Time Warp

The Steelers' trip to Super Bowl 40 comes ten years after their appearance in Super Bowl 30 (see how that works?) in 1996. I just saw clips on TV of Neil O'Donnell throwing candy-armed interceptions in a loss to the hated Cowboys. In January 1996 I was less than a year out of college, living with my parents and working on my uncle's dairy farm. The weekend of the Super Bowl I was in Pittsburgh visiting friends and trying desparately (and failing) to get a woman to like me. I savor the memory of being in the city that weekend, though: at the South Side Diner, eating pancakes served by a woman with the Steelers logo painted on her fingernails; attending a show by Pittsburgh favorites The Clarks that featured a stunning version of the Stones' "Paint It, Black." The lead singer wore a Chad Brown (or was it Greg Lloyd?) jersey, and the crowd erupted spontaneously and repeatedly in chants of "Here we go Steelers, here we go." It's not often that I feel caught up in something like that, but I did that night.

Here we go, Steelers.

Yeeeaaaaaaahhhhh

The wife and I claimed a little more of our American birthright today: we subscribed to cable. This morning we were faced with the unenviable choice of watching snow-obscured reruns of the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers or sitting around in dreadful silence. But now, thanks to the magic of technology, we can feast our eyes on all sorts of meaningless crap. Ain't life grand?

Cheers.

A Hatched Plan

I just read that Richard Hatch, the winner of the first Survivor, was found guilty and taken to jail for failing to pay taxes on his million-dollar prize. But the crime makes a certain sense, doesn't it? After all, he won the money fair and square: by lying, by manipulating others, and by generally putting his own interests ahead of everyone else's. And millions watched, riveted. And now he's jailed for doing essentially the same thing? What a strange land we live in.

Cheers.

The Good and the Jerky

Want to know why the Steelers are going to the Super Bowl? Two words: Dick LeBeau. Two more: Ken Whisenhunt. The co-ordinators have been stellar these past few weeks. In this space mid-season, I complained that Cowher was often outcoached. Not so these days.

On the same day, Kobe Bryant scored 81 in a game, the second-highest point total all-time. Writers for ESPN are calling it the NBA's greatest moment in years. I call it all the evidence you need of what an egomaniac that man is.

Cheers.

The Cutting Edge

I can't help noting that, in the wake of the Steelers' victory over the (10-point favorite) Colts, much of the media coverage focused on the losers: the "failure" of a great team to meet its goal, Peyton Manning's inexplicably poor record in the post-season, the poor play of the line, to missed field goal, and so on. But I saw a Steelers team that looked more confident, more relaxed, and more prepared than the team it beat on Sunday. This was a Steeler win, not a Colt loss.

But I only saw the first quarter of the game. I had to leave early because the wife and I took in the US National Figure Skating Championships this weekend. We attended the Women's Free Skate on Saturday night and the Champions' Exhibition on Sunday afternoon. And it was very, very good.

Figure skating, like room sprays and thank-you cards, is something I never gave much thought to before I got married. But I like it. I like the men's less, though their power and skill is undeniable. The women's competition features the perfect balance of athleticism and grace. (I wondered at one point if my preference for the women's side represents a male insecurity--a latent feeling that figure skating isn't "manly"--but I don't know.) Sasha Cohen won, in case you didn't know. We were sorry to miss Michelle Kwan.

And can you think of a more made-up sounding name than Dick Button?

My weekend at the rink started me thinking about the Winter Olympics. I like the Winter Olympics, in some ways better than the summer games, even though many of the sports are kind of stupid: freestyle ski-jumping, snowboarding (like having skateboarding in the summer games), curling, and a whole bunch of sports that are essentially sled riding (skeleton, luge). Could there be a dumber sport than two-man luge? Only skeleton, in which riders lead with their heads.

But I love the attitude of the winter games. After all, any competition that involves a sport in which a broom plays a major role must have its priorities in the right place. (And could curling have come from anywhere but Canada?) I feel much closer to these games: I couldn't do much with the shot put or the clean and jerk, but I sure as hell could lie on my belly on a sled. In fact, I have.

Cheers

Jury Doodie

Well, I spent the beginning of this week in that particular sort of purgatory that only a local government can inflict on its populace: jury duty. I reported on Monday morning at 8AM with hundreds of my closest friends to enter into a process more byzantine and mysterious than initiation into the Masons. Here's what it meant for me: I sat in a long, narrow room from 8AM until 2:30PM, waiting for I knew not what. Occasionally people would be called up to the front of the room, but it was never clear to me whether or not it was good to be called. At first I ached to be called, impatient to make my way through the process. (I had a well-rehearsed speech about why I think the justice sytem is flawed (based on a tip from a web site).) But, the longer I sat, the more I began to wonder if, if I waited long enough, I would simply be told to go home.

So I waited. I read the newspaper. I did the Sudoku, the crossword, the word-find, the Jumble, the Word Scrimmage, and the easy crossword that I never, ever do. I read the textbook for a class I'm teaching in the spring, but I must admit that one can only handle so much Roland Barthes in that setting. Occasionally I got up and wandered around, found a new seat. And then I was called. My parking receipt was validated and I (along with 40-some others) was sent to a courtroom, where the presiding judge told us to return for jury selection at 9AM the following day.

The next morning, we wandered into the courtroom and were arranged by juror number. I was lucky enough to get a seat in the juror's box, which had padded leather chairs that tipped back and swiveled. Most of the prospective jurors sat in the hard pews in the gallery. The voir dire (French for "excruciating boredom") began: a series of questions like, "Does anyone know the defendant?" "Does anyone know the prosecuting attorney? Do you think that you could set aside your relationship with the prosecuting attorney and judge this case fairly?" And so on, for four hours.

People anxious to get out of jury duty were easy to spot. They stood up and said things like, "I think I have seen the defendant around. She looks familiar." I was among those anxious to get out of jury duty, but I tried a slightly different tack. The defendant was a black woman charged with possession of crack cocaine. I raised my hand and said that my conscience wouldn't allow me to follow the nation's drug laws, which I believe to be unfair and unnecessary. The lawyers--particularly the public defender, a woman probably younger than I with big bags under her eyes--poked hard at that declaration. "You will get the laws from the judge," she said. "Do you think that you could set aside your beliefs and rule based on the law as it is given to you?" A sympathetic juror would have been a boon for her. No, I said. Not in good concsience.

I tried to use the word conscience as much as possible, because it's the truth: I don't see how anyone is served by the conviction of some poor crack addict. I also wanted it to be clear that I was choosing to not set aside my beliefs.

And this is the odd psychology of jury selection: the questions are asked in such a way that the right answer is obvious. The lawyer asks if you know any cops. You raise your hand and say that you dad was a cop. The lawyer says, "Do you think you would be able to set aside your relationship with your father and listen fairly to the tesimony of police?" The right answser is "yes." Saying no implies irrationality, or a lack of mental acuity, or some other defect in your character. Could you set aside your own history of drug use and judge this case based solely on the evidence provided? Of course I could; do I look like an idiot?

So it takes a sort of courage to say otherwise, to stick to your guns and insist that you are influenced by your experiences and beliefs. And you know what? I think that all those folks who say they aren't are lying.

And so I pat myself on the back and say that I got out of jury duty by telling the truth, and mostly I believe it. But I probably would have french kissed the bailiff if it would have gotten me out of there.

Cheers.