05/25/07
Why is it that when I was 11 years old I had to show a copy of my birth certificate to prove I was still young enough to get into a movie for a “children’s” priced ticket, but now when I ask for the “Senior Citizen Discount” the little punks at the ticket window don’t have the common courtesy to question my qualifications?
As stated in a previous Friday Ramble, The Rambling Man has been looking for a bigger motorcycle than the one he now has. Well, dear readers, you will be glad to know I have ordered one that has an engine about twice the size of my current bike. As I was telling a friend just the other day, it will be nice to have something between my legs that’s twice as big as what I’ve been used to. Wait a minute, I think that came out wrong. Or, maybe not.
I wonder why people subject themselves to high school class reunions. As hard as it probably is for my readers to believe (I know it is for me), this summer The Rambling Man will be attending the reunion of his high school class which graduated 40 years ago in 1967. I recently attended a meeting of my classmates to plan this momentous occasion, and since I had not seen most of these people in decades I was amazed at how old some of them looked (except the ones who read the Friday Ramble, of course). As I am sure you all know, when The Rambling Man attended high school he was bald, saggy jowled, had two artificial hips and was a good forty pounds overweight. In other words, all of my classmates have aged considerably while I haven’t changed a bit. I have decided to approach my 40 year reunion in much the same way a boxer would approach a championship fight. By that I mean I have gone into training. When I was in high school I wore size 34 waist pants. While I consider that to be an absolutely ridiculous goal, I will be thrilled if I can lose enough weight to allow me to get back into all of the size 38 waist pants which have been hanging in my closet in hopes I will someday be able to wear them again. In what can be described as The Rambling Man version of “The Biggest Loser” (and you can take that any way you want) I am going to reach my goal weight by the night of the reunion. I am doing so by sacrificing many of the things that I love such as ice cream, pasta, pizza and beer. Beer?? In the immortal words of Homer Simpson, “Mmmmmmm, beer”. Well hell, I still have two months to go so I can start this training thing tomorrow. Stay tuned for weekly updates on The Rambling Man’s progress.
A few weeks ago I received that one letter we all fear. No, not a “Dear John” letter, and I’m too old to get the one that started out, “Greetings from the President of the United States” (many of you who read this are too young to remember that one, and I hope you never have to experience anything like it again). The letter I’m talking about is the one marked on the outside, “Jury Duty Summons”. “Crap”, I thought, “Now I’m going to have to take time off of work and lose pay, and…” Then I remembered. I’m retired. I don’t have to think up excuses for missing work anymore (and I want the record to show I am not missing work at all). All a jury duty summons means to me is I’ll have to get up earlier than I usually do and leave the house for something other than to get more beer (see previous paragraph). Suddenly visions of Perry Mason vs. Hamilton Berger and Clarence Darrow vs. William Jennings Bryan started coming to mind. I saw myself sitting in the jury box listening to testimony in a trial of enormous importance and knowing my decision could change the world. I know it may seem a bit farfetched, but I even saw myself in long black robes sitting on the Supreme Court. I hear that Clarence Thomas guy is fun to party with. When the fateful morning finally arrived I arose early, completed a mandatory performance of the three S’s (in the proper order), and proceeded to put on my best suit and tie. Unfortunately, since I retired I’ve gained so much weight (see previous paragraph) the suit didn’t fit so I resorted to my Sansa-belt slacks and a sport shirt. As expected I set off the metal detectors (artificial hips, remember?) as I entered the Court House. Luckily I was able to talk my way out of the body cavity search and the guards let me go on my way. I proudly presented my summons letter to the lady at the entrance to the “Jury Room”. Just walking through that door caused a chill to run up my spine. Then I realized it wasn’t really a chill, but that I had my Sansa-belts pulled too tight. The room was filled with people who were obviously as excited to be there as I was. At 8:30 a distinguished looking man (a bailiff in the vernacular of the legal world) walked to the microphone in the front of the room and announced that shortly they would begin jury selection. We were told to wait patiently, which we of course did. In time other distinguished gentlemen came into the room and began calling out names. Each time a list of names was begun the room grew still with anticipation. Each time a list of names was completed those who were not called breathed an audible sigh of relief. This procedure happened a half dozen more times before 11:00. At 11:05 it was announced that those of us whose names had not yet been called were excused for lunch and to be back at 1:30. That only gave us two and a half hours for lunch (sounds like my last job with the government). I returned to the “Jury Room” promptly at 1:30 and sat down to await the next list of prospective jurors to be called. Nothing happened until 2:30 when a lady stepped to the microphone and announced that all the juries for the day had been selected, and since they were not going to begin any trials the next day we had completely fulfilled our “Jury Duty” responsibilities and we could go home. I have to admit, as I pulled out of the parking garage to go home that sunny afternoon my heart swelled with pride (this time it wasn’t because of my pants) and a tear of patriotism came to my eye when I thought about the wonderful experience I had just had. By sitting on my ass all day in a room filled with people who didn’t want to be there either I had fulfilled my duty as an US citizen to help provide truth, justice and the American way for the murderers, prostitutes and drug dealers who had gone on trial that day. Is this a great country, or what? Two weeks later I received another letter. It contained a thank you note and a check from the County Treasurer for $11.82. This was payment for a job well done by doing absolutely nothing. Just another case of your tax dollars at work