So yesterday I had the opportunity to perform my civic duty for the first time by way of sitting on a municipal court jury. I feel like the experience deserves a blog entry, so here we go.

The first group which we will call Class I shoppers (to which I very humbly belong) are those that have completely mastered the art of self-checkout. Members of this group are beyond comfortable with the operation of the checkout stations. They know the exact order of operations for the device but they are completely adaptable and can respond to changing circumstances on the fly. They know that if the weigh station doesn't pick up a very lightweight item, they can apply a light pressure to free the machine while they scan the next item. They know that if the card swipe device doesn't respond after two tries, they can wrap the card in a plastic grocery bag and swipe again for a better chance of success. They know that alcohol products will require an ID to be shown immediately after scanning, and they can have it out and shown before the scanner has even registered the item. In my case, my checkout skills are so sharply honed that I can usually complete the entire transaction before the machine is even finished giving me instructions.

The second group (Class II) are those who are familiar and competent, but lack the focus and speed of Class I shoppers. These people understand the general order of operations (scan, manage coupons, select payment, pay) but don't have a grasp on the details that speed up the transaction. They wait for each instruction from the machine before they proceed, but when they follow the instruction they do it correctly. One final note is that these first two groups understand how many items they have, and realize that the self-checkout lines are grouped into 10 item lanes and 20 item lanes. If they have more than this number of items, they will use a standard lane.

The third group (Class III) are those who completely lack the skills necessary for self-checkout. I have never been able to understand why they persist in using these lanes when they are absolutely not qualified to do so. Generally Class III shoppers can be identified by their expressions of terror as they face down lifelong fears which have been gathered up and personified in the checkout machine. Sometimes they will mask their terror with belligerence or even physical violence in extreme cases. Often they will appear in the self-checkout lanes with upwards of 100 items.

When I mention the physical violence, I am thinking of a particular event I witnessed. A couple of months ago I walked into the store and immediately noticed that something was amiss. It wasn't obvious what was going on, but all of the people in the front of the store seemed nervous or jumpy. They were very similar to cattle just before a thunderstorm. I recognized their stress and promptly joined the herd. Still, I didn't see anything obviously wrong so I started to head towards the carts. This was when I got my first true visual confirmation that something was afoot. I saw a 20oz plastic coke bottle roll out past one of the checkers. It seemed odd to me, but I assumed someone had just dropped one. It wasn't until I saw another one fly up out of the self-checkout line that I began to truly grasp the situation. I made my way over and was presented with the image of a frenzied old man in a motorized cart wreaking havoc at the checkout station. I arrived just in time to see him grasp the remainder of his 6-pack, heave himself up out of his cart, and hurl the whole thing to the ground. Several sodas burst and sprayed all over the aisle, but his rage was not quenched. He lunged over to the remainder of his groceries and swept them off of the checkout stand in one vengeful motion. I skittered away as he spewed epithets towards the machine and the store employees attempting to help him.

This brings me to my most recent Class III experience. A couple of days ago I was at the grocery store buying cat litter. The room we keep the litterbox in had started to smell so badly that my cats were verbally insulting me. I believe Gimli intentionally pooped on her own tail to get my attention. At any rate, I had obtained the cat litter and had to decide which of the self-checkout stations to wait for. I saw that three of them had shoppers which had just arrived and the fourth had a woman who was scanning the last of her groceries and seemed to be ready to pay. I noticed that she had only 5 items, and seemed to be moving confidently. I judged her as a Class II shopper and felt confident choosing the checkout station she was using. I was a fool.

I took a quick second glance around the other stations just to be sure of myself. At station one there was a very severe Hispanic woman. She was competent at the scanner, but her grocery handling and sacking abilities betrayed her as a lower Class II. At station two was a soccer mom type, her obvious comfort labeled her as a high level Class II, nearing Class I status. However, her blouse was an embarassment to all. The neckline was cut so low that her navel was visible. She appeared to be willing her bosoms to leap free of their scant enclosure and frolic with summertime abandon. Station three had an obvious Class I who also happened to be irresponsibly attractive. Interesting, but they were all just starting the grocery scan process so I focused on my chosen station. Uh oh. It seemed that I had misjudged the woman at station four. She had come to the payment process and the machine had issued her first instruction:

"Do you have any coupons?"

She gapes at the machine as if it was some alien device. Her mouth hangs open. I'm holding my breath.

She peers at it for a moment more, trying to decipher the cryptic Yes and No buttons prominently displayed on the screen. What should she do? How can she communicate with this foul beast? Tentatively, she reaches for the screen. She stops midway and pulls back to reexamine the situation. She steels herself for the worst and reaches forward again. She commits herself and presses the No button, for better or worse.

"Are you paying by check?"

Crestfallen, she studies the machine. What does it want now? Why won't it leave her alone? She steals a furtive glance at the other customers, but they offer no help. Her misery is painted on her face. She is truly alone. Slowly she regains command over herself and studies the screen. If she moves fast, maybe she can take the machine by surprise. She stabs out at the No button and withdraws her hand as though the machine had burned it.

