Doomed to Repeat It?

There are days when I actually don't mind living in California.

The good weather, the lack of pollution and traffic.

Well, one out of three isn't bad.

But this one really sorta makes my day.

It's not that I'm an ultra-liberal, left-winging my way in a blue-state bastion of radicalism. I'm reasonably far from it. I don't like paying my taxes, but I don't mind them either, and pooling all that funding which keeps my streets paved, relatively free from debris and refuse, and somewhat crime relieved is a pretty good thing. I'm not a rah-rah military interventionist, but I do see the benefit a few good men and women heavily armed and well-trained.

Still, the intervention of the puritanical, ultra-conservative Christian right into the realm of politics has always painted a sour frown on my face.

Why? I always wonder.

Why do you care?

Why do you want to make it harder for someone else, when you could nod, smile, let them go about their way and be a little happier in a world where the cares of two men or two women don't amount to a hill of beans?

(Momentary pause to reflect on my integration of a Casablanca line.)

(Pause)

So yeah, I applaud the rock-star madness of the California Supreme Court for taking the unconstitutional law by it's big, fat head and saying, "We're not going to bat for you, or anyone else!"

(Another pause to reflect on my integration of a Wayne's World line.)

(Pause)

The saying goes that those who don't learn from history are doomed to repeat it. The key word is not "learn". The key word is "from". History doesn't just teach us names, dates, facts and figures. It is a guide to how people can react in situations. When confronted with anger, fear, hatred, animosity, people typically react in the same patterns. When confronted with xenophobic intolerance of that which is different . . . well, let's start with the Crusades and then work our way through all the genocidal moments of history perpetrated by one group onto another because they looked, spoke, acted, thought, lived differently.

History is a revolution, but not one with radical change. It's the slow turning of a wheel that presents similar opportunities time and again. This time, California's Supreme Court said that different is neither good nor bad; it just is.

It is, and it's protected.

Correlation

The actual time that passed when a man is watching a sporting event and says, "There's just two more minutes" is directly proportional to when a woman is in the bathroom right before going out and says, "I'm almost ready."

It's funny because it's true.

Civil-licious Baby!

Monday, I was called to serve jury duty.

In truth, I was called to sit in the "Juror Lounge" and wait to serve jury duty. I decided to chronicle this little adventure for your benefit and that of all posteriors.

7:47 am - I arrive at the parking garage and secure one of the 150 juror parking spots. Juror parking is on the roof of the garage. Sherpas assist me in hiking back to the ground level.

8:31 am - We are advised that things will start shortly. It is Juror Appreciation Week. Free donuts and coffee abound.

9:12 am - Orientation starts. We watch as a lady blathers on and on about things that have already been addressed: be nice to the Sherpas. Don't hit or steal. Sit quietly with your hands to yourself. This goes on for an hour.

10:22 am - We go on our first break. Low jacks are stapled under our skulls, and those jurors who appear to be a flight risk are escorted by heavily armed guards dressed in black.

10:38 am - Roll call is taken. We are advised to answer "here" when our name is called. I suddenly feel like I'm back in high school. Not in a good way either.

10:53 am - The first fifty jurors are called and the rest of us are waiting.

11:27 am - The second group is called and those with enough influence, or money, or luck are allowed to leave the "lounge" or as I like to call it Free French Morocco. The rest of us must sit and wait, and wait, and wait . . .

11:45 am - We are released for lunch. Between now and our break, barb wire and machine gun towers have gone up. Also, someone is giving orders in what sounds suspiciously like German.

1:32 pm - Some fellow dealing in "letters of transit" approaches me, speaking in a strange, European accent that I can't place.

2:18 pm - As a demonstration of efficiency, the little European fellow is captured. He calls out, "Rob! You must help me! Rob!" But I stick my neck out for no one.