You know how when you meet new people, you immediately picture them on their backs, naked, with their knees raised to their ears? From then on, you deal with that picture, rather than the reality in front of you.

That's how I came to Toronto. My expectations raised like a Viagral penis. The reality is not so erect. In fact, my Canadian tour is a rousing flop. Twenty-five people in three shows. Not each.

That's a total. Twenty-five. 8.33 people a show.

Melanie tried, but I don't draw. A conspiracy? A feminist boycott? Who knows?

Jim Munroe is my host. He lives with roommates in a cheap place in the cool part of Toronto. A publishing contract thrust Jim into mainstreamland. Pow! Sucked up like an Electrolux.

Avon books, owned by Rupert Murdoch, gave him $20,000 for his sci-fi socially conscious novel, Flyboy Action Figure, Gasmask Included.

If I were Jim, I'd take the offer, write a kiss-my-ass letter to Murdoch, then use the money to publish my own books. That's what Jim does. He reads his letter as part of his spoken word performance, as my co-star on the Canadian tour.

Jim installs me on his living room couch. His roommates, however, have other ideas.

One's a stripper. Blond, she's as close to being sexy as that fact allows. She is not exactly Ms. Friendly, though. Whenever she passes, I feel the sudden need to put on a sweater.

Then there's the hippie. A slim guy with a long black ponytail. He'd be good looking, if he weren't goateed in keeping with the current Canadian fashion. Hippie's girlfriend also lives there. She's a slightly hefty gal with a personality that makes Lost In Space's Dr. Smith seem cordial.

My first night at Jim's, the stripper makes an effort. She gets me a sensual Charlie Brown sheet and spreads it out on the couch. She declines my suggestion that she accompany me in it. The other two roommates, I don't meet until the next morning.

I get up early, and go out to have a bagel with complimentary miniature banana. I assume it's an old Canadian culinary custom. I return about nine. The plump girlfriend is up and in the kitchen.

"Have you had breakfast yet?" she asks.

"I had a bagel and a banana." I say, thinking she's offering to whip something up.

"Oh, I was just telling you, because there are a lot of nice breakfast places around here," she says. "This neighborhood is really nice to walk around in. That's what you should do. Walk around... how about now?"

Immediately, she retreats to her room. Door closed. Yeah!

The next night, I'm beat. Worn out from traipsing all over town, speaking my word, talking to zine guys, drinking mighty fine Canadian beer, unsuccessfully chasing after this part-Indian (feather, not turban).

Now I'm at Jim's ready to hit the couch.

Hippie and his girlfriend are already on it.

I pick up my laptop and go into the kitchen.

I'll let them finish their warm up, go into their room and screw. Then, I'll get some sleep. I'm barely able to keep my head up. Half an hour later, from the livingroom, comes a female voice.

"Mykel? Are you in any hurry to get to sleep?"

"Yes." I say, "I'm dead tired."

"Oh..." returns the voice, "well, we're planning to stay here a bit. The TV is in here."

Then there's silence.

To use the bathroom, I have to pass through the livingroom. I need to, so I do.

They're on the couch. Watching TV. On the TV is nothing. I don't mean general worthless TV nothing. I mean zero. Nothing. A blank screen.

Just blue, like the VCR is on and there's no tape in it.

"I saw that movie," I say as I pass. "Want me to tell you what happens?"

They are not amused.

Well, thanks anyway Jim. YOU were cool.

Flash ahead to the Toronto airport. I'm at the gate. A concession stand stands nearby. It's hot. I'm thirsty. Someone put an OUT OF ORDER SIGN on the serve-yourself soda fountain.

I ask someone behind the counter, "How much is a small Coke?"

The woman, in her early sixties, speaks with a slavic accent. "I don know how much is. I chaf to poot in cash register. Den I know."

"You don't know?" I enquire.

"No, all prices are in cash register," she says. "I teenk it around dollar tirty cent."

I've got $1.37 in Canadian coins. If she guesses right, it'll rid me of them. If she's wrong, she's already rung it up. I'll have to break a bill. Then I'll be stuck with even more change to hide in the coinrolls I bring to the bank. What kind of system, is that where they don't know the price of anything until AFTER you buy it?

While I'm deciding what to do, the woman walks away. I talk with a hispanic guy, also behind the counter.

"I'll have a small coke." I tell him.

"There's only one size," he says getting a large bottle from the freezer.

