FROM SIXTY TO ZERO.

There are two types of people: those who get it, and those who don't.

Yes, this obvious truism could be applied to all walks of life. But since I'm holding the pen (metaphorically, of course—pens are so 1987), I'm going to apply it to the suffering and hardship that each of us will inevitably go through.

There are people who have been through exactly what you're going through, and can empathize, as well as people who haven't, but can still sympathize and be there in your time of need. And then? There are those who, through some pitifully inadequate analogy, try to make you think that they understand, and in the process point focus directly back on themselves. We'll call this group of people Group FT, which stands for a word I'd rather not type here. Use your imagination.

Saturday night neatly summed up the dichotomy between these two groups.

The scene: Radio Room, one of my favorite lounges in Portland, located on Alberta Street. Around 9, I rolled in on my knee scooter (that's just how I roll these days) to meet up with a couple good friends. We engaged in some meaningful conversation, only to be briefly interrupted by not one, but two, obnoxiously loud, yet surprisingly melodic, renditions of “Happy Birthday.” After awhile, our server stopped back by, motioned in the direction of a table of birthday partiers, and said that the gentleman in the blue shirt would like to buy me a drink.

Typically, when a man (especially one in a blue shirt) buys me a drink, it's because they assume that I play for the other team, or at the very least, they think that they can convince me to briefly make a guest appearance for the other team. I take this as a compliment, but politely decline. Due to my injury, though, I'm unemployed, and am in no place to turn down complimentary beverages.

I accepted his offer.

Naturally, I went over to the birthday table to thank my benefactor. Turns out, he had no romantic intentions. He had just gotten off of a knee scooter and crutches himself, due to a broken leg that had kept him out of the world of the walking for five months. “I feel your pain,” he said. And he had.

Not only that, it was his birthday. The birthday boy himself was so empathetic, so able to relate to my pain, that other people were all he could think about on a day that was supposed to be about him.

Not five minutes later, the drink had run its course, and I headed for the men's room. There, at the urinal next to me, a guy looked over, assessed my injury, and said, “I feel you, man. We're both in the injured camp. I tweaked my hip this morning, and it's been kinda hurting all day when I walk.”

This guy was definitely an FT.

What I wanted to say? “With all due respect, I'm sorry that you hurt your hip. But, guess what? You're walking. Just fine, from the looks of it. I haven't walked in a month, and there's a chance I may never walk normally again. Not only that, but my Achilles hurts me 24 hours a day. When I'm laying down, elevating it, sitting up, riding in the car, taking a shower, trying to do mundane chores around the house without capsizing on my knee scooter...it hurts. All. The. Time. Man up, you FT.”

What I actually said? “That's too bad, man. Hope you feel better.”

Don't tell this guy that a loved one or close friend just died. He'll come back with a story about Goldy, his late pet goldfish, that will rip your heart out.

Don't take this the wrong way, but unless you've been a very active person and then suffered a debilitating injury that not only kept you from walking for months, but also changed the course of the rest of your life, you have no idea what I'm going through.

A month ago today, my life went from sixty to zero with the snap of a tendon.

I can't work. I can't walk. Something as mundane as trying to put dishes in the dishwasher is an absolute ordeal.

Doctors have told me I'll never play basketball, tennis, or volleyball again; may never again be able to climb mountains; will likely tear my Achilles again at some point down the road; will suffer pain and tightness in my leg for the rest of my life. This is not some minor setback. An Achilles tear is considered one of the most difficult injuries to fully recover from.

Furthermore, surgery isn't an option, according to every orthopedic physician I've seen. Most Achilles tendons tear close to the ankle, and surgery is as simple as suturing the two halves of the tendon back together. Recovery time is shortened, and you have a much slimmer chance of re-tearing your Achilles, when the surgical route is taken. In my situation, though, my tendon ripped completely off of my calf muscle, and it simply can't be reattached to the muscle.

So, I wait, leg immobilized, for my tendon to somehow find its way back to my calf like a long-lost friend and reattach. Best case scenario? I'm walking, albeit in a walking boot, two months from now, and through long, painful months of physical therapy, I'll regain most of the function of my leg. Worst case scenario? I may never walk normally again.

Sixty to zero.

In the year before my injury, I ran one full and one half marathon, climbed Kilimanjaro and Rainier, visited four continents, toured 27 states as a solo artist, and hiked in Alaska, Colorado, Oregon, and more. In the year following my injury, I'll be lucky to take a few painful steps on any given day.

If you haven't been here, you don't understand.

I didn't understand until February 3. I took walking for granted every second of my waking life.

Likewise, I don't understand what you're going through. I know there are events and struggles and trials in your life that I can't relate to, because I haven't been there. You've been through things that I may never have to endure, and my heart goes out to you. At the same time, I don't have to pretend to understand, and don't have to relate and equate your hardships to much more trivial events in my own life. I simply say a genuine “I'm sorry” and ask if there is anything tangible I can do to help.

We all will face pain in life, whether physical, emotional, spiritual, or mental. We all will go through situations that test what we're made of. If the hard times haven't reared their ugly heads in your life yet, just wait. They will. I'm no solitary, heroic martyr here; billions of people before and after me will suffer injuries and setbacks that will change the course of the rest of their lives.

So what happens when someone in some sphere of yours is going through their Waterloo? Be someone who gets it. Even if you haven't walked in their shoes, be there for them. Be genuine. Don't make it about yourself. Find tangible ways to help get them back on their feet, both literally and figuratively.

James puts it this way in chapter 2 of his book: "Do you think you'll get anywhere in this if you say all the right words but never do anything? For instance, you come upon an old friend dressed in rags and half-starved and say, "Good morning, friend! Be clothed in Christ! Be filled with the Holy Spirit!" and walk off without providing so much as a coat or a cup of soup--where does that get you?" (The Message)

Regardless of your beliefs, or lack thereof, this is sound advice. True friendship and true love don't consist of words alone; they consist of actions.

Don't sit at home simply praying for someone if you can be the answer to their prayer. Don't send someone an e-Card and never take the time to visit. Don't put off till tomorrow helping those who are in need today.

I'm grateful for the people in my life who get it. I want to pay it forward; to make a tangible difference in others' lives the way my friends and family have done in mine. I fail at this more often than I'd care to admit, and tend to focus on my own needs, especially in the wake of my injury. I need to remind myself that although my leg may be in disrepair, my heart still works just fine.

I'm unable to do most of the activities that bring me happiness. However, this just means that maybe it's time for me to wake up, to find ways to bring others happiness.

I want to be someone who gets it. Are you with me?

DON'T BE A DOUCHEWAFFLE.

Homeless people confuse me.

Of course, we've all heard the stories of impostors clearing six figures begging on busy Manhattan street corners, then hopping back in their Beamers to head back to their penthouses and enjoy their tax-free earnings.

Last week, an ostensibly homeless girl on the corner of 6^th and Taylor in downtown Portland looked up from her iPhone 5c just in time to see me walk by. Without even attempting to conceal her expensive mobile device, she asked me for money.

I pulled a middle finger out of my pocket.

However, some homeless people appear to genuinely be in need. I'm aware that mental illness runs rampant among the homeless population, and that a few of those individuals who hold signs proudly advertising the fact that they are military veterans are, in fact, military veterans. Perhaps they're suffering from extreme PTSD, or war injuries, although judging by the fact that the US military has always been generous with its pension plans, I find the fact that these vets are now on the streets somewhat hard to believe.

Still, they can't all be lying, can they?

In my opinion, honesty is always the best policy. Well, personal hygiene is a pretty good policy, too, but if you're homeless, honesty is a lot easier to come by.

There's a guy in northeast Portland that I've given money to a handful of times. He always wears a smile and holds the same sign. It simply reads: “Why lie? I need a beer.”

That's something I can get behind. I can only hope that he has a discerning palate and uses my generous donations to buy a decent IPA or porter, not a 40 of Hamm's. Hamm's is not beer. It is Satan's urine. Don't be fooled.

