to be sorted later #16
in which I made it out of the jury assembly room, I think
“I confess I’m sometimes testy, but for the most part I credit myself with an easygoing disposition, tempered (perhaps) by an exaggerated desire for independence … I pay my bills on time, obey most laws, and I feel that other people should do likewise, out of courtesy, if nothing else. I’m a purist when it comes to justice, but I’ll lie at the drop of a hat. Inconsistency has never troubled me.”
— Kinsey Millhone in D is for Deadbeat, Sue Grafton
Last Monday, I spent the day at the Rolling Meadows Courthouse. I’d been called in as a standby juror, and I was deeply annoyed by the timing, as I was leaving for a business trip in NYC the following morning and had reached peak levels of stressed out by Sunday evening.
I created many scenarios in my brain about what might happen at jury duty. Of course, none of these came true, and all of these scenarios were far more exciting than the reality, which is that I spent the day in an eerily quiet room with dozens of strangers. My fellow would-be jurors, for the most part, seemed in varying degrees annoyed, bored, and sleepy. I sent some work emails. I texted. I read my book. I did a crossword, which I never do. I thought of a line from Elif Batuman that’s been living in my head rent-free since I read it in 2017:
“Never in my life had I seen such a boring movie. I chewed nine consecutive sticks of gum, to remind myself I was still alive.”
I didn’t have any gum. My phone battery was down to 25%. I had already finished the crossword. I wondered if I’d ever leave the jury assembly room. I bought a ginger ale from the vending machine, for something to do. I looked at the nutrition label and gasped, dramatically, at the sugar content.
“Is this what happens when you die?” I thought to myself, laughing, just a little. A man across the room caught me laughing and looked at me like the lunatic I had become in the last 5 1/2 hours, and then looked away, quickly. This was just fine with me, as he’d been staring at me off and on throughout the day in such a way that about 2 1/2 hours earlier, I had seriously considered crossing the room, putting my face right in front of his, and hissing.
I took a slow sip of my ginger ale, in all its sugar-packed splendor. The man two rows in front of me snored, loudly.
“This is what happens when you die. That is what happens when he dies. And that is what happens when they die. It’s all very personal.”
Just after 4:30 p.m., with my phone battery clinging on at 3% life, they announced we’d been released. Outside the courthouse, it was raining steadily. I wrapped my Pendleton scarf around my head with what I hoped was great dramatic flair and flounced past the man I’d considered hissing at, if only for one final reminder I was not to be fucked with, not today. Not to worry; I’d already scared him away. Another successful interaction with a man!
I made it to New York, and back, and now here I am, far less stressed yet still deeply regretful that I now know the sugar content in a Canada Dry.
What I’m Sorting Through, Currently …
Hate-Reading The Grub Street Diet
Does anyone I know, reading this, also read “The Grub Street Diet”? I have a love-hate fascination with it, these week-long food diaries of chefs and comedians and authors and influencers etcetera. I read one some time ago by Dwight Garner (the guy who wrote about the PB and pickle sandwich!) that I found absolutely delightful, and I’ve been mildly disappointed by every one I’ve read since. I mean, he had this line in his: “I made it once; it made me feel like a werewolf.”
I cackled so hard when I read that, I could have frightened multiple men at jury duty.
I keep returning to the Grub Street Diet, if only for something to read while I’m procrastinating in-between tasks at work. As I read them, I consider how spectacularly boring my food diary would read on any given week, especially compared to shit like this:
I’m a puppy; I eat exactly the same things every single day. My diet is very strange. I don’t eat sugar, salt, or anything spicy. It allows me an enhanced sense of taste.
I wonder what would happen if he had a Canada Dry Ginger Ale?
On Repeat
I’ve listened to “Beethoven Blues,” Jon Batiste’s new classical album, at least once daily since it was released on November 15. The album, which includes his original compositions as well as his improvisations on “Für Elise” and other masterpieces, keeps taking me somewhere that feels both grounded and far away, and I like the feeling.
I read tonight that he recorded the album in a day and a half, which makes me want to cry, just a little bit. That’s one hell of a day and a half.
Listening to “Für Elise - Batiste” takes me to childhood, my mother at her piano, practicing, as our miniature poodle Tinker whined at her feet. She played it again and again and again, never satisfied with herself. I know this to be true because along with Tinker’s whines, I often heard her cursing to herself, quietly. Still, she kept at it, and I’ve been thinking about that lately, as I listen to these songs: My mother at her piano, her posture perfect, her fingers on the keys. Fumbling, stopping, beginning again.
“In classical music, there’s a reverence that is equally stifling, and it limits us from being in conversation with it and the opportunities of creative transformation that lie therein. Why do we hide from it? Why do we separate ourselves from something so beautiful? I love the idea of creating something that is for everybody.”
— Jon Batiste, “Jon Batiste Can’t Stop Thinking About Beethoven”
previously:
