Where Did Summer Go?

Yeah, I know. Us adults don’t get a summer, the same way the little ones do. We have to work through those July and August heat waves to earn the dough to make the summer days magical for the little ones. True, I did take the summer of 2015 off, but that was due to a layoff, and that was far from magical, unless you count my ability to function despite sleepless nights worrying about bills.

But I generally have fun summers with the girls. This one, though, seems a little shortchanged. Maybe because I had the bronchitis for a month and was not much fun. Maybe because the wife is contemplating uprooting us and moving across country, which was not much fun. I dunno. But there were indeed pockets of fun, so perhaps I should focus on that.

Okay!

You just read about the week in Hilton Head. That was the highlight. I had a blast, and thought about it all week long as I labored in the payroll mines here at work. We visited my parents a couple of weekends out in rural PA, and that’s always a relaxing time. The fourth of July fireworks extravaganza, put on by the next town over, where we’re dazzled by exploding fireballs a hundred feet over our heads laying in a football stadium, that was memorable.

Read some intriguing stuff: PKD’s demented philosophy, a bunch of books on Napoleon, a re-read of The Iliad, a World War II yarn (yes, I just used the word “yarn” to describe a story, I am now officially old), a book on paper economics, a book on Chinese communist economics, and some books from the Bible, along with one from Mormon. Books books books. Oh, and the 220 books I donated to the library, my local parish, and my nephew. Paradoxically, I got a good feeling out of giving them away.

Didn’t really watch anything good all summer. As a favor to my buddy I saw Deadpool 2, which I hated. Watched a couple of the Kevin Costner Yellowstone episodes, which I grew to hate. About the only TV I don’t hate is Impractical Jokers, which still has the ability to bring tears to my eyes from laughing so hard. I watched a lot of them this summer.

Saw two baseball games – the Mets back in early May and the Yanks Memorial Day weekend. Both lost. But then the most unpredictable thing happened. Little One, age thirteen, suddenly developed intense Yankee fever. She loves them all (except Greg Bird and Neil Walker, though Neil is growing on her), tracks their stats daily, follows their Instagram and twitter accounts, and watches every game she can, staying up way past her bedtime, despite her mother’s threats and punishments. She stayed up to 1:30 am watching an extra innings game, allowing me to fall asleep on the couch. She’s even doing box scores for each game for the past month or so. I love the passion she has for it.

Patch, age nine, is starting up soccer. She had a week long training clinic where they worked them to the bone. She also shot up a couple inches in an incredible growth spurt. She’s now almost as tall as her big sister. She’s an avid reader, but she’s her own reader, shelving the books I’ve given her to read (Watership Down, Robert Jordan books, Silverberg’s Conquerors from the Darkness) after politely reading the first chapter. And her artwork is getting better by the day.

The girls had a magical summer. Two separate weeks in the woods of Pennsylvania. A week in sunny Hilton Head. Three weeks with cool sitter Victoria, who drove them to the pool, the lake, the beach, the mall. Three baseball games (the wife took them to a second Yankee game while I was sick). A week in Dallas with their aunt and uncle. Sundays at the Jersey shore with mom. First summer with a puppy (though he’s now a muscular, thirty-pound puppy). Bible camp for a week. Art/music camp for four weeks. Little One volunteering at both, in addition to two weeks at the local library. A pair of fairs. Trips to the park, to Blimpie’s, Subway, and the trio of Pizzerias in my town. The Mets-Yankees showdowns.

Man, do we spoil them!

So, goodbye August! Goodbye, summer 2018! Here’s looking to an amazing Fall. Bring on the birthdays and the holidays!

The Crisis in the Catholic Church

I’ve been following it closely over the past week; really, since the McCarrick story broke last month. I avoid mainstream media sources on the stories, though. I assume they will be slanted in a protect-Francis mode, since the media largely agree with his liberal progressive agenda (global warming, pro-LGBT, watering down Catholic tradition) and do not want to cast homosexuality in any bad light (81 percent of the victims are teen-age males). Instead, I think the best coverage is to be found in the articles by Rod Dreher over at www.theamericanconservative.com. The articles at www.onepeterfive.com are also informative and enlightening. The news aggregator website www.canon212.com is another good resource, though it tends to highlight the incendiary. Which, in the mood I’m in right now, is not a bad thing.