Recently, I ate at Taco Bell. I actually went inside with some friends and sat down. Don't judge me. Their new Cantina burritos actually look and smell different entering your body than they do on their way out, which is a good start. While feeding on this bounty, I was approached by a homeless man, who asked me to buy him a taco.

Whenever homeless people ask for food, I have no problem obliging. After all, it's tough (albeit not impossible) to use a taco to buy meth. You just simply wouldn't get a whole lot of meth in return.

So, I bought the guy a 99-cent soft taco. When I handed it to him, he glanced down at it with disdain, and said, “I wanted the six-taco combo box.”

Although I was tempted to rip the taco back out of his greedy hands and beat him with it to prove a point, I quickly realized that due to my poor decision to purchase a soft taco, it really wouldn't do a whole lot of damage. I resolved to henceforth only purchase hard tacos for homeless people to alleviate this problem. Flaccid tacos simply don't get the point across effectively when they're used as weapons.

Why did this ungrateful douchewaffle ask for more tacos? Did he realize that with six tacos, he could barter for six times as much meth? Was he simply hungry and devoid of the mental capacity to determine that his request would imply ingratitude? Or was it just a manifestation of the general sense of entitlement that pervades today's American society, corrupting spoiled kids, tax-exempt billionaires, and homeless douchewaffles alike?

For the record, douchewaffles aren't just entitled frat boys anymore. That was 2005. This is 2013. Douchewaffles have now 'grown up', clung to their irrevocable sense of douchey entitlement, and are now homeless or living in their parents' basements. They have gotten so douchewaffley that they might now be more aptly categorized as Belgian douchewaffles.

At the risk of sounding like a Tea Partier, I'm sick and tired of Americans and their abuses of the government systems that have been put in place for times of need. Unemployment is for just that: times when you're unemployed and actively looking for work, not for times when you feel like sitting in your parents' basement for two years, playing video games and getting fat on Doritos that you bought with your food stamps, all the while 'applying' for positions that you are completely unqualified for to appease governmental requirements. Wait, your last job was at McDonald's eight years ago, and you just applied to be the CFO of a Fortune 500 company? Good luck with that.

Speaking of McDonald's, is it really that hard to get hired there? Couldn't 95 percent of homeless and unemployed people alike get a job at a fast-food restaurant, work their way up, get their own place, and eventually move on to bigger and better things, instead of being a tax liability to the rest of us, suckling at the teat of social welfare until it's shriveled, chafed and dry?

In a perfect world, welfare, food stamps, and socialized healthcare are great ideas. So are communism, gun ownership rights, and genetic manipulation. The truth is, though, there is a percentage of the population that would simply rather take advantage of, and ultimately ruin and bankrupt, the systems that they depend on. Go for it, lady: get knocked up. Have seven kids by ten different fathers, and collect a little more welfare. It's the American way.

Unfortunately, you can't legislate integrity. Douchewaffles will continue to cheat the system. Hear about the woman in Michigan who continued to collect welfare for years after winning millions in the lottery?

Here's a novel idea for you, Mr. and Ms. American: work hard and make a living. Stop complaining about how you lost your job and go find another one. Maybe it won't comprehensively utilize your massive skill set. Maybe it doesn't pay as much as your last job. Maybe it means a serving of humble pie. Maybe it means you can't sit on your couch and play whatever it is you gamers are playing these days.

But, with Social Security crumbling, employers cutting benefits and pensions, and whole states on the verge of filing for bankruptcy, wouldn't it make you happy to know that you're now contributing to our country's long-term chance at survival, rather than eating away at its foundation like a hungry termite?

I'm not trying to be heartless to those who are genuinely in need. But to those of you who aren't, grow up and do your part.

Don't be a douchewaffle.

TOURING: NOT A WALK IN THE PARK.

When you think of a touring band, you probably think of U2 rolling up to your hometown stadium with seventeen semis full of gear and a massive tour bus or seven. Or, maybe you think of charter jets, 5-star hotels, and a massive rider. Sold-out shows. Hundreds of roadies.