"Please select your method of payment."

Now it has asked for her firstborn child. She appears to shrink into herself, as though this process had crushed something insider her. Still she struggles on, driven by her base human instinct for survival. More buttons have appeared on the screen. She studies them. Each one presents new possibilities. Which one is correct? Which is the true grail? How can she choose? Finally she reaches out and presses one. She winces as the unfeeling machine booms out another command.

"Please slide your card through the card reader and follow the instructions."

Her card! She senses that she may be nearing the end of this ordeal. She cautiously reaches into her purse and fumbles for her card. As she withdraws it she begins to look for the mythical "card reader." She looks directly at it. That can't be it, it must be a trick. She looks elsewhere. Suddenly she spots the coupon slot. She examines it closely. It looks like a card could fit in there.

"Oh no," I think. "Someone has to stop her." Alas, I can't do it. I am only a Watcher, I can't interfere with human events.

Fortunately her survival instinct kicks in again and saves her from the brink of absolute destruction. With sudden vehemence she attacks the card reader with her card and punches a series of random buttons until it feels true pity and releases her from her bonds.

"Please take your bags and your receipt."

Hallelujah!!!! Freedom at last!

I let out a sigh of relief and advance on the checkout station. I have completed my purchase and am near the store exit before her card is back in her purse.

The interesting part of these two stories is that I am not actually exaggerating. The physical events occurred exactly as I described them.

One final note, I spent so much time typing this that I completely forgot what my point was. Maybe I am not cut out to have a blog.

It started out like any other dream: myself and a group of hip paranormal investigators were inspecting a crypt for possible activity. We ventured in through the front door and hallway (which was exactly identical to the one at my grandparent's house) and started checking things out. We stirred up a couple of spooks and things started to heat up. During the action, one of our group members stumbled upon a sarcophagus. Before we could stop him he opened it up.

Out pops a female vampire. In a flash she drops the guy who let her out and he starts to turn. Apparently she means for me to be next. One thing to note here is that she wasn't wearing your typical over-the-top black vampire garb. Instead she had gone for a forty-something earth tones look. She reminded me of every elementary school teacher I ever had. Anyway, here we come to the core of the dream.

She makes a move toward me, but I whip my hand out from behind my back and from literally nowhere I am suddenly armed with a Red Baron's Five Cheese and Garlic French Bread Pizza. I jam it in her face as hard as I can.

That is pretty much all I wanted to get across of the dream right there, but just for completeness I will finish it out.

She actually laughs off the garlic. She tells me garlic doesn't hurt vampires and she starts to move in again. I hold her off with a hand gesture. I ask her to wait a second and I ask her what DOES hurt vampires. Very obligingly she tells me that she can be harmed by several seasonings. The ones I remember are cumin, paprika, oregano, and cloves. There were others, but I don't remember what they were.

At this point the remaining group members and I dart outside. She follows, but the sun has come up and she is forced to stop short. She weighs her options and decides to take the risk of short sunlight exposure in order to get us. She steps out, and somehow the sun goes dark again. We manage to lock her in a car (I have no idea how) and while she is getting out we all pile into a Toyota Corolla and putter off back home. As we putter, I am very worried because the first guy she got knows where we live.

This is my dream.

In other news: World of Warcraft is an addictive game.

So yesterday morning I was in the breakroom when from behind me I hear the voice of one of my former professors.

"Brian Evans," is my first thought. Chasing close at its heels, "I sucked in his class."

Immediately I break into a cold sweat. He won't remember me. I was a forgettable student in a boring class during a semester long gone. Nothing about me is memorable.

"Play it cool." Yep, that is exactly what I'll do. He has no idea who I am, no reason for me to even talk to him. I can just grab my coffee and slip out. Escape is my specialty. I've been escaping social situations for years. It is the one art I have mastered.

Two of my coworkers shake his hand, introducing themselves as former students. Suck ups.

I make my move, but something goes awry. Some rogue part of my brain has made a power play and I suddenly find myself approaching him.

"I took your class as well." I'm shaking his hand. Great introduction. Very strong.

"Oh really? What was your name?" He's smiling and friendly.

I have to consider his question. What's he getting at?

"Uh....Gabriel."

He pauses, extending his index finger as he thinks.

"Vogel?" he quizzes.

I'm stunned. Shocked silence fills my mind. He remembers me. Maybe he doesn't remember how terrible my test scores were. Maybe I can steer the conversation away from academics so that he won't remember how badly I performed in every area of his class. Some lower level mental function recognizes the need for a response and answers without consulting me.

"I sucked in your class."

I'm horrified. I stand there gaping at him. I have nothing to say. What should have been a brief pause becomes pregnant and gives birth to an uncomfortable silence.

Wait, I have it, I know how to get out of this!

I gesture at the doorway and the person who isn't standing there. "Oh, looks like I need to run, nice to see you!"

He turns to see who I am talking about. Of course no one is there, but I am already on the way out. Just to complete the experience, I turn the direction opposite of where I gestured.

Excellent all around.