I used to think of myself as, well, if not devout, then a serious Catholic. Now I’m not so sure. I still believe wholly and completely in Jesus Christ, His Person and His teaching. But not the Catholic Church, in its current form and its form dating back to the Vatican II council, 1962-1965. I consider the Novus Ordo mass, instituted in 1970, a watered-down joke of the true worship due Our Lord and Savior. None of that has or will change.

No priest ever, through his preaching, brought me closer to God. True, those three weeks I spent in the hospital in 2009 renewed my faith, and I was visited by two of my parish priests. Their words and the sacrament of Anointing of the Sick comforted me and, for all I know, brought me through to health. But one of them has now been placed on leave pending an investigation into a claim of sexual harassment in his past with another seminarian. When I got out of the hospital and went to my first mass, this priest came up to me and hugged me. Now I am creeped out.

I went to a Catholic High School run by the Jesuits. None of them, thank God, took an interest in me. I used to feel sorry for myself that none did, in an innocent looking-for-a-mentor way, but now I am thankful. There were rumors of one of the brothers taking an “interest” in my fellow students, including a story where he brought a few guys up to his room and shared some beers. I don’t know whether that’s true or not, but in light of the recent allegations – and, think about it, nothing has really changed since 2002 when the dam first broke – in light of what we know of McCarrick and countless other buckets of sleaze, I have to give it some credence.

So I say let the whole thing burn down. Let the Church become poorer, smaller. Let schism come, if these demonic clerics refuse to step down. We don’t need bishops. We need honest priests. Priest who honor their vows. These fat, gay, predatory, comfort-laden bishops, in their million dollar apartments with their servants and drivers and whatnot, get out of my Church! Repent and lead a life of penance worthy of St. Anthony the Great – or get the hell out!

Yes I am angry. And yes, I have not given a penny to the Church in the past two months. Just a drop in a vast sea to them, but I am at peace with my conscience. Yes, my bishop, Tobin, or anyone on his staff, has not responded to my letter last month. Tobin has been implicated in the letter by Archbishop Vigano last week. He is also the one of the infamous, “Nighty-night Baby” mistaken tweet. Two weeks ago I sent the letter via email to two directors of fundraising at the archdiocese. I received a generic, “we received your email and will forward it per policy” response, but nothing else. I guess Tobin has a lot more on his plate right now, like assassinating the character of Vigano instead of addressing the archbishop’s accusations point by point.

The Church will prevail elsewhere. Africa, I understand, despite Islamic persecution, is flourishing. As is the underground Church in China, despite Francis’s efforts to sell it down the river to the Chicom government. And in the United States, we just need to keep our heads down, protect our children, and stay as close as possible to Christ.

How to do the latter? Well, as I said, a priest’s words never brought me closer to Christ, save when uttering the sacraments, such as Reconciliation and Anointing of the Sick. No small measures, those. So we need to find faithful priests for the sacraments. Find a priest in a parish that holds a regular Latin Mass. Find an SSPX or an FSSP church and attend. There the odds are much, much greater the hands that give you the Eucharist will not have sinned with another man the night before.

What brought me to Christ? I returned in 1992. I quit my sinful lifestyle – drinking, drugging, smoking. Hanging with the wrong crowd. Quit it all, abruptly. Read some self-help books, but found them all unfulfilling until, in February of that year, I started to read the Bible. Began at Genesis, chapter one, verse one. Two months later I finished. That was Easter Sunday, April 1992. Don’t know exactly what happened, but it felt like a heavy lead vest, like the kind the dentist puts on you when you’re x-rayed, it felt like Someone had lifted that lead vest off of my chest, my shoulders, my head. I felt free, lighter, calmer, less anxious, less nervous, less fearful. Didn’t last long as I immediately resumed sinning (asking a girlfriend to move in with me two months later, for example), but it never quite went away.

I suggest a careful reading of the Bible. Cover to cover, slowly. It’s not a race. Pray. Fast. We don’t do that in consumerist America. I’ve fasted perhaps a dozen times over the years. I think I should do more. Also, learn about the faith. Read the Saints, particularly pre-Vatican II saints. The exception to this is Padre Pio. Read of his life. A holy card of his appeared in one of my hospital rooms those many years ago, and I took it for a sign.

