held devices, intricate communication networks, and global satellites, none of which were necessary back in the day when you simply picked up the hard-wired, stationary phones and spoke to your friends in a real-time manner.

  At that point I wasn’t too overly concerned. It was only Saturday afternoon, Sunday was still years away, in that lazy manner you have on the weekends where nothing is really all that important until you have to do something about it. I had plenty of time to make up excuses or flee the country, should I come to a decision that I didn’t want to go drinking in a place that I didn’t know, this Anvil Pub that was somewhere in the Deep Ellum section of downtown Dallas, a funky, often trendy bit of the city where you could have a really good time or you could be car-jacked. Lots of time to develop Plan B.

  But then it was suddenly Sunday morning, late Sunday morning, and Terry’s face was in mine as I awoke from a dream wherein I was running about on a nude beach in the south of France and having a festive time because I had acquired a tan that I normally am unable to acquire, and certain hot guys were showing appreciation for such an acquisition. And for my nudity. This is not a development that one wishes to awaken from. But I was. And there was Terry. “The girls are already at Pecan Lodge. They’re still in line. But the clock is ticking.”

  Damn.

  So he ran off to make us breakfast, which is nice of him and all, and I lay there in the bed, trying to think of at least one valid reason why I should leave the bed. Nothing immediately came to mind, especially when you considered the possibility of falling back into slumber and playing a rousing game of leapfrog on that beach where nobody knows the name of your clothes. Sunshine, gentle lapping waves, and friskiness. How can you argue with that?

  Terry could. “Breakfast is ready!”

  So I schlepped my ass into the part of the house where we don’t have beds and pleasant dreams, and both Terry and I began to nosh on the results of his culinary expertise whilst we watched an episode of CSI: New York from one of the 4,000 boxed sets that we own due to compulsive purchasing issues. We mistakenly believed that we still had plenty of time, because The Girls were standing in line at one of the hottest restaurants in Dallas. They would be there for days.

  This illusion was shattered three seconds later , when Terry’s phone loudly buzzed and jingled, indicating a text intrusion. The Girls were nearing completion of their meal and would be heading toward the questionable bar in Deep Ellum within 15 minutes. What the hell? What kind of superpowers did these women have that had somehow allowed them to triumph over all odds and get serviced in an expedited manner?

  This text alert meant that, in an ideal world, we should race to jump in the shower, scrub our sins away, and then pile in the car, gunning the engine so we could meet our friends in a respectable amount of time, despite the heat of Dallas in September, a heat that can suck your soul out of your body.

  In reality, it meant that we finished watching the episode of CSI: New York. This particular episode was from the first year, that lone season where they had that fascinating, somber color palette that was all about blues and grays and coldness and a morgue that looked like an abandoned subway station from 1912. After that, the fool producers brightened things up and killed the Gothic tone and made it look like CSI: Miami, just with a different address and without David Caruso, who can’t say a dramatic line without placing his hands on hips and tilting his head to the side.

  Wait, I seem to have lost the narrative. Where was I? Oh yeah, it was time to get my ass off the couch, move beyond the cloning of American television, and cleanse my special bits. So I did.

  A few years later, Terry and I were motoring our way into the head-scratching environs of downtown Dallas. I’m not sure who designed the layout of what is now the epicenter of a major American city, but that person was clearly on drugs. Nothing makes sense. There’s no simplicity, no life-affirming agreement that the roadways should somehow conform to basic plot-points like North, South, East and West. Nope.  Somebody thought it would be really super-neat to have streets meandering in haphazard directions that would boggle the minds of any known GPS software on the planet.

  And when you throw in that jacked-up mess about one-way streets, where you have to traverse acres of civilization just to navigate your way to a destination that is only millimeters away from your current position, but you can’t easily get there because some dumb-ass in 1812 made a poor zoning decision? Seriously, what is the point of a one-way street, other than to intentionally piss off half the driving population?

  Speaking of people: Because downtown Dallas is now rather trendy, it’s filled with trendy people doing what is now apparently the latest trendy thing: Walking and driving around whilst texting and paying absolutely no attention to anything that is going on around you, such as other people who are trying to navigate past your annoyingness so they can actually accomplish something in their lives. (#asshats)

  In any case, Terry managed to find a parking lot with multiple available spaces, a discovery that was almost erotic because sometimes it can be very hard to find a parking space up in this hood. We secured the vehicle and wandered around the corner onto Elm Street, where we were nearly flattened by some very exuberant motorcyclists straddling thundering hogs. One of them was wearing an “Anvil” t-shirt, our destination. It seems that we were about to enter a biker bar where people enjoyed being loud. (I breathed a couture sigh of relief, since I had wisely donned blue jeans and a grunge-tribute shirt, instead of the disco pants that had briefly caught my eye.)

  So we trot into the establishment, slightly wary of what we might find. (Biker bars in and of themselves are usually just fine. But a biker bar packed with trendy people who are trying to be street when they’ve never actually straddled anything in their lives? We could have issues.) Turns out that the quality of the clientele was not what we needed to be worried about. Instead, all other concerns in the world were immediately forgotten when we strolled up to the bar where Johhna and Patty were sitting, and found them drinking this:

  “What the hell is that?” I asked, fear coursing through my body.

  “Well,” said Patty, turning from the bar so that we could see her better, because she’s the more performance-oriented of the two and she doesn’t want to disappoint her audience, “it’s a Bloody Mary. With lunch on top.”

  I didn’t know if I could take this story on faith. “Are you sure it’s not a Lady Gaga bobble-head?”

  Terry chimed in. “Or Patti LaBelle’s hair?”

  And both of us briefly paused to gauge the distance to the front door of the pub, just in case we suddenly needed to run back out it after the thing on the bar pulled out a tiny machete and tried to cut a bitch. (This is a survival instinct that has developed after watching horror movies, where you are schooled in what happens when stupid people don’t make adequate flight preparations upon discovering something odd sitting where it shouldn’t be.)

  “It’s really good,” piped in Johhna. “You should try one.” (She did not, however, let us try hers just in case there were compatibility issues. I made a mental note that she might have a slight selfish streak, something I would need to keep in mind in case we ever got stranded in the Andes Mountains after a plane crash, and she decided that she was very, very hungry. Not turning my back on her, no sir.)

  Still, they seemed sincere about the pleasures to be had from getting intimately involved with a five-gallon bucket filled with liquor and topped with a garnish the size of Detroit. So I ordered one. (Terry refrained. He has a thing about tomatoes, especially the juice, although he worships ketchup. I’m sure there’s a fascinating story behind it all, perhaps a tragic incident in his youth, I just haven’t bothered to ask, because sometimes the first step toward healing is to never talk about it again.)

  The ordering of the Mammoth Mary is a complicated process. For starters, they plunk down a glass of beer, a PBR. (“Pabst Blue Ribbon”, for those trendy texting people who have never experienced anything that doesn’t involve social media.) They call this PBR the “appetizer”, which is kind of cute, but it actually means “it’s going to take us a decade or so to put together all the nibbly bits that go on top of your bucket, and you’re going to be really thirsty before it gets here, so drink this.”

  And it did take a long time. Long enough that my PBR glass was bone-dry and abandoned, rolling around on the bar. (There was even a brief moment of boredom where I actually watched the Cowboys game on a monitor in the bar. Those who know me well will realize that I must have been absolutely desperate to do such a thing.) But eventually, somebody fired up a forklift, drove the beeping machine out of the “kitchen” and lowered my cocktail onto the bar. You could hear the foundation of the building groaning as this took place.

  Let me break down this drink for you: It comes in a Mason jar. Not the little version, the kind you use to make your own jelly or to store buttons that you will never actually need. The big kind that you would use to pickle a watermelon, or that serial killers would use to store the heads of their victims in formaldehyde. This jar is filled to the brim with the main attraction, the actual Bloody Mary. The rim of the jar is encrusted with black pepper and salt, which allows you to use your tongue to moderate the seasoning level of the beverage, which is always fun, who doesn’t want to demonstrate the agility of their tongue in a room full of drunken strangers?

  On the second floor of the libation, we have the artwork, the creatively arranged snacks that are anchored in place on a number of shish kabob skewers. Rumor has it that the niblets can vary from time to time (this was according to a free-spirited woman who happened to wander by at one point, with her and her unrestrained but combative breasts informing me that she’s “seen all kinds of mess up on those things.”)

