I have a guilty pleasure.
Well…to be perfectly honest I, like most others, have many guilty pleasures.
My personal laundry list includes watching romantic comedies, plucking my eyebrows (I blame the fiancé for that addiction), eating the salt at the bottom of pretzel bags, attempting to rap and/or sing along with songs in my car, crappy 90’s hip hop, Kelly Clarkson, eating a spoonful of peanut butter right from the jar, drinking milk and/or juice from the carton or bottle, chili cheese burritos, and the list goes on.
The guilty pleasure I am reference on this instance, however, is watching, and actually getting wrapped up in, “American Idol.” The human interest side of me is so weak, and I just can’t help becoming emotionally invested in the contestants as I get to know them.
Last night the contrast between the final contestants was night and day. Adam is a “dude” that wears glitter eye liner, tighter pants than my fiancé would ever dream of wearing, shoes with heels, etc… all while giving the camera a stare that gives me the heebie jeebies. Kris is a wholesome college kid that gently strums his guitar or tinkles the ivories with a grin of content on his face. Adam likes to scream at the top of his lungs, and is uncomfortable without the flamboyant. Kris has a smooth, soulful tone and seems uncomfortable in the limelight. The differences go on.
So, I was very curious which side of America would make the greatest showing last night? Was it going to be the internet/social media side of America, where freak flags are flown without hesitation, and people feel free to express wishes/desires/views they would never have the guts to share face to face? Or, would it be wholesome America that likes puppies, white picket fences, and apple pies cooling on the window sill?
It seems the 100 million votes were skewed in the favor of apple pies last night, and I was thankful. I found Adam’s voice to be slightly grating at times, and his dramatic performances and creepy stares to be too much. It sure was interesting to see how America felt though.
Now that Idol is over, it’s right on to yet another guilty pleasure, this one far more embarrassing that American Idol. Last year, I’m sorry to admit, my fiancé got me hooked on another Nigel Lythgoe creation, “So You Think You Can Dance.” I never really had much appreciation for dance, but something about that show caught me. It got so bad last year that on the way in to work one morning after an episode I started visualizing what moves would go with a song I heard on the radio. Man, I really hope none of my male friends read this… my man card will surely be revoked!
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Tuesday, May 5, 2009
Beware of Your Seventh Amendment
According to the Marion County Juror Pool website, I got to experience one of the “privileges of citizenship” yesterday. On the surface, I couldn’t agree more. Our forefathers shed blood and tears to set forth the seventh amendment.
But, privilege is not the overriding feeling I walked away with.
I’m not going to rail on the process of jury duty. I actually thought the city did a fine job. Instructions were clear, we were kept informed throughout the day, and the process was explicitly explained to us. I even had the luck of being called on “juror appreciation week.” As such, they had muffins, fruit, and juice boxes for us – a luxury not normally afforded to potential jurors
What troubles me, however, is some of the people I shared the room with. What I witnessed during my four and-a-half hours of waiting shocked me.
For starters, at least a quarter of the people showed up late – some, as many as 20 minutes late.
Then came the blooper reel. I could tell the woman who was in charge of keeping us updated had done her job for quite some time. She simplified every instruction to the most basic level humanly possible, addressed mistakes and misunderstanding others had made, and politely repeated the most important parts. It reminded me of the saying, “tell them what you’re going to tell them, tell them, and then tell them what you just told them.” This woman had it down to a science.
Despite her skill, multiple people in the room failed to pay attention, comprehend, and/or heed her instructions. Throughout the day, she had to deal with an insane level of what appeared to be either extreme stupidity, or just a complete lack of care.
She called half of the names in the room and asked those people to hand their surveys to the bailiff, and asked the other half to hold on to their forms until the next bailiff came. Simple, first-grade level instructions, right? Wrong. Within seconds, somebody walked up to the podium to ask her what to do because his name hadn’t been called. This forced her to get back on the microphone to make sure people whose names hadn’t been called had not given the first bailiff their form.
