The jury is out

Just before last year ended, I got a notice in the mail that I'd managed to avoid for years: a summons to report for jury duty.

Two thoughts immediately collided in my head.

On one hand, if it were me on trial, I would hope to draw a jury that wanted to be there, doing their civic duty and rising to their responsibility as citizens. And I'd definitely want someone like myself in the box. Smart, a critical thinker, an objective listener, an educated individual, someone with a solid moral compass plus good looking and a wicked sense of humor.

Oh yeah, and humble. The complete package.

The other thought was this is going to be a monumental inconvenience and I haven't got the time.

Which is just wrong thinking if you think about it.

Jury duty is the best people watching around. It's a insider's view of the justice system. It also explains why so many verdicts are as controversial and wrong as they are. There are more people than you'd like to think in the jury pool who can't understand basic directions on how to get in line, much less the complicated nuances of a trial.

On one hand it's encouraging to see people show up and ready to serve. On the other hand it's depressing because all I could do for the day I was there was think about how I wouldn't want most of these nitwits deciding my fate.

Last time I had jury duty, years ago, I got as far as the box in the courtroom. The lawyers on the case were asking the jurors questions to decide whether we would be helpful to their case or not. I was asked if I had any relatives in law enforcement, and I let them know my brother-in-law at the time was an Orange County sheriff reserve officer.

"Thank you Juror #9, you're dismissed."

This last visit was to the new courthouse in downtown Long Beach. The juror waiting room was pleasant, comfortable, had vending machines and workstations. The lobby had a Subway and a Mexican food place. For all intents and purposes it could've been the customer waiting lounge in the Lexus service department.

In the late afternoon, the judge called us all into her courtroom, explained that she'd hoped to select a jury but because of day-long proceedings didn't have enough time left. So we were all dismissed.

In a strange way, like a ride you don't want to get on but do and then enjoy, I found myself wanting to do it again. And if I do, this is the way I hope it goes:

Not clowning around

Tonight's entry is not so much a blogpost as an unpaid ad for Cirque du Soleil.

I took the family to see Luzia, the latest Cirque show to tour Southern California, back around Christmas (Remember Christmas? You should be seeing decorations for it any day now) when they were at Dodger Stadium. We've seen all their shows, but this was by far, for me, the favorite.

So much so that I got us all tickets to see it again today at the Orange County Fairgrounds.

It's astonishing how creative this troupe is. A breathtaking combination of dance, art, comedy, music, song, athleticism, skill, daring, courage and discipline, Luzia is a vision. A dream. A moment out of time. A magical encounter with something true.

The beauty of Luzia is it doesn't allow anyone to be a passive viewer. It demands you feel something. Whether it's wonder, entertained, thrilled, inspired or transported, you simply can't escape its otherworldly pull.

Naturally, with all the spectacularly fit, athletic performers and lithe bodies doing incredible feats requiring uncommon strength—flying through the air, hanging from a single chord from the top of the tent, jumping from one giant swing and launching each other across the stage onto another swing —it was a lot like looking in a mirror. So much so I had to keep reminding myself I was an only child.

I don't know how much longer the show is in Orange County, but if you check the Google I'm sure you can find out. I'd check for you, but the less I type the words Orange County before the midterms the better.

At the center of the story is a clown, although not the typical Emmett Kelly clown you might picture. He is our guide through it all, and has a moment of poignancy at the end that is nothing less than beautiful.

I'm hoping to see Luzia a third time before it packs up and heads to the next city. My compulsive nature (have I mentioned Springsteen, Vegas, Breaking Bad and sushi lately?) makes me want to see it again and again.

Working in advertising agencies as long as I have, you might've heard or read where I've described them as a circus. And they definitely are.

Sadly, none of them are as beautiful, artful or as magical as this one.

Flying Solo

Very often people confuse Hollywood movie stars with the characters they play.

For example, I'm fairly sure Christian Bale isn't Batman. James McAvoy doesn't have twenty-three different personalities. Tom Hanks doesn't sit on park benches eating chocolates. And apparently Harrison Ford isn't quite the pilot Han Solo is.

In his second publicized airplane event, Ford mistakenly landed on the taxiway instead of the runway at John Wayne Airport in Orange County, California. In the process, he flew dangerously close over an American Airlines 737 that was on the taxiway waiting for clearance to take off.

Contrary to popular belief, after airport officials questioned him, his first question was not, "You mean this isn't Alderaan?"

Landing a role isn't like landing a plane. And unlike his Star Wars aircraft, there was no chance his old biplane was going to make the Kessel Run in twelve parsecs.

Instead, it just sputtered to a bad landing, which may cost Ford suspension or even revocation of his pilot's license.

This incident comes on the heels of bringing his plane down for a hard landing on a golf course in Santa Monica a couple years ago, and being seriously injured in the process.

