August 1995
You say it's your birthday
Well it's my birthday too--yeah
You say it's your birthday
We're gonna have a good time
I'm glad it's your birthday
Happy birthday to you.
--JPMC
My birthday was pretty exciting this year. Both of my Grandmas left me recordings of their renditions of "Happy Birthday." Not to be outdone, Mom sang one of her favorite arias from the Magic Flute. I couldn't figure out the relevance, but she is a lot smarter than I am, so I gave her the benefit of the doubt.
I've been to a few birthday parties recently, and it occurred to me that having one of mine own would be a good way to see people whom I don't get to see often enough. Consequently, I started developing a list of venues since Casa Eclectic is not yet up to spec; I made a Top Ten list justifying the winning place: St. James Infirmary.
Grandma was very upset she could not make the party, so I promised I would mail her any chicken wings that escaped. She also commanded me to not have any hard liquor. I replied that with all the wings we would be eating, the alcohol would not be the least healthy thing on the menu.
Close to 40 of my close friends attended with a few last minute deletions balanced by a few additions. It was a very eclectic group of people. The age range went from a low of 25 to a high of, well, let's just say I wouldn't want to have to slice anyone open and count the rings. Several of the people knew me from my earliest days in California, or slightly over 8 years, while some of my friends I had met only a few months before the party. It really meant a lot to me that I have so many wonderful friends, who were willing to forfeit a night of "Beverly Hills 90210" reruns so they could help me celebrate my birthday!
Over the course of about four hours, I received a lot of cool hugs and kisses. Fortunately, and to my relief, most of them were from girls! Judging by my current batting average, I have either just received my complete allotment for the year, or I am about to set a new personal best. My bellybutton is puckering and unpuckering in anticipation of the outcome!
Sometime during the night, someone squeezed my tushy. I'm hoping it was a girl, but the fingerprints were smudged and all the DNA labs were closed by then so the culprit remains a mystery. As a favor to Coach, I too squeezed someone's tushy, so at the end of the evening, the score was tied 1-1!
Heard your plea in the courthouse,
Witness box began to rock and rise,
--RH
San Jose Superior Court called me in for Jury Duty. After being informed that I would be needed for a three month murder trial, I immediately started getting visions of a white Ford Bronco, bloody gloves, and conjugal visits. This intrigued my boss so much, she asked me to help her conjugate some French verbs for a paper she is writing. (She never really does understand anything I say!)
I stayed out late drinking at my birthday party before returning to court so I looked and felt my best for the proceedings. (Thanks for the advice, Arlo!) I knew that the following day would be my turn to interact with the judge.
The juror selection proceedings were long and disorganized, but fascinating nonetheless. I spent 2 days playing with the pencils and erasers on the Group W bench before it was my turn. My turn was unique in several respects. First, I answered the nine pages of questions in 10 minutes while the others were taking 30 minutes. This reminded me of registration day in college when many people would mysteriously take one-half hour or more getting their advisor to sign his approval, while I would get through much more quickly. I routinely would zip in and zip out like I was going through Wisconsin!
Second, my responses triggered more follow-up questions than any other candidate. I was the only contestant whose responses yielded two sidebars where the judge had to confer with all the attorneys to discuss me. Many of the other potential jurors didn't instigate even one sidebar. Any time I saved by my rapid answers was probably lost in the follow-up questions. Here is an abridged transcript of the judge's interrogation of me as a juror candidate:
Q: Is the juror selection process difficult?
A: Yes. It is long and painful, but a necessary evil and the price we have to pay in this country to protect the rights of the accused. I don't think any of us wants to be here, but it is a civic duty like death and taxes.
Q: What do you think of the prospect of seeing autopsy photos of little children?
A: That only adds to the pleasure.
Q: Do you have any friends with drug or alcohol problems?
A: Yes, some of them are unable to inhale.
Q: Do you drink alcohol?
A: Only to excess.
Q: Do you have any opinions about interracial relationships?
A: No.
Q: Why not?
A: Why should I?
Q: What do you know about psychological testing?