That's just rock & roll, right?

Wrong.

Let me introduce you to the world of the independent touring band.

My band Crown Point is in the middle of a 29-state US tour supporting the release of our new album, Curtains. We're an independent band by choice: We've gotten label offers, but have chosen to turn them down and retain the rights to our music and our career choices. That means that we tour the country in a Ford van and trailer, guzzling gas at a 9 mpg clip, staying in cheap motels and on couches of fans, and eating cold soup out of a can. We get to visit some amazing places, but never have time to actually explore them, because we're too busy booking and promoting our own shows, and setting up our own gear and lights.

We're no Goliath. We're barely even David.

However, for the uninitiated, cold soup is actually not as bad as it sounds. Call it gazpacho, and it practically becomes gourmet. Furthermore, adding a little Frank's Hot Buffalo sauce to anything makes it awesome.

Here's a rundown of our last 72 hours:

Friday night, after driving all day from Michigan, we played a show in St. Louis to a sparse yet amazing crowd. The local band who was sharing the bill canceled a couple days prior, and a lot of our fans were out of town for Thanksgiving or unable to attend for other reasons. We crashed at the house of a friend of a friend who we'd never met, yet graciously opened his house to us. As a result of the all-night party going on, most of us got little or no sleep.

Saturday, we drove to Indianapolis to play another show in a market we've only played once, back in 2010. One of the local bands on the bill never even bothered to cancel but simply never showed up, and the local band who did, while talented, brought a total of seven of their fans to the show. I was unable to use my in-ear monitors due to the subpar sound board at the venue, and the house monitors produced mostly feedback, so I torched my voice during the course of our 45-minute set straining to hear myself. We made a grand total of $0 from the venue that night. Afterwards, we loaded the inordinate amount of gear we possess up a flight of stairs in 20-degree weather, then proceeded to drive all night and all day to our show in Philadelphia. I had the first driving shift, from 1:30 to 5:30 AM, and had to drink gratuitous amounts of caffeine to keep myself awake and the band alive. As a result, I was unable to sleep on the fold-out bed in the back of the van, which, of course, is about three inches too short for me, when my driving shift was done.

I finally woke up after some fitful sleep and ate some 'gazpacho' just as we were exiting the Pennsylvania Turnpike. We literally spent more in tolls than we'd made at the past two shows combined, not to mention the $600 in gas we'd spent over the past two days. We checked in to our room at the Comfort Inn, showered, and then headed to that night's show in Philly.

Now, we're en route to tonight's concert at The National Underground in New York City. We've had one day off in two weeks, and we can't wait to have two consecutive days free in Florida next week. However, we can't wait to play in NYC, Providence, DC, Nashville, Atlanta, and Sarasota this week, either!

If it sounds like I'm whining a bit, I probably am. I apologize. I absolutely love what I do, and meeting great people across the country and getting to play music for a living (albeit a meager one) makes everything worthwhile.

If you're reading this, thank you. Thanks for supporting independent music, for coming to that Monday night show, for buying that album or that T-shirt. For hanging out with us, for getting to know us, for spreading the word about Crown Point online and mouth-to-mouth.

You make the sleepless nights, unprofessional local bands, thousands of dollars in gas, Wet Wipes showers, and touring-induced premature aging seem insignificant. You are the reason we do what we do, and we'd love to see you at a show. Check out our tour schedule here.

Thank you!

Stuff You Can Buy Pretty Soon.

2012 is practically 25 percent gone. Perhaps you've asked yourself, "What is Jon Davidson doing right now?" Or, perhaps you haven't asked yourself. But, either way, if you're reading this, you're about to find out.

Currently, I'm sitting in the control room of Black Diamond Studios in Portland, OR while Crown Point's drummer, Kaycee Kay, prepares to track drums for our upcoming album, Oceans. He's currently hitting the same floor tom monotonously as the engineer tests mics. For some reason, I want to dance like a white boy.

My first attempt at authorship, a book called Of Bombs And Blackberries, is at the publishers. The design team is working on the fifth cover concept proof. I've shot the first four ideas down in a fit of rage.

