So, I went to this party on Saturday night, on the corner of Prince-Arthur and de Laval. (Now I know how the other half lives.) Got absolutely drunk and then had a conversation with a friend, who was either giving me the brush-off or was coming on to me. I couldn’t tell which, as I was concentrating too much on staying upright.
On another matter, whodda thunk it, it turns out that Sir Bob Geldolf, he of Boomtown Rats and Live Aid fame, is the man responsible for the Survivor series. It turns out he’s pissed at someone in Australia, but then, this wouldn’t be the first time…
Jason Mewes has disappeared. Hell, even I turned up for court.
Today is the annual cancer-research event, when all the girls from the Montreal’s various private Catholic high schools jog up the mountain, to finally all congregate at Beaver Lake. Now, I’m not big on Beavis and Butthead innuendo, but am I the only one whose mind tends to wander at the mention of jogging Catholic school girls, and Beaver Lake? (Ooh, can’t wait for the Google hits for this one.)
Went to the courthouse yesterday for jury selection. About 140-150 potential jurors were there. Thirty minutes into the proceedings, there’s a live audio feed from the Bordeaux Prison, where the judge was. He starts off on this spiel about what the trial was for (the Hells Angels), how the day would proceed (long), and how we could ask for an exception (many and myriad). He was actually quite a humorous fella. At one point, he enumerated what the 13 prisoners were accused of, and it was astounding; about 11 of them are accused of 13 (yes, 13) murders, one accused of two murders and the other of nine (if I remember correctly). Nice guys, the rat bastards.
So, when the potentials are asked who believes they should be exempt, approximately one third get up: they are then bussed off to the prison to meet with the judge. The rest of us are given coffee and doughnuts. The remainder are then split into two groups and we are told to wait around until 11:30am, when we’re given lunch (kinda tasty, actually). The first group is then bussed to the prison, and my group finally heads over at about 2:30pm. We’re all sent into the court one-by-one and, being one of the last numbers called, I’m finally summoned at about 4:30. Told to stand in the booth, I’m asked to place my hand on the bible and swear. Um, no, sorry, can’t do that. For some reason, I saw that book and absolutely refused. That never happened before. The judge takes it all in stride and simply asks me to swear to tell the truth. Yeah, I’ve got no problem with that.
“Age?” Tell him.
“Occupation?” Tell him.
“Any social contact with a police officer?” Um, well, my ex-landlord is a detective on the anti-gang squad. “Thank you, you may go.”
Now, the thing is, contrary to my previous proclamation, the thought of receiving almost $150/day for five days per week sure was appealing, especially when you consider that I had been told at my job that I would still receive my regular salary. For six months, I could have sat pretty, reaping in mucho needed cash.
Like so much else, I often make choices about future occurences before they actually happen. I had always told myself that, if called, I would fulfil my civic duty and serve on a jury. I mean, sit around, get free food, decide a person’s fate, rail against perceived prejudice (like Twelve Angry Men or Fonzi in “Happy Days”), stay in a hotel if the day’s trial went late, etc.
Unfortunately, I’ve been summoned for jury duty for this coming Monday and, now that it’s happened, I have absolutely no interest in taking part. Most likely, it’s for the Hells Angels trial, and in my opinion those rat bastards can all rot. There were too many bars in my old neighbourhood that went up in flames last summer, some of them with apartments above, and it’s no fun coming home wondering whether your own place might become a victim to collateral damage. It also sucks to have a pool hall next door and not be able to go because it’s a biker hang-out.
Mind you, if I weren’t working I would probably go for it, if only to declare those arrested-development, fat-gut morons guilty. Well, that’s my rant.
Let’s get bombed
Party on November 14, you’re all invited (but please don’t show up).
I admit it, I’m a Survivor whore. Have been since about the fourth show in the first season. There was such passive agressive infighting going on, it so reminded me of the company where I was working. It was so easy to associate personalities from the show with co-workers. As the locations varied, the competition became somewhat predictable, but it’s always a joy to see what some folks will do for their fleeting 15 minutes.
All this to say that Survivor Thailand is starting tonight. My VCR is all set, I tell ya. I’m keeping an eye out for all the extra silicone, and especially soft porn guy, Brian Heidik, who is now, supposedly, a used car salesman. (I guess he couldn’t, um, “keep it up” in the porn business.) I love the fact that, on his bio, it states that he acted in “Doogie Howser, M.D.” That so screams fluffer, if you ask me.
The boss unit made a sly crack today in front of the other writers about me not wearing a suit at work. Has anyone ever felt the obligation to dress to the nines for work?
I find it to be a double standard that the women can wear anything (within reason), whereas the guys in the department tend to sport phallic symbols around their necks. (And yes, that’s exactly what ties are.)
Didn’t we get beyond this phase? I can’t believe that I actually look forward to casual Fridays.
Well folks, you’re not going to believe this, but it seems the chimp to the south has his own blog. Strange, I didn’t know the good ole boy could spell, much less figure out how to turn on a computer.