  My current version of the mess included:  a celery stick (natch), a green bean (no idea), a small wedge of broccoli (looking like a little green Don King), pickled okra (I’m assuming pickled, I don’t touch okra unless it’s fried and this was not), a cooked Brussels sprout (I’m guessing the uncooked version proved impenetrable for the skewer), a single shrimp (more, please, it was quite tasty dipped in the Bloody Mary), a wedge of salami (also a good dipper, not sure why), a chunk of artisanal cheese, a cherry tomato (one of the few things that was cherry in that bar), an onion ring (always a good choice, regardless of circumstances), and an actual slider cheeseburger.

  There may have even been more snackies involved, but I did reach a point where I was tired of leaning in for a slurp and getting poked in the eye by a skewer stick, so I popped the structural mechanism out of the jar and chunked it to the side. (Side note to the Anvil Pub staff: Longer straws, maybe? Sure seems like a good idea to me. If you can afford to stock up on Brussels sprouts, I’m sure you can find longer things in the stockroom that people can suck on.)

  In any case, the drink itself was quite satisfying, leaning toward the spicy side, which all good Bloody Marys should do. (It took me well over an hour to finish the drink, in case you’re keeping score.) And speaking of leaning and spicy, we were about to meet someone who was both. (Well, only two of us got to meet her. The other two in our motley crew chose not to participate in what quickly escalated into an eye-opening adventure, and therefore missed out on the glorious joy of having a complete stranger barge into your personal space and then proceed to have a neurological breakdown, complete with random spittle and exuberant hand gestures.

  This development also started innocently enough, or at least as innocently as things can be when you are smoking behind a rowdy bar in a questionable area of Dallas. Johnna and I had decided that we needed a quick nicotine fix, so we worked our way out the back door of the bar to the designated area. We fully expected this little quest to result in us huddled in a smelly alley, taking hurried drags as we dodged homeless people and possible gang members who had just decided they needed another teardrop tattoo and they were looking for people who couldn’t run very fast.

  Turns out, this was not the case at all. Instead, we stumbled into a very nice patio area, with thick, brick walls that would help prevent us from becoming a crime statistic. Cozy tables and chairs and umbrellas. The only slight drawback is that it was still 117 degrees in the Texas heat, even under the festive umbrellas. Not a particularly thrilling environmental aspect, but it also meant that the patio was completely deserted, and the entire kingdom was ours to rule as we pleased.

  So we did, sitting down and lighting up.

  Our reign, though glorious and marked by festivals thrown in our honor by the peasants, proved to be a rather short one. We were barely finished with handing out knighthoods for the first fiscal quarter, when the back door flew open with a bang. We turned to see who had made it past the Palace Guard, fully expecting to find an assassin, sheathed in black and sent by our pesky enemies in the neighboring kingdom of Fort Worthia. Instead, our eyes fell upon a tall woman whose own jittery eyes were staring back at us in confusion and wonder.

  We knew immediately that she was insane.

  There are times when folks can fool you about their madness, feigning sanity for hours or days or years before you run across them eating purple crayons and doing unspeakable things to donkeys. That was not the case here. We were in the Express Lane, no doubt about it. She was wearing an outfit that might best be described as “soccer player on acid”, she had a hairdo that implied “I only bathe when I remember what that is”, and she marched right up to our table, whipped a cigarette out of her pack, and proceeded to throw the pack on our table in a clear homesteading maneuver.

  This is one of the ultimate taboos in the smoking world.  Yes, the 12 smokers left in the United States often find themselves in temporary-bonding situations, as they huddle together 50 yards from the entrance to a restaurant and try not to get shot by vigilantes, but there are still protocols. And one of them is that you do not stake a claim at an occupied table in a smoking-zone unless you have slept with someone at that table on at least two prior occasions.

  Since neither Johhna nor I could recall ever having been horizontal with Medusa of the Doorway, we were a bit affronted. Then again, we’d just consumed a Bloody Mary bigger than a car, so there was definitely some flexibility here. Besides, a runaway train of cray-cray can be very entertaining, as long as you remember to get out of the way before the derailment. So we sat back and just let Medusa share her thoughts on mankind.

  Boy, did she ever.

  At first, her ramblings were a bit benign.  She initially babbled about how the weather was ultra-pleasing today, words that she on/off muttered between bouts of staring at those things in the back wall. (They’re called bricks, sweetie.) Then there was some mess about how she had kicked off her morning by indulging in something that was not alcohol and most likely not legal. (She definitely had a fondness, or inability, for choosing words that had any real concrete message, a theme that would continue throughout our fellowship.)

  Then she eventually wandered her way into incoherent tales of working for some type of adjunct program with the Sierra Club, a community-service (or so it seemed) type of thing where she would pay money to go on a trip and do manual labor for needful local citizenry. She mentioned the name of this program several times, but the name didn’t fully register because I was too busy watching her eyeballs vibrate. (Dear Sierra Club, I am not trying to besmirch you in any way. I had no way to gauge the truthfulness of this woman’s oratory. Please see above references to Medusa, lack of proper sportsmanship in social settings, and inappropriate wardrobe selections.)

  Whatever the program was called, Sierra Club involvement aside, it cost 300 dollars per trip. The financial part was very clear, because this woman repeated that figure at least 20 times. 300 dollars. Over and over.  It’s like she was going for some type of door prize for the number of repetitions. I felt like I should write “300!” on the wall behind us so the poor wretch would stop bellowing that number. Sadly, Vanna White did not walk up and offer me a writing implement, so I couldn’t do this.

  Johhna, on the other hand, didn’t need a spokesmodel/failed actress to further her cause. She decided that it would be jovial to query Neurotica Nancy on the finer details of her vague endeavors. “So, person, what did you do on these trips?”

  Person: “Trips?”

  Johhna:  “Not the trip that you’re on now, the thing with the Sierra Club. What did you do? How did you help?”

  Person:  “Oh… um… we… there was weeding…”

  Johhna:  “Oh?”

  Person:  “Weeding management.”

  Johhna:  “I see that. And where did you go?”

  Person:  “Go? Um, we went… Alaska… and some other… I’ve been four times… other states… Washing and Origami…” (Keep in mind that during the pausing bits, Person would stare at the ground as if contemplating where she might be at the moment and whether or not she turned off the iron back at the halfway-house.)

  Johhna: “Uh huh. And when you were there did you-“

  Person:  “Hawaii! We went to Hawaii!”

  Johhna, smiling, because she lives in Hawaii, and this suddenly became very interesting:  “Really? And where did you stay in Hawaii?”

  Person:  “The big one… the big… island. And the other island.”

  Johhna: “And what did you do there?”

  Person:   “Do? Oh… there were waves.  I could sit and watch. The waves would come in, and the waves would go out. The waves would come in, and the waves would go out. The waves would come in, and…”

  Johhna:  “The waves would go out?”

  Person:  “Yes! And then the waves would go out and-“

  Johhna:  “But what did you do there? Help me understand.”

  Person:  “There was… there were people… and they would decide about… and we would do… and they would plan things and… we… they had to make decisions about… decisions… and we…”

  Johhna:  “Yes?”

  Person:  “The waves would come in…”

  Johhna:  “They do that a lot.”

  Person:  “It was 300 dollars! And that’s a lot of money for me, I’m a teacher!”

  Those last three words were the most chilling of the afternoon. She was a teacher? Holy crap.

  The back door of the pub suddenly slammed open again, and we were presented with a waitress proffering a steaming bowl. “Do you want your chili out here or back inside?”

  My mind boggled. What the hell?

  Then the waitress glared at Crazy Train, her expression indicating that she had heard, many times, about the waves coming in and out, and she no longer cared for the constant updates. She just wanted it to be the end of her shift, and if people had to get hurt to make that happen, so be it.

  Crazy stared at the bowl, flummoxed. Then she turned to look at us.

  Johhna and I just stared back at her. We had nothing to do with this chili development. It’s all on you, girl. Deal.

  Crazy swiveled back to Waitress. “I… think that… the waves should go in.”

  Waitress promptly turned and fled, mission complete.

  Crazy turned back in our direction, although it took a bit for her to determine exactly where we might be located. Then she decided that there might be something to be gained from becoming even more intimate, as if such a thing were even possible. “I’m Gillian. And that’s my real name.”

  It was fully understandable that this woman might need an alias from time to time.