A: Mice love mazes; the answer to all those Rorschach pictures is either sex or money.
Q: Have you ever been involved in legal proceedings?
A: I went to Traffic Court to dispute a ticket.
Q: Did you find the experience favorable?
A: No, I lost!
Q: Do you have any friends who are lawyers?
A: I have a childhood friend who is a lawyer at the SEC.
Q: What does he do there?
A: He monitors another close friend who is a broker.
As if those answers weren't enough, my opinions about the criminal justice system in this country corrupted all the potential jurors (and maybe even some of the attorneys) in the room. I told the judge that when drunk drivers are released because of some minor violation of the Miranda rules, or when other defendants are acquitted because a warrant was not served correctly, that justice was not being served. I said I did not understand how defense attorneys could in good conscience endeavor to get guilty people acquitted.
I added that the justice system is a game with rules, tactics, and strategies and that the side with the most expensive lawyer usually wins. Many times, people who have done something wrong are not sent to prison and the guilty do not always pay. To paraphrase Churchill, it is the worst form, but better than all the others. All the other potential jurors in the box were cheering me on by this point, and the judge busted his gavel trying to regain order. I thought the judge was going to throw us all out, but he seemed to enjoy the comic relief.
After hearing about my performance in court, my boss couldn't figure out why I had not been dismissed as a potential juror. She ultimately concluded that they must be keeping me around solely for my sense of humor, which of course is the only reason SHE still keeps me around.
Twenty years of schooling,
And they put you on the day shift.
--RZ
Between Birthday celebrations and court appearances, I was awaiting word of the result of the contract negotiations between Pacific Bell and their unions. If the unions went on strike, my colleagues and I would have to perform their duties. In preparation, we had to fill out a survey asking what job we would like. My first choice was pole climbing, but the company told me it was too dangerous and they didn't want to have to buy me the spurs. I then asked for the phone sex department. To my amazement, I learned that the company does not have a phone sex department. They must contract out that work. No wonder why they are going broke, phone sex has got to be more lucrative, and far less rude, than call waiting! I wound up with Directory Assistance.
The strike possibility forced me to miss the season finale party after the Boulder Summer ultimate Frisbee season. I had a great time after the Spring season party and immediately started looking forward to returning for the Summer party. However, it was not to be. Jerry reported that due to my absence the band did indeed miss me, there were many wings left over, and he earned a hangover built for two. All I got out of strike duty training was two donuts, learning how to say "Hello, what city," a new pair of skates upon graduation, and the privilege of staying up for two days calling a recording to see if I had to rush in to man the phones. I just saw the movie Hoffa, and it looked as if collective bargaining didn't leave him with a happy ending either.
Where have you gone Joe DiMaggio,
Our nation turns its lonely eyes to you.
-PS
Ultimately, the unions did not strike, so a tragedy was narrowly avoided. The main benefit of not having to perform strike duty was that I was able to attend the Jewish Community Federation's Young Adults Division's Leadership Retreat in Sonoma. It was like summer camp from right to left, but fortunately the food was better.
Before I describe the Retreat in further detail, I should mention that I have been reluctant to describe my experiences with YAD in these ongoing stories. This was mostly out of fear of the inevitable comparisons with other famous Jewish philosophers and writers such as Groucho Marx, Mel Brooks, and Woody Allen. I would never presume to play in their league. Then it occurred to me how widespread was the Jewish influence in the references I have used so far. These include: William Shatner & Leonard Nimoy, Bill Graham & David Grisman, Paul Shaffer, Woody Allen, Al Franken & Lorne Michaels & Harold Ramis, Brian Epstein, Laurence Marks & Larry Gelbart & Alan Arbus, Jay Kogen & Harry Shearer & Dustin Hoffman & Sam Ettic, and Rob Reiner & Norman Lear, so I felt the many associations justified the inclusion. Another reason why I had not mentioned the members of the Tribe previously was that only a few of them had email addresses and I didn't think it was fair to talk about them behind their backs. Recently, more of them have passed the on-ramp to the Information Superhighway so they are now fair game. Shalom and here goes!