Hopefully more accusations will come forth. This boil needs to be lanced. The pus needs to flow out for true healing to begin. Bergoglio – be gone! McCarrick, Wuerl, Cupich, Tobin, McElroy, Zubick, O’Malley, Martin – be gone, all of you! All of you infesting the Vatican – leave! There desperately needs to be a #Metoo movement in the Catholic Church. Good priests need to tell their stories, and name names. Be gone, all of you, and repent … or be very aware of Luke 17:2 –

It would be better for him that a millstone were hanged about his neck and he cast into the sea, than that he should scandalize one of these little ones

Vacation All I Ever Wanted

Ah!

Back to civilization a few days ago after nine days’ vacation, mostly spent 850 miles south in gorgeous Hilton Head, South Carolina, former stomping grounds of a younger Mrs. Hopper. In a nutshell, those nine days were the perfect mixture of activity and relaxation, and, I must admit, I am wholly recharged for what new adventures may come upon us, or just the old, recurring ones (back-to-school, birthdays, holidays, and the night time tax job in the new year).

Again we rented a villa for about $40 a day more than your typical chain hotel. This is the third one time we’ve done that over the past year, and this recent one ranks just slightly lower than last summer’s villa, only because it didn’t have a spiral staircase and a balcony with a water view. What it did have was an extra bedroom, a spacious desk and reading room, and a patio overlooking a golf course where I spent four or five hours reading. The beds were humongous, and each of us got our own private shower.

We consciously did more than we did last year, activity-wise, now that the girls are growing older (nine-going-on-ten and thirteen-going-on-eighteen). We rented bicycles for an afternoon – Little One and I roaming about on a tandem, a bicycle-built-for-two, and we must have clocked thirty miles in four hours. Another morning we went out kayaking, to more adventure: we spotted a bald eagle, ospreys flying about with live fish in their talons, and a dolphin that nearly flipped into the wife’s kayak. I walked every morning for an hour, and spotted gators in the lagoons four times. Once the wife and I walked the a.m. beach, which felt like SEAL training to me. And, of course, there were two afternoons in the pool and one at the beach (the ladies ventured out again on our last day while I chilled in the AC). The Atlantic just off Hilton Head was incredibly warm, sauna-warm. Despite an attack by seaweed on my leg, no wildlife was spotted.

It was also super relaxing. As usual, I had a used book store (actually a thrift shop where my mother-in-law volunteers) scoped out; one afternoon I purchased a paperback Lincoln and His Generals and Book Five of Churchill’s six-volume history of WW II. But I was reading a long tome detailing the economic miracle of communist China. It’s what all the kids are reading nowadays, I know. Actually, every Fall I like to read something economics-oriented to chat with my co-workers and clients in between tax returns. All in all, I finished the 435 page cinder block in the week allotted, in many different comfy chairs in many different locations.

We also ate like royalty, as we always do when visiting the in-laws. True, my father-in-law, the gourmet’s gourmet, had passed on three months ago, and his presence was missed, but my mother-in-law is just as amazing in the kitchen. We had everything from shrimp and rice to home-made pizzas, and I loved just about everything. One night we treated her by taking her out to a new Italian eatery on the island. I had Bolognese, which I enjoyed, and both girls, normally culinary complainers, found their seafood dishes delicious.

The vacation was bookended by two long, uneventful car rides. The trip down there is a solid fifteen hours, with the wife and I alternating driving duties. My parents dog-sat, and we got the old boy Sunday morning (much to their sadness and regret, despite the bloody bruises on their arms from Charlie’s overly zealous affection and, uh, overly sharp nails). Patch had a scrimmage Sunday night versus an older girls team, which kicked their butts and signaled that it’s time for sleeve-rolling-up and getting back to work for the upcoming soccer season. I started reading Bruce Catton’s Never Call Retreat, being in a Civil War phase, and before I knew it, two weekdays speed by and it’s now Tuesday evening.

And the past two days that Go-Gos song is still echoing in my head …

10 Things to Do Besides Watch the NFL

So it looks like the gridiron fools are at it again – kneeling and raising fists ostensibly in support of racial justice – whatever that is, it’s never explicitly defined and defended – but really to give the middle finger to President Trump, not realizing (or caring) they’re also hurling a big F-You to the half of America who either voted for him and/or now support him. You know, something like 80 percent of the NFL’s fan base.

I haven’t watched since some point near the beginning of the 2016 season, and I didn’t watch any of the 2017 season – not even the Super Bowl. After initial withdrawal symptoms not unlike quitting smoking, I didn’t miss it at all. So my boycott will continue, although now it’s actually not even a boycott. I just have no urge to watch.