  Still, the random arrival of the chili did present a convenient exit opportunity for Johhna and myself, should we choose to take it. (I was more invested in departure than Johhna, who seemed to be enjoying this spectacle far more than she should. There was a definite entertainment factor to it all, but it was hot out here and things were becoming damp in unattractive places. Besides, we hadn’t bothered to frisk Gillian for weapons, despite that being an obvious course of action once Gill opened her mouth and the Mental Institution Alumni Newsletter fell out. She could jump us at any moment, thinking we were weeds, and the hacking would begin.)

  So I took the initiative to make imminent departure moves. (Which basically consisted of me staring at the back door of the pub with obvious longing, a single tear running down my cheek. This triggered something in Gillian’s psyche, probably  a trace memory of the Native American in that long ago anti-litter commercial, where he was pissed off about the trashy white people throwing their beer cans and McDonald’s sacks on the side of the road, and Gillian mistakenly assumed that it was time to report for litter detail on her next Sierra Club adventure. Only 300 dollars!) She faced the door as well.

  Which left Johhna as the only one not studying the woodwork, so she grudgingly got out of her chair and joined us. We graciously allowed Gillian to wander in before us (I was NOT going to allow that woman to be behind me for any reason), and as Gilly pinballed her way up the hall, Johhna thought it would be festive to holler “And the waves roll out!”

  Gillian didn’t hear a thing. Of course she didn’t.

  Meanwhile, somewhere in Dallas, there’s a group of confused students sitting in a classroom, awaiting the return of their teacher. They’ve been sitting there since Friday, afraid to move since they weren’t properly dismissed. All they know is that Miss Gillian said something about needing some chili and that she would be right back…

10 Important Life Lessons That We Learned in the "Dallas" Season Finale

1. Accidentally kill someone that was really on your nerves? Apparently there’s an app for that.

  It seems you can just whip our your smart phone, dial a special number, and within seconds a squadron of men in black outfits will swarm into your house bearing cleaning supplies and body-transport laundry carts. This seems like so much more fun than just ordering pizza or Chinese.

2. Bobby Ewing is obviously immortal.

  We sort of knew this, what with that whole “dream season” back in the day, when Patrick Duffy apparently took a shower for an entire year. (And Victoria Principal took a really long nap, without mussing her hair even once.) Bobby’s super-powers, and his intricate hair, were in full evidence tonight as he fully recovered from an aneurism in about 4 minutes and then went right back to work arranging for the arrest of a sibling.

3. Larry Hagman’s eyebrows could inspire a new horror-movie franchise.

  I thought I would get used to it as the season progressed. I was wrong. You can’t get away from those things. They upstage everyone in every scene where they make an entrance. The camera zooms in for a facial close-up, J.R. starts to talk about something probably important, and all I can focus on is wondering how his forehead isn’t bleeding from the barbed-wire punctures.

4. The new offices of “Ewing Energies” are apparently going to be located in the same exact space as the offices from the original series.

  Yay! How touching! But wait. The view out the window is wrong, the football-field size of the space is wrong, and the lack of a fully-stocked bar is wrong. But the most important wrongness? The lack of the secretaries. I didn’t see Sly and her always-perfect hair arranging something dastardly for J.R., I didn’t see Phyllis and her always-questionable hair arranging something heroic for Bobby, and I didn’t see Kendall and her pointless hair sitting at her pointless little desk in the “pre-lobby” area that never made any sense. It’s okay that they didn’t include Jackie, though. That girl had about 47 different jobs throughout the original series and you never knew where she would pop up.

5. Ann Ewing rocks.

  When Bobby’s wife (Brenda Strong) marched into the office of evil Harris Ryland (Mitch Pileggi) and did that whole number with the fake torment and the eventual microphone reveal? Perfect scene, perfectly played. (I think I had a small orgasm.) Ann should be shooting to the top of that little “Rise To Power” competition on the TNT website, just sayin. Trivia note: Mitch Pileggi is better known for “X-Files”, but he also was in the original “Dallas” run, for a multi-episode bit, playing a mental patient who gets locked in the basement of a questionable sanitarium alongside J.R. (This was in the later seasons when the writers were so bored out of their minds that they wrote whatever they could to fill up the hour.)

6. Sue Ellen Ewing rocks even harder.

  Let’s face it: Linda Gray is nearly 72 years old. Seventy-two. But you sure as hell wouldn’t know it. Miss Thang has still got it and doesn’t look like she’s giving it up any time soon. (Seriously, look at the promo clips for the new show. They have the poor woman wrapped in what looks like vibrantly-orange Ace bandages, with questionable holes here and there, but she still has more allure and hotness than the youngsters who are playing the new Ewing women.)

  I will say that the first episodes of this season saddened me, when it came to Sue Ellen, because they had her adoring wicked John Ross just like she adored wicked J.R. back in the day, only without the high-velocity drinking, multiple vehicular mishaps, and a tendency to be rude to Miss Ellie, which one should never do if they have any hopes of ascending into Heaven. We like the Sue Ellen that finally put down the cocktails and took up the fight against J.R. But patience proved rewarding as Sue Ellen finally came to her senses in the last few episodes and morphed into Sue Ellen 2.0, thus straightening her crown that had become dangerously off-center.

7. You can get an engagement ring made to look like a glob of oil surrounded by precious stones.

  But why would you do that to someone you supposedly love? Why? And then John Ross twists the knife even more by saying to Elena something like “I thought sunshine reflecting off crude oil was the most beautiful thing ever until I saw you.” Really? You’re going to compare your beloved to a petroleum product? Elena, honey, go to Plan B.

8. Plan B’s can be very erotic.

  So Elena finds out some not-so-good intel about John Ross, then she finds out that Christopher still hearts her a whole bunch, and Christopher’s engagement ring is WAY more pretty and feminine than the not-all-that-bad-but-still-awkward chunk of fossil-fuel jewelry that John Ross proffered. So what’s a girl to do? Well, if you’re planning to have a healthy plot-line in Season 2, you race off to bump naughty bits with Christopher even though she’s technically engaged to someone else and he’s technically married to a woman with more secrets than Mitt Romney.

9. Apparently “the cloud” is something that makes it very hard for bad people to continue being bad.

  See, there was this now-dead character with an alias of Marta Del Sol who, when she wasn’t busy being crazy and obsessed, managed to upload all of her private business to “the cloud”. This cloud then allowed Bobby and Christopher to find interesting information that implicated J.R. and John Ross and Vincente “the guy who used to be on 24” Cano, making things very unpleasant for them. Note to self: Do not upload personal chit-chat to the international transponder. Unless I suspect that I’m about to be killed for being too clingy. Then I’m uploading everything.

10. Cliff Barnes just doesn’t give up.

  You’d think the man would have learned some social skills from the original series, where he managed to basically chase everyone out of his life that cared for him, especially the string of women who magically found him attractive only because the script said they should. But no, he’s still on his vindictive path, scheming and manipulating and ordering Chinese food, whatever it takes to destroy the Ewings. And then we have the huge reveal near the end of the show, with Rebecca Ewing (marriage hanging by a thread) proving that she has some very serious Daddy issues, which sets up an intriguing Cliff-hanger. And that’s classic “Dallas”. We’ll talk again in January…

15 Ways to Celebrate the Glorious Melting of the Snow in Dallas

1. Actually open the front door.

  Oh, look! There’s Mr. Porch! Remember him? I missed him. He’s so nice most of the time. Except when his ass is covered in ice and he wants to shatter your skull on the sidewalk. Then I don’t really care for him.

2. Listen to the snow water running off the roof.

  It’s a very life-affirming sound, that dripping and gushing. The terrible ordeal is almost over. Yay! Of course, because of that sound, I’ve also felt the urge to pee for the last three hours solid. But I’ll happily deal with an overly-stimulated bladder rather than another day of rolling blackouts and having to look at the same stupid family members again. God I can’t stand them right now. Said with undying love.

3. Watch regular programming on TV.

  Dear Channel 5 News People. Thank you so much for all your efforts. I’m sure it takes a tremendous amount of work showing us the same slippery patch of highway where 46 cars did an impromptu line dance, over and over, as well as constantly reminding us that it’s cold outside. I think I understand now. We had a severe winter storm. I wouldn’t have known this without the weather man repeatedly showing us his radar so I could comprehend what that white stuff is out there covering the ground. Now, could I possibly watch a show that doesn’t have you people in it?