I'm also working on a brand-new solo album, my first solo effort since 2010. I've got some electronic surprises up my sleeve. The album is called Tip Of The Iceberg.

I'm also booking music at a venue in Portland, bartending at two different bars, working on booking and promoting Crown Point's Australia and US tours, and drinking gratuitous amounts of the new flavors of Monster Rehab energy drinks. Loaded with guarana, mangosteen extract, goji berry extract, acai extract, coconut water, and tons of other natural ingredients, it's actually not all that bad for me. Moderation is key--I've only had three and a half cans today.

So, although life is crazy right now, I'm thankful that my time is being occupied by projects that I'm passionate about completing. I'm also thankful that my tongue has almost completely healed from last summer's accident, and especially thankful that the genetic-modification wizards out there have created a seedless, easy-peel tangerine. I'm going to go crush a couple of them in my mouth right now.

Live Like We're Mayan.

It’s December 21, 2011.  The Winter Solstice.  A year from today, according to interpretations of an ancient Mayan tablet, the world will end.

It will end in very similar fashion to when it also ended at Y2K and twice already in 2011, according to Harold Camping.

You'd think that the Mayans, with all their alleged prophetic knowledge, would have been able to accurately foretell the catastrophic, mysterious downfall of their own civilization.

Funny thing is, the Mayans aren’t the stupid ones.  We are.

The Mayan ‘long-count’ calendar (actually, there are several) doesn’t predict the end of the world.   Yes, the 13^th Baktun ends on 12/21/12.  However, a time of great celebration is supposed to ensue, not Armageddon.  (Armayageddon?)  Does your world end every time you celebrate a birthday?  It may feel like it has when you wake up the next morning, but in most cases you’re still very much alive.

Furthermore, the Mayans make many references to dates that occur past 2012.  Many Mayans are still alive today, and they’re not freaking out about next year.  The whole idea was coined by New Age author José Argüelles in 1987.  Yup, I’ve been alive longer than this whole 2012 Doomsday thing.  Yup,  Snoop Dogg has been high for longer than this whole 2012 Doomsday thing.

Once upon a time, I had a good-natured friend named Greta.  She bought a tome about the Zodiac, and asked me what my sign was.  “Sagittarius,” I said.  She proceeded to read me two pages about myself and how my sign interacted with hers, about how I was a natural-born leader, about how I had some inner pain that hadn’t yet been dealt with.  She punctuated many a sentence with exclamations of how spot-on the book’s interpretation was.

I let her finish before I casually informed her that I’m actually a Libra.

“Oh,” she muttered, crestfallen, and left the room.

Reminds me of an episode of Criss Angel Mindfreak in which Criss poses as a tarot card reader in Vegas.  Once his subjects have been blindfolded, he swaps out the tarot card and instead reads the same paragraph from the cheesiest small-town newspaper horoscope to each person, telling them how they are strong yet have a need to be loved, among other generic, widely applicable truisms.  Many of his subjects start crying and tell him that he’s able to see into their soul more than even their loved ones can.

At the end of the episode (and forgive me if my facts are wrong; it’s been awhile since I’ve seen it), he lets people in on his little secret:  they’ve been duped. 

We all share in this human experience.  We all need love; we all have love to give.  We all want attention.  We all take dumps which often stink. 

Mine stink less than yours.  I’m a vegetarian, so I don’t have ten pounds of rotting carcass in my colon. 

No Chichen Itza for this guy.  Although a Mayan city, it sounds quite edible.

Everybody merely wants someone to reinforce what they already believe to be true.  Why do the best psychiatrists merely listen?   Why do people pay thousands to talk to them?  It’s crazy:  psychiatrists make more than Bernie Madoff.  Well, more than he makes now, anyways.

Everybody wants to be heard.   I once read about a guy who made a comfortable living on the streets of Tokyo by charging people money in exchange for letting them yell at him.

Everybody wants a framework to explain why life is the way it is, and someone to blame when things go wrong.

Americans spend $200 million a year on astrology.  I am clearly in the wrong profession.