Almost from the beginning of my association with YAD, around Christmas, Board members had been talking up this Retreat as something I should attend with the intent to join the Board the following year. I could not help thinking of Groucho Marx, or Woody Allen, who was reluctant to be a member of a club that would have someone like him as a member. Despite the philosophies of the Woodman, I began getting active since the club promised to feed me well. Amusingly, my rapid rise in involvement led I-Beam to start calling me Super Jew; I told her I preferred Scooby Jew!
Upon hearing of my participation with the group, my Grandmas started circling like sharks around a scuba diver. They have been praying for Great Grandchildren since I won the fifth grade spelling bee and their hopes started to rise. Grandma always gets excited when I tell her I'm going out with the Jews. "Are there any girls in this club," she would ask. "A few," I responded, "I'm keeping a catalogue." "What do you keep in this catalogue," she served. "Height, weight, IQ, and shoe size," I returned. "Oh, I bet none of them measure up," she lobbed. "No, none of them are either as tall or as smart as me," I smashed. For some reason, the girls don't seem too impressed by this anecdote. I'm hoping it is only because some of them have bigger shoes than I have.
Anyway, onward to the Retreat.
I got to the retreat before everyone except a few of the female organizers. Since women's lib typically ends at the sight of a heavy package, or a dinner bill, they asked me to carry all the beer, wine, and other heavy implements of destruction from their cars up to the dining area. It had been a while since four girls made me sweat, so afterwards I had to jump into the pool to cool off. I managed to swim over a mile before the rest of the team arrived.
This turned out to be foreshadowing for the rest of the weekend as I would swim a mile before breakfast every morning. One day, I saved the lives of two frogs who had fallen into the pool and could not get up. This may have been wasted effort, however, as some of the sushi we had at lunch looked suspiciously frog-like, and it did taste like chicken. I didn't think frogs were Kosher, but I never did see either of them again. My good buddy Twiga typically joined me in the pool when I was finished swimming. I think he was just leveraging the extra appetite to assist him in beating me in the pancake-eating contest. It didn't work!
Several of the leaders put together a Letterman-type show in which they tried to help me look foolish. Had they known me better, they would have known I did not need their help, especially where Dave was involved. I secured the support of the other intended male victims and we successfully foiled their plans.
Probably of more entertainment value than my segment was that of Miss R, a teacher. She demonstrated a safe-eating technique for bananas that one of her students taught her. Propriety, proximity to the performer, and possibly a portion of priggishness (though probably not) prevent me from describing this act in greater detail. She pulled off the demonstration with great aplomb and she left the stage with dessert, two marriage proposals and no less dignity than the amount with which she started.
Some of my favorite parts of the weekend were the group hugs, but it just wasn't the same without I-beam, President of the local "You're the best!" Huggees Anonymous. We also did a few sing things and managed to see a few of the Perseid meteors and a satellite despite the bright full moon.
Monday morning, I contemplated swimming before work, but it just would not have been the same without Twiga and the frogs, so I skipped it.
Do you believe in magic?
JS--
I went to a party recently at which a guy in a turban appeared. Men in turbans are not that unusual around here, but I kiddingly referred to him as a magician and kept bugging him to pull a rabbit out of his hat. I was surprised to discover that he really was a magician, although he never did show me his rabbit. It turned out he knew the people at Stanford who had researched Uri Geller. Since I knew some of this history, and had met Geller's archrival, James (Amazing) Randi, the magician and I spent several hours discussing the conflict between the two. The magician was open minded about the possibility of ESP, and he cited several feats that Geller performed that were statistically well beyond the likelihood of chance. Randi also is open minded, and even hopeful about ESP, but even though he correctly notes the inability of proving the null hypothesis, he makes a convincing case for the fraudulent nature of purveyors of ESP. All this and water levitated over my head. What a night!
Who guides this ship,
Dreaming through the seas,
Turning and searching,
Whichever way you please?