For those who still do, however, I would like to humbly offer 10 things to do instead of watch football this fall and winter.

1) Lift Weights.

Too busy to work out? Too busy to get stronger, physically and mentally? Well, now you can have anywhere from three to twelve hours free on a Sunday, depending on your old NFL habits. When I’m lifting (and I’m an off-again, on-again, currently off-again amateur lifter), I like to do three sets on a Sunday. My two workouts during the week are two sets, one for max reps and one for going up in weight. But on Sundays, there’s no rush to get through a workout.

2) Sharpen a Work Skill.

A novel thought, at least to me, that occurred once I had a family – down time does not have to be spent in wasteful (and often self-destructive) leisure. You can actually do something that improves your money earning potential. I got the tax thing going on, where I have all these new laws and regulations to study to help you all pay Uncle Sam, but surely you have something you can do – even for just three hours out of a sixty-hour weekend – that would help your earnings potential, no?

3) Read Military History.

Football is basically a substitute for war. It’s martial by nature, a civilized form of battle. Why not study the real thing? I’ve found the Civil War and World War II endlessly fascinating, from a birds-eye view of strategy and tactics, logistics, equipment and personnel. A terrible thing it truly is, and like all terrible things, I think we benefit from a close study of it.

4) Hang Out With That Neglected Buddy.

One of my buddies has not a shred of interest in football. It’s almost eerie and off-putting hanging with someone, especially on a Sunday, who cares little about the local team – who doesn’t even know who the quarterback is – nor gives a rat’s behind about the Super Bowl. But it’s not eerie and off-putting, it’s actually kind of normal. Be that guy, and hang out with those types of guys.

5) Run / Jog / Walk / Bike / Move.

Anything. Just get off the couch. Put the beer down; drink it instead later before dinner, as a reward for your exertion. When I think of all the beer I drank in relation to the NFL, I think of a football field littered with the fossilized remains of tens of thousands of aluminum cans strewn round pyramids of rusted kegs. Oh my poor heart! I think I’ll go for a two-mile walk now.

6) Read Something Incredibly Challenging and Focus-Demanding.

For many years I’ve had Being and Time by Martin Heidegger and The Critique of Pure Reason by Immanuel Kant sitting in my basement. These cinderblock odes to dense and possibly useless theoretical frameworks of reality mock me several times a week; at least when I’m in the basement doing laundry. Anyway, one day I vowed that one day I would read them, cover to cover, and understand them. Conquer them, so to speak. It may be the largest waste of time for a simple man as myself, but the possibility that it would be the most important waste of time keeps me from tossing them in the trash. Heidegger! Kant! Thanks to Kaepernick and Goodell, you’re now on notice!

7) Throw a Football with Your Little Ones.

Yeah, it’s flirting with danger. Like a dude celebrating his 30-day A.A. chip by drinking a soda in a bar. But last fall me and the girls would go out in the front yard and toss that pigskin around for twenty minutes or a half-hour, and we’d have tons of fun with no frustration of watching the Giants lose. And my girls know how to throw a football! Only problem is that now my front yard is too small, with their arms. Have to go down the street now to the park.

8) Watch Rugby.

Last December I stumbled across a rugby game, and couldn’t change the channel. I was fascinated. Riveted. All the cardiac agility of soccer with the barbaric physicality of football. I watched for a full hour and still don’t know how it’s played, but I want to know. I heard rumor of a national rugby league starting up, and that’s piqued my interest. One night a few months ago I youtubed a bunch of games, but I still haven’t dedicated the time and effort to figure out exactly what this sport is. Wait, I know what it is – a potential replacement for the social justice driven NFL!

9) Watch Baseball then Switch to Hockey.

Baseball season now ends sometime in late October (possibly even early November). Hockey starts October 3 and lasts until Spring. There you go! Football season’s covered! My basic cable setup has a half-dozen channels that cover these sports. There’s always a baseball game or a hockey game on at night or on weekend afternoons. It’s probably the first baby step someone who’s heavily addicted to the No Fans Left league should take. I took it last year, and though the hockey bug didn’t bite me, the baseball bug did and also bit Little One as well, who now box scores every Yankee game.

10) Heck, Even Watch Soccer if you Need a Sports Fix.