 “Pluto is no longer a planet!  How else am I supposed to explain the powerful pull on my psyche?”

It cracks me up when people try and quantify human interaction through the use of Zodiac signs.  “Ah, he dumped me because I’m a Taurus and he’s a Cancer.  It had to be because the Sun was in transit to my natal Saturn, and.. .”  Really?  You sure?  None of this happened because you are a crazy biznatch?  Of course not; let’s blame some stars.

I am going to become an astrologer.  That way, nothing is ever my fault. 

The reason this blog sucks so hard is because I wrote it while there was a stellium, or buildup of planets in Libra.

It has nothing to do with the fact that I’m a mediocre writer with a penchant for tangents, sesquipedalianisms and run-on sentences.

Screw it; maybe I’ll look into gender-specific psychiatry.  Men don’t talk, as a general rule, unless it’s about sports.  Or women.  But, of course, never women’s sports.   Über-lame.

I’ll just charge women $200 an hour to complain about their problems.  The best part about listening to women is that they don’t even want you to find a solution!  Solve their issues, and they have to go to all the trouble of finding new things to complain about.

Or, maybe I’ll just become a doomsday prophet.   Mr. Camping may look like a fool now, but at least he looks like a very wealthy fool.   Everyone in the Bible Belt will be getting thank-you cards this Christmas.

The best part about Camping’s prediction, and other Christian doomsday predictions, is this:  Matthew 24:36 states that no one knows the day or the hour when the world will end.   No one except God.   Well, God and Harold Camping, that is.

The truth is that the end will come for all of us someday.  It won’t come a year from now for most of us, but it may come sooner than that for you.  For me.  For someone we care about. 

As much as I hate to quote yet another American Idol star, there’s truth in Kris Allen’s one and only hit single.  “We only got 86,400 seconds in a day to turn it all around or throw it all away….gotta live like we’re dying.”

Let’s also not forget to live like we’re Mayan.  In other words, relax.  The world is not ending next year.

I HAVE HAD A BABY WITH EVERY SINGLE DEFENDANT IN THE STATE OF OREGON.

Yesterday sucked.

Six words for you: Jury duty on absolutely no sleep.

I got home around eleven the night before last, and promptly took a sleeping pill and four melatonin pills. And then lay awake in bed for the next seven and a half hours. Diphenhydramine didn't cut it. I should've tried some of diphenhydrayours.

There's a tight-knit community of insomniacs who post to Facebook in the middle of the night. It felt good to be a part of something bigger than myself.

I hate sunrises. Actually, there's nothing wrong with them per se, and I enjoy looking at sunrise pictures in coffee table books and the like just as much as the next guy. Yesterday morning's was actually particularly beautiful. But, it served as a visual aid to reinforce the point that my day was going to be a suckhole. Anytime I see a sunrise, I've either been up way too long or have had to get up way too early. In this morning's case, it was both.

I should be barred from recording songs that are named after natural phenomena that I have almost no firsthand experience with.  "Sunrise" is obviously out, and I should probably also hold off on finishing my next hit single, "The Honduran Rain Of Fish."

I showed up to the jury room a fairly fashionable fifteen minutes late. Of course, I got the one remaining empty seat next to the guy with whooping cough. Or consumption; not sure.  I don't have much firsthand experience with chronic wasting diseases, either.  

There was a painting of a clown riding a carnival horse on the wall, and I wanted to rip it down and set it on fire, and then bawl my eyes out, just to make sure that everyone in the room knew how crappy I felt.

Leave No Childish Happiness Behind.

The State Of Oregon Judicial Department's introductory video, complete with poor acting and the requisite female African-American judge, was first on the agenda.  Actually, it was the only thing on the agenda. Then the waiting began. We were informed that we should prepare to be there for the next 9 and a half hours.   

If picked for a trial, I would have literally gone to any length to make sure I didn't get selected for a jury. 