--DC
The following morning, I went canoeing with the Jews on the Russian River in Sonoma. With a flotilla of over forty canoes, we floated down the river like Moses in a basket. Actually, it was far more exciting than that, despite the absence of Charleton Heston. I brought my super soaker because the instructions said to bring water toys and I did not want to be stranded on the high seas defenseless. I was the Rear Admiral (admirer?) in the attack canoe and I had a great time entertaining the troops with my rendition of the Gilligan's Island theme song. I wasn't sure if I wanted to be the Professor or Gilligan, but some of that little buddy stuff started getting me nervous so I opted for the Professor.
In between soakings, we had a lot of fun making Sex on the Beach sightings. This is very similar to the game of Direct Reports Dr. K and I play on our commute, but it was much more scenic. It was a close game, but ultimately I won after disqualifying two of someone else's sightings. I ruled that animals and solo performances do not count. (I'm still upset about that Pee Wee Herman thing!)
I always do well in games for which I create the rules. One of the earliest instances of this was in Mrs. McCoy's 11th grade Calculus class. A handful of us would play Bingo in the back of Sick Bay when Bones would stick us with a substitute. Since I never knew how many numbers went beneath each letter, I would make up my board as we played. I would usually win in 6-7 spins without even taking advantage of the Free Space. While many people might consider this cheating, I try to liken it Captain Kirk's solution to the Kobiashi Mouru.
The crew of most of the other boats also had a good time. One crew impressed me by beaching their canoe mid way to make a beer run.
To make it an even longer day of water sports, I went through a car wash on the way home. I was still wet when I got home, and I realized my bathing suit liner was covered with aluminum oxide. Also, my tushy was sore. I have been surfing the Web trying to determine the level of Jewish participation in the Spanish Armada, but the search engines I have at my disposal are not quite up to the task so I am still left wondering.
The place is really jumping to the hi-watt amps,
Till a twenty inch cymbal fell and cut the lamps.
In the black out they dance right into the aisle,
And as the doors fly open even the promoter smiles.
--PT
The following night I ran a happy hour for YAD. For some reason, I keep inheriting responsibility for these activities and visions of P.T. Barnum keep filling my head. Since I was the first to arrive, and almost the last to leave, I spent over five hours at the club. Lisa was impressed with my stamina and said I was amazing. I wonder what she thought of my dancing! (I am usually discreet enough to omit the mention of real names, but the multitude of Lisas at the event provided sufficient ambiguity to justify the naming. And it's not who you think!)
As the time approached 11, I realized I had to rush home because I forgot to set my VCR for Letterman. Unfortunately, it turned out to be a repeat, but at least it was a classic. Dave introduced the world to Rupert, Fern photocopied her head, and Sarah Jessica tortured some dogs with her version of Annie.
No need to worry the jury,
They'll probably take care of themselves.
--RH
The next day, I finally returned to court for the peremptory round of jury (de)selection. His Honor informed us that we were all passed for cause and were deemed fair and impartial. (I'll have to find the appropriate section of my astronaut application in which to include that information.) The jury was filled before the clerk called my name, so my only opportunity for participation would be as an alternate. This prospect seemed to be as unfulfilling as smoking without inhaling, sushi without wasabi, Chinese food without chopsticks, egg rolls without duck sauce, fishing or softball without beer, or work without a nap, so I wasn't sure I wanted to play anymore. The clerk eventually called my name to enter the box, and as I passed the District Attorney, I saw a frightened flash of recognition pass across her face. She wasted no time in getting me removed mumbling something about a sanity clause. I was about to tell her that I did not believe in Sanity Clause, but I remembered I was still under oath, so I kept quiet.
I inhaled a few Whoppers on my way to work--at $0.99 they're the best deal in town--and made it back in time for the afternoon round of meetings and direct reports that so enrich my day. My boss was mysteriously relieved that I would not be out of her hair for the next few months. She was also very impressed that I wore my Free Willy T-shirt to get off the case, and she pridefully informed the rest of the group about my ingenuity. It only took me a year to do something worthy of her praise!
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