As a last ditch alternative … J

Civic Duty part 2

Now, the judge had said that if we were excused, not to take it personally or as a blow to your character. And I did just that! How dare him, I fumed walking back up those four flights of stairs, how dare he think I can’t be impartial! And I know I know what a grand jury does. I can just set it aside and –

Then I realized: I was excused. Excused! I would not have to give up two or three weeks of my time, time I could not afford away from my job. The last time I took three weeks off from my job I was replaced. I felt relieved, though I still inwardly fumed a bit.

It was lunchtime. I ate the snack I brought. I didn’t expect to be there all day (“Come in to work as soon as they excuse you!” my boss pleaded with me the day before) but it looked like they were going to make good on their threat and hold us until 4:30.

Right after lunch, at 1:30, they called another panel.

I got nervous.

Then it was 2, and no further panels were called. I started a crossword puzzle. I texted work. I charged my phone and surfed the web a bit. I people-watched, until I spotted an elderly Indian woman take off her sandal and vigorously pick between her toes. Then I went back to the crossword puzzle.

2:45. I started feeling energetic. There had been a palpable feeling of blah in that room. No one wanted to be there. A few were quite verbal about it, loudly mocking our captors among themselves. But most just settled into that quiet life of desperation. Kinda like the line at the Department of Motor Vehicles. But when I saw 3 o’clock approach, I began counting the minutes until freedom –

“New panel for Judge so-and-so!” the clerk called. She crawled up to the podium and rattled off names. Mine included.

Another panel! At three in the afternoon! Ah!

This time it was only twenty of us. None of us wanted to be on that line. We were all tired, drained, head-achy, and everyone wanted to escape the prison of the juror pen for the beautiful sunny day outside the barred windows. (I don’t know if they were barred but it felt like they were.) All of us shambled on out the door following the court officer to our new purgatory, like orange-suited members of a chain gang shackled together at the ankles.

Now it was a civil case. We shuffled into the new court room, smaller, denser, quite claustrophobic compared to the one that held the criminal trial. A Soviet-era air conditioner as big as the front end of a Volkswagen rattled behind the juror box, frosting the room to meat locker condition. I saw that five jurors had already been selected from the morning sessions. They would look to us twenty for the remaining seven.

After ten minutes the “All rise!” sounded and the judge came in. For the fourth time I heard the patriotic speech. He mentioned his uncle and grandfather dying in various wars for our right to have a trial by jury. Yes, I know, I agree, I only wish the system was practically reformed somehow.

Then, all the jurors except me and the girl next to me, sitting in front of that old rattling AC, got up and left.

What?

The girl stood up, as did I. “Excuse me, sir,” she said to the judge, “with this air conditioner being so noisy, I didn’t hear what you said.”

He did not deign to answer her. I looked back and forth between the two. He sat there, stonily in silence, lidded eyeballs frostily glaring at her.

I silently cursed and realized I was squandering my chance. I immediately bee-lined to the door, not looking back, and followed the last potential juror out into the hall.

On the way back up I later discovered that the judge had simply said, “If serving on this jury would be a hardship to you, you can leave,” and up left 18 people. For the life of me I cannot figure out why he said that, in lieu of the hardball tactics the prior judge played with us. Is it because of the difference between a criminal and a civil trial? Dunno. Have to ask the next lawyer I meet.

Back in the pen, I pulled out a paperback on the civil war and started to read, but couldn’t get in to it. Then, at 3:15, the lady guard stood up and made an announcement: “You are all free to leave. Thank you for serving. A check will be mailed out to you, and there are letters at the door once you are scanned out.”

A huge smile spread across my face. Aretha Franklin sung “Freedom!” in my head. Adrenaline pumped as I packed my bag and got on the line to leave (a whole day of lines, I realized). Got in the car and zoomed out of there, placing a quick call to my boss who said everything went well with payroll. Alleluia!

Took Patch with me to Barnes and Noble and picked up a science fiction paperback as a reward. It would be my $5 jury duty check well spent!

Civic Duty

Yeah, been real busy round these parts lately.

While finally healthy, I just haven’t had any time to sit down and collect my thoughts to write. Laptop’s been temperamental. Work’s been crazy – more projects than a lone payroll manager can handle. Plus the tax job has kicked back in. Had a kick-off meeting last Thursday night, and did five hours so far of online training at home since. Little One’s now a bona fide Yankee fan, keeping box scores and checking mlb.com a hundred times a day, so we’ve suffered through the sweep by Boston and gloated over the victory over the hapless White Sox last night.

Now, in the cool of my office before the day opens up, I have a few minutes, and want to speak about Hopper performing his civic duty.