"Yes, I'm wanted for six felonies in Mozambique. Yes, every single member of my family serves in law enforcement, even my cousin's unborn child. Yes, I have had a baby with every single defendant in the state of Oregon. Yes, I hate white people. Yes, I have IBS. Yes, I dine and dash, and then drink and drive."

If one of those six didn't work, I contemplated faking a seizure.  Or feigning Tourette's.  Or chanting "Tebow" until they made me leave.

I pay taxes. I vote, even for county commissioners and pointless measures. I've never been on welfare. I even use the self-pay drop boxes when I visit state parks. Most of the time. What do you want from me, Oregon?  (Cue Adam Lambert hit single here.)

Yes, I realize that without jurors the justice system wouldn't work fairly. But, there were at least 400 other able people in the waiting room, and it's safe to say that most, if not all, had gotten at least some sleep, and were therefore of more sound mind. Sounder mind? More soundlier mind? 

My neighbor's whooping cough took a turn for the worse.

I've wished many times for a rewind button. Something I could press to give me a mulligan, to turn back time. But, a fast-forward button? I would have been sorely tempted to use one.

I must be getting old. I used to pull all-nighters almost every week in college. Not to study, of course, but to have a ten-hour Lord Of The Rings marathon.  Or a ten-hour Connect Four marathon (we actually did this).  Or, to TP, egg, pee on, or otherwise ‘beautify’ various statues and security vehicles on campus (yup, we actually did this, too).  

The aftermath of this all-nighter was different.  I was a wreck, probably because I hadn't committed any misdemeanors or other mischievous acts during the night.  My left eye was twitching.  My head throbbed. My vision was blurred. Would I even have been able to tell if I were having a stroke?

I accidentally broke my juror badge.  I think that’s grounds for dismissal from jury duty.  If I can’t even be trusted with cheap plastic, how can I be trusted with a verdict?

I also attempted to slip a clerk $20 to let me go early.  She wasn’t impressed, and pointed out that she’d be happy to assign me to another room of the courthouse to stand trial for attempting to bribe a government employee.

Six hours later…

My name was finally called, and I was released, my ‘jury duty’ complete.  I, like hundreds of other people, had sat in a waiting room and done absolutely nothing, only to be sent home.  Even if we only each get a check for $10 plus mileage, this scenario is played out daily in thousands of courtrooms across the nation.  I think I’m beginning to see why our government has a budget deficit of $15 trillion.

What is the government doing to combat that deficit?  Well, upon stumbling to my car, I found that, in addition to the $17 I’d already paid for parking, I had incurred a $40 parking ticket.  My curbside receipt had fallen to the floor of my car.  

Back to the courthouse tomorrow.

God bless America.

Fruitcake Merrily On High.

When did Christmas get all prima donna and demand its own month?

Every other holiday gets merely a single day.  In 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue, but he doesn't even get more than 24 hours and a lame excuse for financial institutions to take the day off?  Do you know how hard it was to sail around the earth back when it was flat?  This is how we say thanks?

Sure, some of the more prestigious holidays might command a weekend.  Halloween stores do open up a couple weeks before Oct. 31, and Irish people find reasons to get drunk year-round, not just on March 17.  But, Christmas is still in a class all its own.

Sadly, Yuletide's length enshrouds some other meaningful December holidays in its bloated wreath-shaped shadow.  Holidays like Forefathers' Day, December 21, which shouldn't be confused with Four Fathers Day, a celebration of homosexual plural marriage.  Holidays like Pepper Pot Day, December 29. And, of course, my personal favorite, December 8...

Take It In The Ear Day.  Look it up.

Despite my unabashed affinity for it, I have questions about this holiday.  How do I celebrate?  What exactly am I supposed to be taking in my ear?  And, most importantly, which ear should I take it in?

Perhaps the Christmas season is so long simply because of the lack of ample competition from any other December holiday.  Perhaps Christmas helps us forget that Pearl Harbor Day and National Cotton Candy Day fall on the same date, and helps us avoid the inherent bipolar mood swings that this juxtaposition would provoke.