4. Take off the 27 layers of thermal underwear and that atrocious sweater that smells like cat.

  Really. It’s time.

5. Stop being afraid of the terrifying, deadly snow monsters in the backyard.

  It’s just the lawn furniture. See the chair arm sticking out of that slowly-dwindling hill that you were convinced was a Yeti with unfriendly intentions? It’s not going to kill you after all! Wait, why does that chair seem closer to the house than it was before? OMG! Maybe it isn’t safe after-

6. Get reacquainted with your car.

  That thing under the no-longer-groaning carport? It’s a vehicle. You can get in one of those things and drive places. No, really, I’m serious. Run fetch one of your photo albums, and I’m sure you’ll find a snapshot of people thinking they look cool while tooling around in one, the wind blowing through a hairdo that never should have been approved. Just concentrate really hard and it will all come back to you. Promise.

  7. Get revenge.

  Calmly pull out the license number that you jotted down after that complete idiot ran you off the road because they don’t understand ice or life in general, make a call to your secret contact in the Department of Motor Vehicles (the one that you almost slept with one night after some particularly evil tequila, but thankfully didn’t), obtain the home address of said idiot, make your way to his house, find him watching football while sitting in his underwear, and then beat the hell out of him with an ice scraper. As a further sign of your appreciation, release the parking brake on his truck and shove it into a ditch. Leave the ice scraper on the seat.

  8. Enjoy the pleasing rays of that warm, buttery ball in the sky.

  It’s not the sun, but that’s okay. It’s the fiery remnants of the nuclear device they had to explode in order to get this damn ice to melt. Yes, there might be some icky radiation fallout, but it’s a small price to pay to see the ground again. When you leave the house, just wear long sleeves, a nice hat, and some SPF 3,500. You’ll be fine. As an added bonus, you won’t need a nightlight anymore.

9. Revel in the sensation of your testicles finally descending.

  And ladies, you won’t have to hear any more jokes about how leaving the hi-beams on all the time will run the battery down. (Yes, I went there. Life is messy.)

10. Allow yourself a cleansing moment of cruelty.

  Call a friend or relative who is still snowed-in. Laugh maniacally and hang up. Share this post on their Facebook wall. Then block them.

11. Go streaking.

  Why not? Things really need to be aired out at this point.

12. Go eat at an actual restaurant.

  No more reheated chili! No more steaming soup that was delicious on the first day of the freeze but that you totally detested by the fourth day. No more eating sandwiches because actually turning on the stove runs the risk of another freakin’ rolling blackout.

13. Stop listening to local newscasters fretting about whether or not people can make it to the Super Bowl in Arlington because of the weather.

  I. Don’t. Care. Seriously. If you can afford a $5,000 ticket, you can afford to pay for the counseling you’ll need if you don’t make it.

14. Have Dorothy throw icy water on Sarah Palin.

  If she melts, then the rumors are true. (She can fly over Russia from her house!)

15.  Put your house on the market.

  There’s got to be some place where it doesn’t snow.

10 Exciting Things About Eating Breakfast at Luby’s

1. The fact that Luby’s even serves breakfast.

  This is an amazing and monumental development in the history of dining out. Luby’s has always had good food, albeit most of the selections are considerably health-negative. (The cooks love things like salt, butter, lard, and a disregard for free-flowing arteries.) So the prospect of  the staff taking a crack at breakfast had me salivating profusely from the exact second I noticed the announcement whilst driving past the location down the street. It was 8:30 at night. I seriously considered just parking the car at the door and waiting for daylight.

2. It’s CHEAP.

  Luby’s is not known for budget-supportive prices. If you aren’t careful when going through the line, snapping up everything that looks tasty, you might have to take out a loan when you get to the register. Even if you try to do the right thing, economically speaking, selecting the LuAnn Platter, which saves you a few cents, I’m just not emotionally stable enough to avoid the other temptations. Like dessert. A wedge of carrot cake, though guaranteed to trigger multiple orgasms, will set you back 4 or 5 bucks.

  But brace yourselves, fellow Luby’s lovers. The breakfast at Luby’s is only FIVE DOLLARS. That is not a typo. (To be fair, that’s the price here in Dallas. I can’t really speak for other locales, nor do I have any desire to do so.) And before you have recovered from the shock, let me hit you with another wave: It’s all you can eat.

  All. You can eat.

  I know, right? Why are you still sitting there? Pack up Granny and hit the road.

3. On the down side, “All You Can Eat” can lead to poor planning and biological discomfort.

  As mentioned, I’m still used to careful selections when working through the serving line at Luby’s, because everything costs and I have bills to pay. So when presented with the option of taking whatever I want, I went a little crazy, asking for a bit of everything. When my plate was finally passed down to the last sever and it was time to hand it over, a representative from OSHA had to step in and weigh the thing before Missy could hoist the grease-dripping mess, and in the end they just used an overheard crane to swing the groaning porcelain platter my direction.

  As I waited in line to pay, I realized that I had four different biscuit-based items on my tray. (The most enticing of these? Honey-laced chicken strips on a butter biscuit.) I had enough carbs in my possession to power me through not only the Boston Marathon but the first six months of next year. If I dared to eat all that mess then I deserved to have internal organs rupture in defiance and self-preservation.

4. The cashier is not yet used to this “one price” thing, either.

As she was announcing my total, Melvinetta, or whatever her name was, actually said to me: “That’s the same amount that I’ve been ringing up all morning!” (Then she grinned maniacally at this perceived happenstance in the cosmos.) Um, everyone is going to have the same amount because it’s the same price. Do you not realize that you’re punching the same button on your little register every time? Poor thing. I hope she really likes working at Luby’s, because she’s apparently already clutching the highest star she can reach.

5. The table attendants have a new lease on life.

  These people no longer have the boring task of simply inquiring on the fullness level of your tea glass. They are now responsible for running to retrieve any additional food selections you may require during your consumption extravaganza. That’s right, you don’t even have to drag your ass out of your chair if you want to nosh a bit more. Just ask and you shall receive. Good deal, right?

  Sort of. You have to be very selective in choosing your table. You want to be in the serving radius of a well-balanced and professional attendant, one who will keep an eye on you without being intrusive. You don’t want one of those hyper, greedy attendants hell-bent on asking if you need anything every five seconds, thinking that the more little plates they bring you will automatically increase their tip. “Look, Benedryllia, I’m still chewing on the bite of pancakes that you watched me put in my mouth the last time you checked on my hash brown requirements.”

6. Cream gravy tastes good on everything.

  Everything.

7. It IS possible to slip into and out of a grease-induced coma several times in a row without lasting physical damage.

  I proved that this morning. You can rent the resulting documentary at Red Box.

8. Cheaper does mean a ruder customer base.

  Prepare yourself for this angle. When prices hit rock-bottom, transforming Luby’s from the realm of senior citizens with nothing else to do and folks who will eat chicken-fried anything to a free-for-all of discounts and gluttony, you are going to encounter some shadier elements of society.

  Of course, it’s not like gangs are driving motorcycles around the condiment bar while hookers strut their wares near the extra silverware, but be aware that there are certain sinister tables that you should probably avoid. Unless, of course, you find it refreshing to be part of a drug deal at 9:30 in the morning. I understand that we all have our own interests.

9. The old people are still around.

  They are always there. It’s a cult.

10. It’s difficult to remember your name once you’ve eaten enough bacon.

  Likewise, an extremely full belly can lead to other complications in public places, like confusion about where the exit might be, where you car might be, how many people were originally in your party, whether or not you still love any of them, and an inability to recall the exact functioning of all those pedals and levers and warning lights on a standard automobile. Be sure to carry proper identification, proof of insurance, a list of possible reactionary medications, and a formal letter of pardon from the last time you lost your mind in a place that has unlimited cream gravy…

Idiot Fondue: Case Study #31

Dear Dr. Brian,

If people from Boston are called Bostonians, and those from San Francisco are called San Franciscans, what are the ones from Dallas called? Dallasinians?

Your friend,

Laura

Dear Larua,

No, that is not a typo with your name. I must confess that it was originally so, but after carefully analyzing your submission, I feel that a minimal adjustment in the spelling of your name could prove beneficial. It is now a distinctive name, it will advance you slightly in those irritating lists where people are alphabetized, and it’s more fun to type. (Try it on your keyboard.) Therefore, as your physician, I am advising that you change your name immediately. I’ll have Lanae send the legal forms shortly.