I was called for jury service a week ago.

The first time I had to answer the summons was sometime in the late 80s. Due to, or thanks to, rather, a glitch in the system, I wasn’t called again for twenty years. Next time I was out of work by watching my young ’uns, so I wrote the court asking to be excused as a caretaker, and I was. Last May I got another summons, and this time I couldn’t wriggle out of it.

Unfortunately, my day fell during a payroll week. I did all the prep work that I could, but my boss had to actually process payroll. Fortunately, no mistakes were made. Which is indeed fortunate, as I do payroll for 650 folks, and I wouldn’t want a line of 650 folks outside my door on payday. Still, though, it was unnecessarily stressful. Thank you for that, court system.

Should I mention that my experience at the court house was a negative one? Okay. It was a learning experience, too, one that I don’t wish to repeat. But why negative? Oh, let me count the ways …

I arrived at the court house at 8 am sharp, as I was informed to report at the jury duty room WITH MY ORIGINAL SUMMONS NOTICE at 8:15. I did, and was herded into a 50 x 50 foot room after being scanned in, along with about 120 other potential jurors. I sat on a folded metal chair at the end of a row. The chairs were all crammed too close to their neighbors. That was a negative right there.

At 8:15 a judge came in to address us, thanking us profusely for accepting the call to serve. (She didn’t mention it was under pain of contempt of court though.) She prattled on about civic duty, our constitution, our court system, how people fought and died for the right to trial by jury. I get it. I got it. I agree wholeheartedly with it. I agree with the sacrifice that regular citizens like me and those called to serve have to bear once every three years. I get it, I love it, I am patriotic, I don’t wish to radically change the system, like our socialist friends on the far left.

But, dammit, there has to be a better way! And by better way, I mean the practical nuts and bolts of jury duty.

For example, right after this blustery patriotic speech extolling our heroism, for the next eight hours we were treated like prisoners. Or school children. Our whereabouts must always be known. Yes, we could go to the bathroom unattended, but if I had to go out to make a call, or to my car, or wherever, I had to be scanned out and then scanned back in.

At 9:30 the first group of potential jurors was called. I was not among the forty or so. But 45 minutes later a second group was called, I among them. It was for a criminal case.

We followed a police officer down four flights of stairs to the court room. It was kept very chilly. This new judge lectured us for ten minutes about our heroism and the greatness of the system. Got it, check. Then he proceeded to treat us like school children.

For example: “Okay, when you are done filling out your questionnaire, you are to put it face down on the bench next to you. Do we all understand that? Face down. You are not to look at it again until you are called up … Does everybody understand that? … Does everybody understand that? … Does anybody NOT understand that? Raise your hand if you DO NOT understand that? … if you DO NOT understand that … Okay?”

There were thirty questions to be answered, and I answered them all honestly. The judge then had us all turn our forms back over so we could look at them. He asked those who said “yes” to certain questions – questions reflecting impartiality toward the defendant, the system, the police – to stand up against the wall. I was not among them; I marked down I would be able to be impartial. Those standing he immediately excused.

Then he, the prosecutor, and the defense attorney went to a table off to the side and called us remaining potential jurors up, one by one. There were about 15 of us, and each interview took five or ten minutes. I was the last to be called up.

The interview went off the rails pretty quickly. The judge opened with, “Do you think our legal system is fair.” I said, “Yes.” He countered: “Why?” Huh? I was not prepared for an oral exam. I babbled about the constitution, the first and second amendments, how I was a student of history, how I read the founding fathers. I was completely incoherent.

Then we bogged down on the concept of grand jury and indictments. He asked if I could be impartial to the defendant despite his being indicted by a grand jury. I said “yes”, and he asked me to explain the concept of an indictment. I said that it was my understanding that in a criminal trial evidence is presented to a grand jury to see if there is enough to proceed to a trial by jury. “Since we’re now doing a jury trial, something must have been there – ”

“Juror is excused,” Judge interrupted, and I immediately ceased to exist for him. I packed up my stuff and left the court room, and headed back to the holding pen.

Part two tomorrow …

Pagan Wisdom

A dose of sanity from perhaps the only Socratic philosopher-king to tread the earth:

“Every moment think steadily as a Roman and a man to do what thou hast in hand with perfect and simple dignity, and feeling of affection, and freedom, and justice; and to give thyself relief from all other thoughts.”

   - Meditations, Book II, Section V, by Marcus Aurelius, c. AD 175