Sure, Christmas is a great holiday, one that billions, young and old, look forward to annually.  However, plenty of other holidays encourage family togetherness.  Plenty of other holidays encourage wanton spending and lavish consumerism. Furthermore, those individuals, myself included, who point to the birth of Jesus as being a seminal event worthy of extended celebration should be reminded that most scholars agree that Jesus was actually most likely born around September.

This leaves us with two theories as to why we celebrate Christmas in December:

1.  The celebration of the birth of Jesus was moved in order to better coincide with the celebration of the Roman winter solstice.

2.  Chuck Norris once accidentally sent Jesus a birthday card in December.  Jesus was too embarrassed to inform Chuck of his mistake.  Thus, we've celebrated Christmas in December ever since.

For the record, I'm not opposed to Christmas claiming the entire month of December.  It's kind of a worthless month with nothing else going on.  It's the Edsel of months, at least at higher latitudes here in the Northern Hemisphere.  And if you're in the Southern Hemisphere, what happens to your Christmas carols this time of year?  Do Australian families gather around their air conditioning units and sing "Let It Sun"?  Or "Frosty the Foster's"?  "Go Tell It In The Outback"?  "I Heard The Didgeridoo On Christmas Day"?  "Bring A 3-Foot Hunting Knife, Jeanette Isabella"?  "Summer Wonderland"?

I could go on.

But, if Yuletide is going to last as long as it does, some changes need to take place, especially when it comes to Christmas music.  My first suggestion for improvement?  Pass laws that prevent this poor excuse for music, at least the really cheesy kind, from being played until, say, around December 23.  Anywhere.  Everywhere.  I mean, "Santa Baby"?  Really?  How many rich old sugar daddies did the singer confess her love to in exchange for gifts before she settled for one that doesn't actually exist?

And "Come On A My House"?  Really, Rosemary Clooney?  In the good ol' days, they used to lock people away for confessing to pedophilia, like you do numerous times in this song.  Fortunately, you failed to provide your address, so hopefully not too many children were able to take you up on your creepy offer.

My second suggestion would be to update the woefully antiquated ditty "Twelve Days Of Christmas".  If my true love gave me ten lords a-leaping, I would be taken aback, to say the least, although I'm curious to see how long said lords could maintain their jumping routine.  The song implicitly promises me that these lords simply don't quit.  If I caught a lord taking a break, could I borrow a drumstick from one of the twelve drummers and beat him with it?

Furthermore, since I don't own cattle, what exactly would those eight maids be milking?  Does anyone even know what a colly bird is?  (Yes, that's the original lyric.)  It's time to bring this song back to cultural relevance by replacing these hopelessly superannuated gifts with things that members of today's society would actually be happy to receive:  divorce papers, welfare checks, and a 40 of Old E.

The last item actually fits neatly into the song, right where the partridge line used to be.  Plus, Old E is conveniently sold everywhere.  Who knows where you can purchase a pear tree these days, much less a partridge who would be content remaining in one for an extended period of time.

Come to think of it, we might as well overhaul America's entire repertoire of Christmas carols.

"Winter Wonderland" sucks.  It must go.

"What Child Is This"?  Duh, it's Jesus.  Stupid question.  Next.

"I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In"?  Good for you, dollard.  You're at a port.  Lots of ships sail in daily.

"Carol Of The Bells", "Jingle Bells", "Silver Bells" and "I Heard The Bells On Christmas Day" need an instrument change.  Bells are annoying at best.  I was forced to play in a bell choir with a bunch of nerdy girls for a few months growing up.  This was arguably the worst parenting decision my parents ever made.

And, finally, "Ding Dong Merrily On High"?  Stupid.  But, if we're going to keep it, let's at least give a nod to other dessert snack makers.  Hostess has had the corner on this song, and therefore this market, for far too long.  I would vote for either "Oatmeal Cream Pie Merrily On High" or "Zebra Cakes Merrily On High", but I'm open to suggestions.

In reality, we should probably vote in the most austere and revered dessert snack of all, that holiday institution, the gift that keeps on giving.  Let's go with "Fruitcake Merrily On High".  Cut. Print.  That's a wrap.