Now, to more firmly address your query, it is important that we minutely analyze each element of your email. Even a small alteration in grammar, spelling or wording can change things in an astonishing manner. (To continue my previous thread, an online posting about someone named “Laura” could prove somewhat entertaining, while a posting with a free spirit named “Larua” becomes an instant bookmark, with its tantalizing possible details about tropical islands, or rock groups with fervent groupies, the kind who enjoy flinging their undergarments during concerts and living in communes where everyone helps make real butter.)

So, I must keep an open mind concerning the manner in which I can assist you. An initial observation would be that you have a geographical fixation of some kind. (This is a very real malady, with people over-using Google Earth , especially that “zoom in” feature, resulting in nightmares where troubled souls envision themselves slamming into the planet, suffering uncomfortable body realignments as country and city names whiz by them in a terrifying blur.)

Sadly, because EarthSlamPhobia was mentioned on the Oprah Winfrey show, it has become very popular of late, and some trendy physicians are quick to misdiagnose patients who are actually suffering from something that has not been publicized on talk shows that will be ending in 2011. In a related trend, there is a misperception among the populace that the cure for EarthSlamPhobia is an Intervention.

I’m sure you’ve heard of these ghastly things, where friends and family trick you into attending a dinner party or an outing to the zoo, and then they all gang up on you, demanding that you stop doing something that they don’t care for. These things never work, not only because you instantly hate them for their pushiness and subterfuge, but because your friends and family are not trained specialists. If they were, they would be appearing on TV, not sitting on your couch and bellowing self-help quotes from some odd website they found when Facebook was down and they were bored.

And really, all these platitudes along the lines of “We love you and we are here for you.” What is THAT? Seriously. If they are there for you, then they should have been around when you first mistakenly assumed that Percocet was an antihistamine, discovered that taking the cute little pills made things pretty and you no longer cared about troublesome facets of your life like relatives who intervene, and then began selling household appliances to insure that you kept not caring.

Anyway, I do believe I can eliminate the possibility of you having a geographical neuroses, simply by reviewing the cities you mentioned in your submission. You have listed both coasts, as well as a city smack in the middle of the country. This means you do not discriminate, which is a fine thing in itself, but also eliminates you from qualifying for any of the Mapsco family of maladies. People who suffer from such tend to focus on specific regions, like southern towns where folks speak with too many vowels or Colorado resorts where caretakers snap in the winter and get abusive with axes.

No, your particular diagnosis lies elsewhere. Yet still, my extensive training in the world of the mind and the many ways in which the brain can twist off into surprising roads of discovery leads me to believe that there is something behind the names of the cities you selected. Let’s go there, even if it proves fruitless, and I end up charging you for another session. (Somebody has to pay for the new linoleum in the remodeled break room in our suite of offices.) To wit, your cities:

Boston. Have you ever been there? It’s quite surprising. My first exposure to one of our founding cities occurred in the month of July. Such a time of year is excruciating in the place where I currently live, a little burgh by the name of Dallas. The word “steamy” does not even approach reality, with sweat getting into crevices you never knew you had. Things melt, and tempers flare. (You NEVER want to question the roadway decisions of your fellow citizens. This can result in rude gestures and the use of concealed handguns.)

But I never imagined that Boston could have the same July climate. It’s so far north, I just assumed that the igloos did not melt. Yet indeed they do, with a vengeance that is startling. I was quite amazed to learn that the fresh seafood in the fish market would grill itself as you stood there and perused the options.

And this thing with the pennies on the graves in that one cemetery. I tried to read the historical marker that explained the copper abundance, but I couldn’t keep the sweat out of my eyes long enough to learn the tale. Complicating all this was the horde of belligerent tourists who did not appreciate my non-movement and blindness. They were hurling pennies like The Rapture was around the corner.

But around that corner was the Parker House Hotel, where they make those rolls that apparently cause certain people to change their entire way of life so that they can consume these things on a regular basis. I failed to see what the fuss was all about, mainly because said hotel was very pricey and I couldn’t even afford the appetizers, let alone an entrée featuring the famous bread. Northerners apparently make more money than Southerners. Didn’t we end that pesky war? Poor Scarlet, she rolled around in that turnip field, getting mud on her couture and vowing never to be hungry again, but I’m assuming she wasn’t clutching a menu from the Parker House Hotel.

Finally, did they ever end that mess with the Big Dig? The massive roadwork project where they were building an underground tunnel to China or some such? I understand the need to garner support for the usage of tax-payer dollars. But really, the billboards and the campaign buttons? It’s a road, not the Stairway to Heaven. Especially if you’re just a visitor trying to find the North Church without getting re-routed to Detroit. And it’s a little unsettling to realize that the earth is being moved under my feet.

Speaking of, let’s move on to San Francisco, where I understand that you’ve spent some time whilst trying to keep your sanity and a firm grip on the things that are really important. Therefore, I really shouldn’t pontificate too much and risk corrective commentary, other than to share a formative experience I had whilst a youngster still finding my way.

In the mid-70’s, my mother and her best friend dragged their four collective offspring to this city by the bay. I was much too young to fully comprehend all that we saw, but I do recall seeing men holding hands, and homegrown newspapers seeking rights for people who just wanted to love as they wished. I was in awe, feeling tiny tendrils of validation for my burgeoning awareness of who I might be, but still scared. The rest of the country did not share this vision, or so it seemed to my naïve young mind. Soon I would be back in a land of closed minds and pain. But briefly, I yearned. Hope springs eternal.

Okay, I do recall a few other things. The hills, of course, because how could you miss THOSE? The trolley cars, which are enjoyable until someone’s posterior is shoved in your face while they are pointing out Coit Tower. Or some stranger requests that you take photos of them and their unruly brood as the Gap-clad little hellions swing on poles and wave. I don’t WANT to take pictures of other people. If I did, I would have gone to a different school, training to be a clerk at the DMV or perhaps a processing agent at the police station.

Oh, and the exquisite chocolate from that Italian-sounding place, and all of that business with the Wharf. The rows of houses, with the character of another time, standing proudly after so many years, despite the Starbucks on the corner and everyone muttering into little handheld things of metal and glass. And the people. The wild mix of people.

And finally, we have Dallas on your short list of proper names for residents. There are many ways I could go with my commentary on the local inhabitants. But really, this should be saved for another time. The nexus is you, and how I can assist. Despite my rhetoric, despite my fun with snarkiness and twisted interpretations, there are times when all this falls by the wayside, and you get real.

Searching for an answer that actually means something, I did let a bit of the whimsy back in. The first letter of your three cities is B-S-D. But I’m going to assume that you put a challenge in there, and that I should reverse the order. D-S-B. I only know of your personal situation peripherally, limited detail, but I hope this helps with your journey. DSB = Don’t Stop Believing. Don’t. In whatever your belief and hopes may be.

Best of luck, Laura, spelled correctly, and there really won’t be any paperwork in the mail about the name change. Unless my assistant Lanae has been especially productive, though I seriously doubt that she has. I’ve been waiting for her to change the paper in the copy machine since 1987.

As for the rest of you fine folks, who are used to sarcasm until the end, it’s not going to happen this time. A rare moment of heart, and some time to reflect. Think of the people you love. Tell them that. Again and again. And then maybe one more time. Then go take a walk, somewhere quiet where you can prioritize and breathe. Well, maybe skip the walking bit for now, considering the heat out there and the potential for sweaty crevices. But keep the breathing. And the realization of what’s really important…

Peace In,

Dr. Brian

Fury Duty, Part 5

  So the mousy little judge recovers from the startling announcement that we have a wanted felon in the house, and she quickly instructs the confused police officer to take the questionable juror to another room for some private conversation. They trottle off to do so, and then the judge faces the rest of the room once again.

  “Does anyone ELSE think they have a good reason why they shouldn’t serve on a jury today?”

  Well, not really, not after discovering that Patty Hearst just pulled a trump card on all of us. Can’t really top that. The jerk who managed to get out of duty because he “had the sniffles” is still standing at the front of the room waiting to be excused, his head hung in shame as he refuses to make eye contact with those of us still in servitude to the Municipal Court. We glare at him anyway and try to make him burst into flames.

  The judge smiles primly. “Okay, then. Well, make yourselves comfortable and the bailiff will be in shortly with your assignments.”  Then she turns and walks out of the room to go do whatever judges do when they aren’t presiding over a trial.