Commercial pilots have a mandatory retirement age of 65. Ford is 74. And even though there's no such age limit for recreational pilots, and while he's an experienced, respected one, there does come a time when reflexes, vision, concentration, memory and alertness just aren't what they used to be.

For me that time is in status meetings.

Anyway, in the same way I believe drivers of a certain age should be required to regularly prove their abilities before they get behind the wheel, pilots should also have to be tested to see if they're airworthy.

My guess is that Ford will just get a temporary suspension of his license, and then be back in the air. It's one of the perks of being one of the biggest movie stars in the world. And naturally, however long that suspension is, at the end of it he'll be even older than he is now.

Or as Han would say, "Here's where the real fun starts."

Heavy Lyfting

I don't know whether it's because I'm an only child, or just sometimes lost in my own world (I know, they're the same thing), but I've never been bothered by uncomfortable silences. In fact I believe there are places where they're perfectly appropriate.

For example, I don't want to hear about your day while I'm in the elevator. And, as I wrote about here, I don't want to hear anything you have to say while I'm in the men's room.

But when I fire up the old ridesharing app—Lyft is my service of choice—for some reason I feel I should listen and engage with the person I'm driving with, or more aptly, who's driving me. After all, it isn't some corporate yellow cab picking me up, it's an individual in their own car trying to supplement their income. I'm all about supplementing income, even if they're doing it with my money.

And in the same way every picture tells a story, so does every Lyft driver.

There are Lyft drivers I've ridden with that've been awesome, and actually feel more like friends. Natasha is one of them. Glasses, inked, Prius driver and cat owner, I don't know where else our paths would've crossed. I've ridden with her a few times, and she has an energy and openness about her that's refreshing. Plus she's funny, smart and laughs at my jokes. I think we all know what a pushover I am for that. It makes me wish the ride to work was longer so we could talk more.

Then there's Craig in San Francisco, who if I didn't know better I'd think was my long, lost brother from another mother. When I got in his car (a 5 year old American something that was spotless and looked brand new), he had Miles Davis playing, and the first words out of his mouth to me were, "You like Miles?" It was a great ride.

Funny, smart, engaging people.

While not as deep as Uber, the Lyft driver pool occasionally reminds me that while I enjoy the Natasha's and Craig's, the odds are not always in my favor.

I don't want to personality shame any of the drivers by name here. But here's the thing: there's a certain kind of driver that makes small talk, but it's like canned laughter on a sitcom. It's not real, but it fills the space. My driver the other morning was one of those. He talked about the weather, and answered questions I didn't ask. "How early did you start driving this morning?" "Oh it is a beautiful day, not too hot." Alright then.

I prefer Lyft over Uber, even though many of the drivers work for both services. But they almost unanimously prefer Lyft customers, saying they're nicer and friendlier than Uber riders. Which is how I feel about Lyft drivers, so win-win.

I work in Orange County, and the thought's occurred to me it might be interesting to drive for Lyft. As long as I'm going back and forth, I may as well bring someone along, use the carpool lane and make a little cash for gas and dinner.

Which all sounds well and good until I start thinking about sharing rides with total strangers, and remember I'm an only child.

Then it just sounds like crazy talk.

Up, up and away

There’s no shortage of complaints about the commute. And it doesn’t even matter where the commute is. If you live in the greater Los Angeles or Orange County area, you are, as we say in the driving biz, screwed.

When I worked recently in Santa Monica for a few months, it took almost an hour to get from the west side to the freeway at rush hour. We’re talking mere blocks. And then another hour to crawl home. Everyone has a commute-from-hell story.

It’s not as if there haven’t been solutions offered to relieve gridlock. Like the picture above from 1954. Yes, 1954.

A monorail system that rides over the center lane of the freeway. It follows the same route, and the property is city owned reducing the cost. Stations would be on a platform, visible, reducing crime.

Then there was the time in 1955 when Walt Disney offered to build a monorail system like the one at Disneyland from the beach to downtown L.A., fifteen miles of track for the then crazy price of free.

But L.A., being the forward thinking city it’s always been, decided to yield to the auto companies and not implement any form of mass transit beyond buses in order to drive up car sales. (Just a side note: years ago when there was a bus strike in L.A., the late comedian Steve Landesberg said it was the first time in history there was a strike of a non-existent industry.)

If you want the full story about it, watch Roger Rabbitt. It’s closer to the truth about public transportation than you think.

Anyway, I write this as I sit in my office in Orange County on Friday night, getting ready to make the drive north. I can see the 405 out my window, and trust me, even with all the lights it’s not very pretty.

The trick to making the ride bearable, or something close to it, is to arm yourself with a few things that can help distract from the congestion, and even make the trip go a little faster.

Which is why I have a nice car, E Street Radio and a carpool partner.