After the second group was called, another guy had an issue. He apparently showed up, went to the wrong room, which was empty, and sat there for 20 minutes. The fact that nobody was checking him in, and there were no other potential jurors showing up, must not have been a strong enough clue to him that something was wrong. After his name wasn’t called, he approached the lady in charge to find out why. When the lady found out he had sat in the wrong room, come in late, had not checked in, didn’t tell anyone, and expected everything to proceed smoothly, she was dumbfounded. So was I.
Throughout the day, she had to call off names at three separate times. She asked that we loudly and clearly say “here” when our name was called. Again, that’s something we learned back in grade school, so surely nobody could mess up that instruction. Boy was I wrong again. Some people said here so quiet nobody could possibly hear them, and she was forced to asked people to speak loudly at least 10 times. Others, despite sitting right there, didn’t respond to their own name! It took two or three repetitions for some people to get out the word “here.”
That’s not all of what I witnessed during my fateful day of jury summons, but I think it’s enough to paint a clear picture of the humor that kept me from boredom yesterday. If only our forefathers could have been flies on the wall yesterday. I’m not sure if they would laugh, cry, or both, but I’m pretty sure that was not what they imagined when they wrote the seventh amendment.
But, privilege is not the overriding feeling I walked away with.
I’m not going to rail on the process of jury duty. I actually thought the city did a fine job. Instructions were clear, we were kept informed throughout the day, and the process was explicitly explained to us. I even had the luck of being called on “juror appreciation week.” As such, they had muffins, fruit, and juice boxes for us – a luxury not normally afforded to potential jurors
What troubles me, however, is some of the people I shared the room with. What I witnessed during my four and-a-half hours of waiting shocked me.
For starters, at least a quarter of the people showed up late – some, as many as 20 minutes late.
Then came the blooper reel. I could tell the woman who was in charge of keeping us updated had done her job for quite some time. She simplified every instruction to the most basic level humanly possible, addressed mistakes and misunderstanding others had made, and politely repeated the most important parts. It reminded me of the saying, “tell them what you’re going to tell them, tell them, and then tell them what you just told them.” This woman had it down to a science.
Despite her skill, multiple people in the room failed to pay attention, comprehend, and/or heed her instructions. Throughout the day, she had to deal with an insane level of what appeared to be either extreme stupidity, or just a complete lack of care.
She called half of the names in the room and asked those people to hand their surveys to the bailiff, and asked the other half to hold on to their forms until the next bailiff came. Simple, first-grade level instructions, right? Wrong. Within seconds, somebody walked up to the podium to ask her what to do because his name hadn’t been called. This forced her to get back on the microphone to make sure people whose names hadn’t been called had not given the first bailiff their form.
After the second group was called, another guy had an issue. He apparently showed up, went to the wrong room, which was empty, and sat there for 20 minutes. The fact that nobody was checking him in, and there were no other potential jurors showing up, must not have been a strong enough clue to him that something was wrong. After his name wasn’t called, he approached the lady in charge to find out why. When the lady found out he had sat in the wrong room, come in late, had not checked in, didn’t tell anyone, and expected everything to proceed smoothly, she was dumbfounded. So was I.
Throughout the day, she had to call off names at three separate times. She asked that we loudly and clearly say “here” when our name was called. Again, that’s something we learned back in grade school, so surely nobody could mess up that instruction. Boy was I wrong again. Some people said here so quiet nobody could possibly hear them, and she was forced to asked people to speak loudly at least 10 times. Others, despite sitting right there, didn’t respond to their own name! It took two or three repetitions for some people to get out the word “here.”
That’s not all of what I witnessed during my fateful day of jury summons, but I think it’s enough to paint a clear picture of the humor that kept me from boredom yesterday. If only our forefathers could have been flies on the wall yesterday. I’m not sure if they would laugh, cry, or both, but I’m pretty sure that was not what they imagined when they wrote the seventh amendment.
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