  So now it’s a waiting game, that excruciating period where we all sit around forever, hoping that our name is never called so that maybe we can get out of here by noon. Or that our name does get called but by the time we tromp all the way to the courtroom, some type of agreement has been reached and we are dismissed. Whatever it takes. Just let us go home soon. Please.

  For the next two minutes or so, it’s actually very peaceful. There are a few pockets of quiet conversation here and there, but for the most part people are quietly reading or working on crossword puzzles or just sitting there and waiting for the hangover to pass. This is how it should work in a jury waiting room. You know it’s going to be boring, so you bring your own entertainment and you leave people alone. Nice. I pull out my book and open it to the next chapter.

  Right then, some skank in the front row jumps up, races over to the ancient TV, and slaps it on. She doesn’t even bother to mess with the channel or even analyze what our viewing options might be. She’s one of those sad and irritating souls who have been raised at the bosom of numbing television. It doesn’t matter what the program is. The TV just needs to be on. (This right here is why our society is doomed to failure at some point.)

  So now we have some crapfest daytime TV show blaring throughout the room. I’m one of those people who can’t read when annoying noises are taking place around me. So I sigh and close the book. Might as well try to get into whatever is being broadcast and hope it helps pass the time.

  It doesn’t. We are apparently watching a game show, a mystifying competition involving three contestants who ride around in a taxicab, with the driver throwing out trivia questions while navigating some serious traffic. They win money if they are right, they lose money when they are wrong, and there are special rules like bonus cash if the passengers answer a question correctly when the driver is at a red light.

  They’ve got to be kidding me with this. What moron producer gave a green light to such a bonehead idea? Hey, let’s shove some people in a car, and then do everything we can to distract the driver, what with hosting duties and a camera shoved in his face. This thing has potential death and expensive lawsuits all over it.

  And the woman who insisted on activating the TV so we would have to sit through this mess? She returns to her seat and immediately gets on her cell phone, babbling about some social faux pas that happened at a bar with the dubious name of “Snapper Jack’s”. Somebody’s pregnant and Baby Daddy ain’t steppin’ up.

  I involuntarily start grinding my teeth.

  Then some guy with bad hair stands up and marches toward the door, presumably intent on a personal mission of some kind. That would be fine and all, none of my business, if it weren’t for this man’s choice of footwear. He’s wearing some sneakers that apparently have thousands of suction cups on the soles. Each step he takes releases a squelchy, ripping noise that echoes around the room. I instantly hate and despise his very existence. He finally rounds the corner out of sight, and my sphincter relaxes.

  Two seconds later, Suction Man returns through the door and heads toward the “privacy room” on the left, his evil shoes pulling up half the floor tiles as he goes, creating a sonic cacophony that threatens to shatter our eardrums. Luckily, he mostly closes the door so that it muffles his pacing in the inner sanctum.

  From somewhere behind me: “Bitch better stay in there for a while. Can’t take that.”

  Suction Man doesn’t get the message. Four seconds later, he throws open the door and squelches back into sight. He then dumbfounds us all by circling the crumbling check-in table, twice, and then heading back out the main door. What is wrong with him? Does he really not hear the devil noises that his shoes are making?

  Incredibly, Suction Man marches right back in the room and continues with the sonic disturbance, insistently trying to make his mark on every square inch of flooring in the waiting room. This is so many kinds of wrong. He is clearly insane.

  From somewhere to my right: “Oh Sweet Jesus. Give me the strength.”

  But the madness doesn’t stop there.

  Two rows ahead of me, a woman pulls out a piece of paper and shows it to a temporary companion on her right. “Am I supposed to do something with this?” She’s holding her jury summons. This woman was in her seat way before both the administrative clerk AND the judge instructed everyone to place their summons in the bin on the crappy table.

  Her companion just looks at her.

  I just look at her.

  Then the woman in the front row who insisted on activating the TV suddenly turns around and throws in even more stupidity to the mix. “Hey, girl, I got one a those too. Does the judge lady need that?”

  Is there anybody in this room that made it past the third grade? Just wondering.

  And so it goes, for the next several hours. Every fifteen minutes or so, some waste of taxpayer dollars will discover that he or she still has their jury summons that they haven’t handed over. Every ten minutes something really loud happens on the TV that nobody is watching but still hasn’t been turned off. And every five minutes, Suction Man makes another run for the border. That last bit is the worst of all. The noise he is making is so beyond annoying that half the people are on suicide watch by the time another official enters the room.

  The new guy is the bailiff. He’s here to announce our specific jury assignments. This is the moment we’ve been waiting for, enduring agonizing torment for what seems like decades. Even the tattooed gang-bangers in the jury pool turn off their iPods to see what this man has to say.

  And he gets right to the point. “I want everybody on the back row to line up against this wall over here. You guys are going first.”

  Wow. That’s really kind of cool. The back row has all the people who didn’t take this seriously and showed up late. They deserve to go first, before the folks who did the right thing and got here on time. I kinda like this guy.

  Then he throws me for a loop. “Now I want everybody in the third row to line up behind these other people.” What? I’m still not affected, being in the fifth row, but things are kind of not making sense at this point. What’s going on?

  Then the bailiff gets even more random. “Any lawyers in the room?” One guy behind me raises his hand. “Get in line. Anybody work for AT&T? I had a problem with my bill and they really ticked me off.”

  Well, of course nobody’s going to raise their hand after that. But he keeps going. “How about Sprint? Anybody work for them? Time-Warner?” (He’s getting so close to my job with Verizon that I can barely breathe. If he says the V-word I’m crawling under my chair and curling up in a ball.) But he’s apparently done.

  “Okay, everybody lined up against the wall can go home. The rest of you are gonna be on a jury.”

  What!

  Then he laughs. “I’m just kidding. Everything’s cool, they don’t need any of you. Get your butts out of here and go.”

  Everybody leaps to their feet in a rapturous moment of release. As we slowly file out the door, the bailiff hams it up, cracking jokes and asking if anybody is going to Luby’s, cause he sure would like some fried fish.

  And he thanks every single one of us as we go out the door. That, right there, makes everything fine and good. I’ve whined and moaned during my entire stay, but this man has to endure whiners and moaners every day, and he still has a great attitude about his job. Lesson to be learned, right?

  As I wander down the hall, I hear one of the last people still in the room ask him a question. “Am I supposed to do something with this piece of paper?”

  There’s an odd, sharp sound, like someone being slapped.

  I just keep walking toward freedom.

Fury Duty, Part 4

  Jane Hathaway suddenly makes a squeak of discovery, releases my horrified arm, and races off to the comfort station that she has just spotted down the hall. I’m left standing there like Jethro, rope belt and all, trying to save what’s left of my dignity. Stupidly, I fail to understand what this really means and I waddle into the Jury Room while pawing at my crotch, trying to whisk away the remaining tidbits of paper towel. Very classy.

  Three steps into the room, and I realize that class is not part of this picture. This place is a dump. My inappropriate fondling is the least of the tragedies taking place in the hell that I have just entered.

  As mentioned previously, I’m used to serving jury duty at another building across town. They are very efficient over there. It’s a well-greased assembly line where they get the cattle moving through the chutes fairly quickly. Once you are processed and branded, you are then allowed to bide your time in a spacious waiting area with comfortable seats and lots of room to walk around when you get a little tired of sitting.

  It’s a different world over here.

  First off, there are no official representatives of the court system anywhere to be found. No one to tell me what to do or where to go. I’m on my own. And judging by the confused looks of the people already in the holding area, none of us are sure that we’re even in the right place. This is gonna be fun.

  It’s an L-shaped room. You enter at the top of the L, and you immediately encounter a decaying folding table with a bin sitting on the end closest to the door. It’s right THERE when you walk in, can’t miss it. (This becomes an important detail as the story progresses.) Taped to the bin is a little sign that says “Place your Jury Summons here.”

  Okay, that’s pretty clear. I get out my somewhat-wrinkled summons and gently lay it on the small stack. A very small stack. I glance back at the current occupants who are loosely gathered at the other end of the room, and something is off. There are way more people over there than there are jury summons over here.

  What’s going on? Why doesn’t everybody in this room have a summons? So my neurotic mind that over-analyzes everything starts to wonder. It’s already obvious, due to the crappy condition of the room, that the operational budget is tight in this building. Are they possibly keeping the jurors AND the defendants in the same holding area?

