Rant-Man's Notebook

By Jim "Rant-Man" MacQuarrie

Howdy, Duty!

Much has happened since last I prattled on in this space. I've been meaning to post some updates for a long time, but these things take time. I never wanted this to turn into a typical blog, where I natter on about all the trivia of my life as if it were somehow important to the mass of humanity. This is supposed to be a topical-based column, and frankly, I've been too busy to be funny.

A quick update:
I never posted the results of the Dead Pool we ran last year. I won. I had three stiffs, and the nearest competitor had only one or two. I forget the details, but you can look it up if you need to know. As soon as I figure out where I saved that file, I'll post the whole thing.

Moving on....
Here's a little tale I wrote a couple of months ago and neverr managed to get put up here. Enjoy.

We'll start back in the middle of January, when the local paper did a story about our neighborhood. Turns out the police refer to it as "The Snakepit." Isn't that lovely? We met up with a photographer and posed in front of one of the two "problem" liquor stores on the next corner, and my bride was interviewed by a reporter, and her comments ended up on the front page immediately below our photo.

As a result of that article, the city council jumped to attention. Previous to that, our councilman was the only one even remotely interested in doing anything about the liquor stores where all the dirtbags hang out. But after a few of us turned up on the front page making noise about the whores and winos, suddenly they all needed to get on record as being against the problem.

The next Monday night, we're in front of the city council with an interesting collection of photos... Pictures of people passed out in the alley, of a hooker doing business right out in broad daylight, of the litter and the loiterers. It went VERY well. People were shocked. A few of the more prominent community activists (the president of the local chapter of the NAACP, for one) asked for copies of our pictures. So did the local newspapers. The perfect ending to a day that started in a courtroom.

No, I didn't get arrested again. I was on jury duty. At first I thought I'd just try to get out of it, but then I realized that I have to do it....otherwise the stupids would be deciding the cases. So there I am, sitting in the Jury Assembly Room, taking up space and waiting to be picked. "Many are called, but few are chosen." Finally around 2:00, my name comes up. I'm marched off with about 35 other folks to see if we qualify to try a case, meaning see if we either work for the county or can't find some way out of jury duty.

The defendant looks like a dirtbag-- I doubt if anyone will be fooled into thInking I'm anything resembling unbiased. Yep, he's a dirtbag. Homeless and drinking. Got caught breaking into somebody's car and decided that pulling a knife on them would somehow improve his situation. Bright guy.

I was one of the last ones called for this panel, so I don't get questioned the first day. Tuesday's going to be interesting.

Tuesday morning, there's my councilman on page one. Below his photo, my bride is quoted at length about The Snakepit. I'm pretty sure the defense attorney is going to kick me loose. Sadly, once again I spend all day warming the bench and working on my impression of the judge. He has this kind of ''flight attendant'' tone when he asks questions. The type who says 'all righty then.'' I'm quite amused by him. He reminds me of a cross between David Spade and the guy from Will & Grace. Not the flaming one; Will. But I digress.

So I'm back again on Wednesday, taking up space and burning oxygen. It takes them 10 minutes to finally get to me and another five minutes for them to show me the door. The questioning goes something like this:

JUDGE: Have any of you ever been the victim of a crime?

ME: (raising hand) Right here.

JUDGE: Mr. MacQuarrie?

ME: Constantly. Continuously. Daily. The police refer to our neighborhood as "the Snakepit." My car gets broken into about every three to six months; my wife's car gets broken into at least two or three times a year. We've had things stolen off our porch, we have whores doing business in our parking space, drunks passed out on our back porch.... we were on the front page of yesterday's papers talking about the problems in our neighborhood...

JUDGE: Do you think you can put all that aside and be a fair and impartial judge of the facts in this case?

ME: Sure, right up until I hear that drugs or alcohol are involved. I hear the words drugs or alcohol, I'm going to be real biased.

The defense attorney calls for a sidebar. They ask me to come over and answer questions away from the other potential jurors so I don't prejudice them.

JUDGE: You say that you're biased about drugs and alcohol?

ME: I have zero patience for drunks and dirtbags.

JUDGE: If a person is an alcoholic, you're going to automatically assume they're lying?

ME: I'm not going to take their word for anything. They're going to have to have corroborating evidence for anything they say, because they have no credibility. Users lie.

JUDGE: Now, hypothetically, suppose somebody had a container, a can of, uh, wine or something... would you assume that this person is an alcoholic?

ME: If you've got an open container in a brown paper bag and you're drinking it out on the street, then yeah, I'm going to assume that. Most people can wait till they get home.

DEFENSE ATTORNEY: Honest answer.

They send me back to my seat, confer for a moment or two, and then I'm dismissed. Handed my hat and sent packing. Cast out, cut adrift, released from my bondage.

It seems to be a pattern; every time I get called for jury duty, the defendant is a drunken bum and I get tossed for being biased. Why can't they ever give me a nice little civil case with no dirtbags? I really wouldn't mind serving on a jury, as long as I don't have to listen to some attorney try to turn a worthless waste of skin into a misunderstood victim of society. Why can't I sit on a jury that decides not to give some idiot millions of dollars for trying to iron his clothes while wearing them?

Several weeks later, the city council decided to create a working group (another name for a task force, which is another name for an advisory panel... I think there's a government agency somewhere spending huge amounts of taxpayer money to create new names for stuff; but I digress) to look at possible solutions to the problems created by the two liquor stores on our corner. I've been appointed to the group, so now my kvetching and ranting will be an official part of a government document. Could be fun. But beyond that, it's my civic duty.

And when you see your duty, you can't shirk it or run away. You have to walk up to your duty, look it square in the face, and say, "howdy, duty!"

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