I slept just to the cusp of REM sleep. Then, at around 3:00am I woke up. It wasn't the cat, nor the weather nor some bizarre dream. My bladder had sabotaged my sleep. It's accomplice was all of the salt I had put on my Icelandic cod and chips. The battle was lost before it begun. I couldn't get back to sleep. 6:00am finally rolled around and I figured to hell with it. My only consolation the whole morning was making chicken yakitori.

Driving out to Van Nuys was pleasant enough. Gran dropped me off near the farthest corner and, using an old memory of my American Government class trip, I reached the center cluster of buildings. The Santa Ana winds had really picked up again, blowing left and right all throughout the day: insistent, drive me to near panic at points. You know, pollen and fur allergies.

I finally found the jury waiting room after 20 minutes of searching. Suddenly I was in a Pan-Am or Continental waiting area, except there were complimentary microwaves and refridgerators. It was about 7:30 so I figured I'd just dig an entrenchment in my book. The thing didn't give very much: a few of the short stories in the anthology were nice, but by and large Alan Dean Foster doesn't impress me.

9 rolled around and we got the introductory lecture about civic service, commitment and detailed juror instructions. The supervising judge came in and roughly repeated the patriotic part. They even showed a video, which pushed the patriotic part over the edge, introducing California as "the greatest state in the nation, possessing majestic beauty, commitment to pristine living, etc. But sometimes, things aren't always so pristine," seguing to shots of arrests. The best part for me was how they built up to the crescendo, scanning over a courtroom in the position of the jury's box. "Who could be impartial in a decision? Who could use common sense to weigh the evidence in a fair way?," the voice poignantly drones as the point is driven home like a railroad spike. Yes, it was we, the jurors, who upheld the laurels of American democracy. At least they didn't include flags waving.

After that was roughly a 3 hour wait. With the nonchalance that develops from full-time job dealing with disoriented and bitchy people, the announcer called 40 people for the first prospective juror decision thingy. Name after name rolled on, people lightly yelling "here." Finally, at the end, there were only about 20 people left in the room...and a few more hours to read until, with a sigh and a smile, the M.C. for our jury duty told us that two of the cases had been settled out of court. They didn't need us. We were excused. People cheered.

Next up was getting home..which took two hours more than I thought. I had the directions boldly laser-scanned, right there in my pocket...but the whole Van Nuys area caught me off guard. It's one of those highly-policed urban stretches that has an ethnic, calm feeling to it. Chinese restaurants and pawn shops linked hands as thrift stores jogged by with their portable walkmans. I felt odd, being dressed like I was the manager at a Borders, but almost everyone was apathetic.

Now in my excitement to get home, I was vaguely aware the bus I caught was going in the wrong direction. I thought to myself, well, it'll turn around the other way eventually and get to the other end. I'll just enjoy this section of San Fernando. The mountains surrounding the area near Buena Vista loomed large. I was clear on the other end of the long valley; surely we'd be turning around soon. 40 minutes passed and then, as another bus passed on the opposite side of the street, it occured to me that east-bound and west-bound was quite a significant difference to take into account.

So I sheepishly got off in the middle of nowhere, found a donut shop and sucked on a pina colada. It tasted more like white chalk with coconut flavoring, but I was thirsty; I didn't care. Eventually I got on the correct line and sweated inside the big metal thing for the next hour. There I was: a cold drink in my lap, mostly covered by the trenchcoat I'd long since taken off, making absolutely sure I could in no way be construed as drinking the thing. The guy sitting across from me just sipped and smiled. Eh, following the ordinance about no drinking wasn't bad.

Finally I jumped off, sucked away most of the liquid chalk in my plastic cup and drudged back home. I'll spare you the details about the footwork. Suffice it to say, I have a large heat-induced headache, and a weird tenderness that didn't quite form blisters on the balls of my feet. I've never liked wearing that pair of combat boots but the document was clear: business casual, NO SANDALS.

No moral, no punchline, I'm just glad I only had to do this for one day and not have to regularly commute (and get lost again) like that.

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