  Is my life in danger? Is there someone I can speak to about this? Anybody?

  Someone clears their throat directly behind me. Oh my God, it might be a killer of some kind, ready to put a cap in my ass because I’m wearing the wrong gang colors. I gulp and turn around to face my street-thug executioner, ready to plead for my life and swear that I will sell my body on the streets and give all the profits to him.

  And I find that I am facing a tiny, bird-like woman who is most likely a librarian that owns 47 cats and has never seen an R-rated movie. She smiles at me primly, just wanting me to move ahead a scootch so she can place her summons in the box like the little sign says.

  I make a mental note that it’s probably time for me to start taking the anxiety pills again.

  I smile back at Sister Christian, make a gesture to indicate that I’m so sorry I’ve kept her waiting and possibly delayed her eventual return to the Little House on the Prairie, and then turn back around. But not, I might add, before noticing that her chaste eyes briefly dart downward to observe my soaked and confetti-covered crotch.

  There’s no escaping it. I’m going to be defined by my wetness for the rest of the day.

  So I trudge forward to the part of the room where I’m supposed to sit and await my fate. I’m not pleased to see that the comfy chairs from the fancy courthouse across town are nowhere to be found in this discount judicial setting. Instead, we have these rickety red folding chairs jammed together in rows. Granted, they have cushions, but they are so stained and nasty that anything could be living in them considering the humidity in this town. I’d have preferred plain metal. The bacteria die more easily on a non-porous surface.

  I stagger past the first several rows, my journey made more difficult by seat occupants who apparently don’t have the strength to move their lazy legs out of the tiny aisle. It’s still early enough that most of the back rows are empty, so I hoof it down one of them and stake a claim as far from my fellow humans as I possibly can.

  Once ensconced, on a seat that only has minimal stains, I open my Stephen King book and try to give the appearance that I am so focused on Stevie’s latest literary effort that any attempt at conversation with me will prove pointless. I don’t want to talk to you. Don’t even try. Besides, I‘m still wet. I need people to stay away so the air can circulate and dry me out.

  So people slowly trickle in, and those of us who arrived in plenty of time have to gradually cede real estate to the late-comers. I don’t think this is fair. There should be a special section for the stragglers. Let the competent people remain masters of their domain. Still, I manage to keep two empty seats on both sides of me. (Might have something to do with the look of horror I gave anyone who paused at the entrance to my row.)

  Finally, the cut-off time arrives, and we have our fist appearance of someone who possibly might have some actual authority in the this place. A woman with a clipboard marches into the room and assumes a position in front of the imminent-death folding chairs where people are packed in like sardines. (I’m one of the few hold-outs, desperately doing the splits across five chairs in a pathetic attempt hang on to my kingdom. I’m not young anymore, and it hurts, but I tough it out.)

  Clipboard Woman wants to make one thing very clear. “We are NOT associated with Dallas County in any way!” Then her hate-filled eyes scan the room, daring anyone to have a problem with this.

  A ripple goes through the crowd. What is that all about? Why is she saying this? How does this affect us? Do we still get a lunch?

  As the gossipy buzz circles the room, my eyes drop down and I notice for the first time that all of the crappy red chairs in here have “Dallas Convention Center” stamped on the back of them. Clearly, there’s some kind of incest going on, because you wouldn’t have these chairs if it wasn’t for Dallas County. But I’m sure as hell not going to point that out.

  “Secondly,” barks Clipboard Woman, “if you haven’t put your jury summons in the bin on this table over here, you need to do that right now.” Not surprisingly, a third of the room stands up and shuffles toward the battered folding table, a march of shame and stupidity. How could you NOT see the sign on the table? It’s the only sign in the room. Okay, there are two signs, but we’ll get to that in a minute.

  Then Clipboard Lady has some final housekeeping notes. There’s a TV over there that you can turn on if you wish. (I will kill you if you do.) The bathrooms are out the door and to the right. (Watch out for that sink. And the perverts in the stalls. If you hear the phrase “That‘s Hot!”, run for your life.) There are magazines in this bookshelf that you can read. (Um, one of those magazines has a cover story that Jimmy Carter has just been elected president.)

  And there’s more. If you need to smoke, then you have to go outside and then come back through Security. (Hate you.) There are NO vending machines in this building. (Are you serious?) If you need some privacy, you can go into this little room over here and close the door. (I turn and glare at the woman behind me who has been on her cell phone since she walked through the door. She just looks at me blankly. Cleary, she has not seen the only other sign in this room, which states “Cell Phone Use is Prohibited During Orientation.” This is orientation, you clueless wretch.)

  Clipboard Hag ends with a final pronouncement. “The judge will be in shortly to speak with you.” Then she turns and marches off to attend another Bitter Nastiness seminar.

  Two seconds later, a police officer steps up to address the crowd. At least I assume he’s a police officer. He has a shiny badge of some kind, and that sure looks like a gun holstered on his hip. Either that, or it’s a really aggressive cell phone.

  “The judge will be in shortly to speak with you,” he mutters, then he wanders off as well.

  What’s up with the repetition? I think we got it the first time. Then I glance over at the still significant line of people who are trying to put their jury summons in the box that they blithely wandered past the first time around. Okay, I get it. You have to repeat things around here or the world will go up in flames.

  Fine. I open my Stephen King book once again and try to get through another chapter. Out of the corner of my eye I see someone attempting to take one of the chairs in my domain and I quickly bare my teeth. The startled woman gasps and then runs scurries other way.

  Endless decades later, the judge finally enters the room.

  She looks like the sister of the cat-woman librarian from my earlier brief encounter. There’s not a single cell in her entire body that appears to be the least bit intimidating. This room is going to chew her up and spit her out. Then go back for seconds.

  Judge Puny smiles timidly, adjusts her glasses that she’s been wearing since the seventh grade when she was elected secretary of the science club, and then explains that she is here to make sure that we are all qualified to serve as jurors.

   Hmm. Well, if you need to do that, I suppose it’s okay. But that jury summons thing had little boxes for you to check in case you weren’t qualified or required to serve. Can’t you just look at those pieces of paper?

  Apparently not.

  So Science Club Girl opens the bartering floor. Anybody have a child that they need to care for instead of doing their civic duty, despite the month-long heads up you’ve been given? Well, yes, we have two claimants. One is a relative youngster who gives the impression that she doesn’t have a sense of identity unless she’s pregnant. The other is a sixty-year-old woman who obviously hasn’t given birth since the Jimmy Carter magazine was placed in the jury library. The judge lets both of them go.

  Next, is anybody blind? We have an older gentleman on the right who has “the diabetes” and sometimes he can’t see. Well, he found his way here, doesn’t that make him qualified? I guess not. He joins the growing exodus.

  Then the judge stupidly throws it open for any excuses. There’s a guy on the front row who complains that he “has the sniffles”. Seriously, that’s his out. And the judge lets him go. Are you kidding me?

  But none of that mess compares with what happens next.

  As the crowd starts to get excited about the apparent fact that this judge will let you go home for any reason, there’s a commotion in the back of the room and one woman leaps to her feet in a frenzy of revelation.

  “I have an arrest warrant out on me!”

  All conversation in the room screeches to a halt, as heads swivel in the direction of the amazing individual that would actually march into a damn courthouse when she’s wanted by the law. Even the people on the banned cell phones decide this might be fun and quickly hang up. (“Girl, I’ll call you back.”)

  The judge’s face pales. The nearby police officer looks startled as he realizes that he might be called upon to do something. Folks shift in their seats so they can better see how this is going to play out. What has she done? Who did she kill? Will they tackle her? Are we going to be on the news? Where did she get that cute pair of jeans?

  I quietly set my book on the floor and discreetly nudge the volume under my chair. I loves me some Stephen King, but the dude ain’t got nothin on this. We just twisted off into a whole other realm of reality….


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Fury Duty, Part 3

  So I join the Death March of people trying to gain access to the court  building. Once inside the doors, I am confronted with the lovely sight of security personnel screening all visitors. Great. We have to go through all that mess.

  And of course, the people immediately before me in the line have apparently never had people ask them to remove personal items and place them in a plastic tray. They are totally mystified by this request and just stand there. The line comes to a complete halt.

  Actual conversation:

  Security Guard: “Ma’am, please remove your jacket and place it on the conveyor.”

  Idiot Woman: “Why? It’s cold in here.”

  Guard: “Please take off you jacket.”

  Idiot: “Why do I have to do that? I don’t have to do that.”

  Guard: “Everyone has to take off their jacket. So take off your jacket. Now. Please.”

  Idiot: “Is there a manager I can talk to?”

  Good gawd. This isn’t Denny’s where somebody screwed up your omelet. I’m praying that Jack Bauer will drop from the ceiling and shoot this woman in the head.

  And so it goes, with each person not paying any attention to what’s happening to the people in front of them, and then whining and moaning when it’s their turn to be screened. This goes on forever. I now understand why it takes so long to convict criminals of their crimes. It’s not the lawyers and the judges. It’s the morons in the jury pool who take six months just to get to the jury room.

  When it’s my turn to step up, I immediately take everything out of my pockets and hurl the load into the tray, rip off my jacket and add it to the mess, and then top it off with the Stephen King book that I’ve dragged along. I then glance at the sheep behind me (“THIS is how it’s done, people!”) and then prance through the screening gate.

  The alarm goes off.

  What the hell?

  Guard: “Sir, please take off your belt and try again.”

  So I back up, having to gently shove the woman behind me out of the way because she’s talking on her cell phone and probably doesn’t even realize she’s in a line. (Good luck with her, Mr. Security Guard.) I whip off the belt and try to place it in the bin, but instead the guard takes the belt and just holds it.

  What’s up with that? Is he planning to beat me with it for some unknown infraction? This unnerves me. I don’t like strangers being too familiar with my accessories. It’s just a thing with me.

  I walk through the screening gate with less attitude, and this time there are no beeps. Hallelujah. I gather up my things, and then glance at the guard who is still holding my belt. Can I have that now? He hands it over, but slightly delays in letting go when I grasp the leather. He then smirks in what he thinks is a sexy manner.

  You’re kidding me. Am I being hit on by a security guard in the same place where Lee Harvey Oswald took a bullet? This is surreal.

  He finally lets go and I scurry away from the station as fast as I can.

  Then I slow down when I realize that I don’t know where the hell to go. As mentioned, I’ve been called for jury duty many times. But it was always at another building across town. I’m familiar with that place. I know where all the bathrooms are and I know where you can smoke. Here, I’m at a loss.

  At this place, there aren’t any helpful directional signs like at the other courthouse, where they had huge billboards with arrows pointing the newbies to their destination. I whip out my jury summons to see if I overlooked some helpful detail. Nope. Just the address of the building. This is clearly an unprofessional piece of correspondence.

  Just then, a woman darts in front of me clutching the same type of summons. Maybe she knows where to go. Let’s follow her!

  And so I do, which proves to be something of a challenge because she walks very quickly for an old woman with a bad rinse job. Girl can move. I’m soon out of breath as I clatter across the marble and try to keep up. She suddenly ratchets off to the right in an unforeseen move. I almost lose her in the crowd, but then get another glimpse of her as she starts to ascend a stairwell.

  I lunge after her, nearly breaking my neck as I leap up the steps two at a time. Halfway up the stairs she slams to a halt, her shoulders stiffen, and she whirls around to glare right at me. Her face is not a kind one and her eyes are wild.

  Oh boy. Have I done something wrong? Is this considered stalking? Is she now going to scream for authorities to place me under arrest? (If so, please don’t let it be the security guard from downstairs. Things could get awkward.)

  Instead, this comes out of her mouth: “Do you know where the Ladies Room is?”

  What? Where did she come up with that? Why is she asking a total stranger who obviously doesn‘t work here? And why is she asking a man? Is my gayness now so apparent that people can sense it without even looking in my direction?

  My startled response. “Um… no, I don’t know where the-”

  She turns back around and races up the stairs, quickly vanishing in the hordes of people swarming the hallways of the next level. Fine. I still don’t know where I’m going, but maybe bitter Jane Hathaway has inadvertently pointed me in the right direction.

  I reach the second level, and my stalking efforts are rewarded by a tiny sign bearing the words “Jury Room” and a miniscule arrow pointing to the right. Good deal. However, there is another wisp of a sign explaining that the bathrooms are to the left. I glance at my phone to ensure that I still have plenty of time, and then head left. All this excitement has triggered my bladder and I need to pee.

  This turns out to be a nearly fatal decision on my part.

  I crash through the ancient door of the toilette (this place is really old) and I’m nearly killed when the door bounces off the wall and comes swinging back at me with a vengeance. I manage to leap out of the way as the heavy slab of metal slams shut. I haven’t even unzipped and I’m regretting this satanic comfort station.

  At first, I think the place is deserted. There’s no one in sight. Then I hear a startling grunt and realize that we do, indeed, have company. Two of the stalls on the left have doors that appear to be closed and presumably locked. The noises coming from one of the stalls indicates that someone or some thing is in the process of childbirth. I don’t want to be near any of that action.

  Then the smell hits me. It’s beyond unreal, beyond anything imaginable. Did they forget to bury Lee Harvey after the incident in the basement? But I still need to pee.

  So I head to the urinals on  the right. I just want to relieve myself. I don’t want to be an impromptu midwife.

  I walk to the last urinal on the wall. (It’s a guy thing. When given an option, you minimize social interaction in the restrooms whenever possible. Most people don’t like to converse in the midst of recycling, but there are a few chatty whizzers who don’t understand this and will talk about anything, breaking your concentration. Selecting a urinal with a wall to one side helps thin the herd of obnoxious people.)

  Once in position, I make the necessary preparations, and then wait for nature to take its course. At my age, it takes a bit longer for the pump to be primed, if you will. When you’re 17 years old, you can instantly get things started at any opportunity, even if your saintly grandmother is in the next room. As the body ages, you reach a point where patience and pleading come into play. (Can I get a high-five from my buddies of a certain age?) It’s not like things don’t work, it’s just not instantaneous, no matter how badly you need to go.

  So as I’m standing there, waiting for all parts of my body to receive the signal that this is, indeed, a certified launch, I hear something extraordinary from one of the occupied stalls behind me.

  “That’s hot.”

  I have no idea what can possibly be hot, or who this anonymous person is talking to, or if I even understood what was being said. Something is just not right with this picture, and I’m done. I squeeze out a minor contribution, then quickly lock things away, slap at the flush lever, and race over to the sinks.

  Where I make another unintentional move that jeopardizes my status in society.

  See, this building might be old, but there’s some serious water pressure going on in this place. I barely nudge the faucet handle, and suddenly gallons of liquid are pouring out with tremendous force, ricocheting out of the basin and splashing the front of my pants.

  I slam the faucet off within milliseconds, but it’s too late. The damage is done. I now look like I’ve wet myself. Just minutes before I enter a room where lawyers will eventually be making pronouncements concerning my ability to adequately serve on a jury.

  This can’t be happening. Seriously, what have I done to deserve this? I didn’t try to get out of jury duty like so many people do, I showed up willing to do my part, and now I have a wet crotch. How is this fair?

  I quickly grab some paper towels out of the crumbling dispenser on the wall, and begin pawing at the wet spots. Based on past experience (I have issues with public sinks), if you rub hard and fast enough, you can dry things out and normalcy might return. So I go at it like a Boy Scout trying to make fire, rubbing away like the Apocalypse is on the horizon. I’m amazed that my pants don’t burst into flames.

  Then I hear that odd phrase from the closed stalls once again: “That’s hot.”

  I’m out of here, wet crotch or not. I throw the shredded paper towels into the trashcan, wash my hands in the evil sink, and then race out the exit, giving myself a hernia as I shove the metal door out of my way.

  I thunder across the lobby and sprint toward the jury room on the other side, not caring who gets hurt or how many people might die. As I approach the mystical sanctuary where jurors live until called upon, I glance down and realize that little tufts of paper towel are peppered all over the front of my trousers, like my nether regions are producing aggressive dandruff that can punch through clothing material. Oh my GOD.

  I skid to a halt and begin whacking away at the demon crop of whiteness. In the midst of this harvesting, I feel a hand grip the elbow of my right arm. I pause in my efforts, and follow the hand up to the woman now standing before me. It’s Jane Hathaway, and she’s still on her mission. “Do you know where the Ladies Room is?”

  My mind short-circuits and I have no response. I can’t take anymore and I haven’t even officially reported for jury duty. This day is NEVER going to end…


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