"Is that $1.30?" I ask.

"No," he says, "It's around a dollar ninety five, I think. I have to put it into the machine before I know."

"Where's the small Coke for $1.30?" I ask. He shrugs and asks a pretty Negress, also behind the counter. She shrugs and asks the Slavic woman.

"Small Coag. Small Coag." she says, "You take from machine there. I reeng it small coffee.

That's one dirtee."

Sure enough, the out-of-order machine works just fine. I fill my small cup with Coke and give it to the Slav.

"OK," she says, pushing the proper cash register buttons, "that $1.38 with tax." ***********

Back in New York. I check the mail for the weekend. There's a jury duty notice. For my first day in court, I hastily throw together some reading material: a fanzine from Detroit, an Edward Albee play, a review copy of Evan Cohen's GG Allin tourbook, I Was A Murder Junkie. I stuff them all into a black briefcase, figuring it'll look good in court.

My English teaching job doesn't pay me for my days in court. The court itself will give me $40 a day, eventually. Having done this thrice before, I know that most of the time you wait. Wait to get called to a trial. Wait to get interviewed to be on the jury. If you're chosen, you wait while they choose the other eleven. If you're not, you go back to the main waiting room and start all over.

This writing cubby hole is an improvement on the old boredom. What do I mean THIS cubby hole?

Well, it's weirder than an open mind at an MRR staff meeting. I type these very words from inside The Criminal Court building at 100 Center Street in Manhattan. I'm on jury duty, and here, while you wait, they have these cozy little cubicles where you can take care of business or go nappy poo. I'm beatin' the keyboard of my ancient laptop, with its half burnt-out screen, a Furious George sticker on the back.

There was a time when I wanted out of jury duty. My first reason was the same selfish one as yours. It's boring. It's a pain in the ass. I have better things to do. My second reason was more ethical. "Who am I to judge another person?" "Do I want to be responsible for putting someone in jail? "What if I make a mistake?"

The American justice system sucks. You've got two actors, called lawyers, doing a song and dance routine in front of a twelve-person audience.

There is no gong. Instead, the audience uses "guilty" or "not guilty" to vote for their favorite. The rich get thespian attorneys. The poor get jail.

Just like you do, I mentally whisk my ethical reason in front of my selfish one. From the mirror, it's all I see. The next problem? How do I get out of serving?

Unfortunately, unlike you, the reality of the city, the world, and justice catches up with me.

"If I were cop-caught and hauled into court, who would I want on my jury? Those yuppie Republicans who have nothing better to do than listen to TV news and click their tongues over the runaway crime rate? Or some like me who is as unlikely to vote GUILTY as a vegan is to eat at McDonalds?" If I were on trial, I'd want ME on the jury. Is it fair to deny that to anyone else?

So here I am, no effort to get out of it.

Waiting the wait. Hoping to get the chance to keep someone out of jail.

Flash back to yesterday morning: Having decided to serve, I walk through security. This being America 1999, you have to go through a metal detector and physical inspection before you do your civic duty.

"Could you open your briefcase?" asks the overweight man at the metal detector. He seems tired, despite an effort at friendliness.

I open the case. There on top is I WAS A MURDER JUNKIE in the boldest type I've ever seen.

The guard looks at it. Looks at me. Then looks at the briefcase. Tight-lipped, he lifts the manuscript and peers underneath, checks the compartment in the back. He closes the briefcase and returns it to me.

"Thank you sir," he says.

From security, I take the elevator upstairs, check into room 1510 and register to serve my time. I'm there ten minutes before the scheduled deadline of 8:30.

Room 1510 is huge. About 200 soft-padded chairs are bolted to the floor. At one end of the room is a large semi-circular desk, like you find in the customer service area of Office Depot.

Against one wall is a row of cubbyholes like the one I now type this column in.

The first cell phone rings at exactly 9:00.

"Guess what, Murray?" comes the half conversation a few rows behind me, "I'm on jury duty...."

Before long, the room is abuzz with ringing and more half conversations. I oppose the death penalty, but I make an exception for using cell phones in public places. Kill 'em all!

This being New York, the 8:30 proceedings start at ten o'clock. A tall thin man, grey hair, open shirt, comes to the big desk. He looks-- and sounds-- like a talkshow host.

"Alright ladies and gentlemen," he says, "welcome to the New York Criminal court. Thank you for coming..."

Like you have a choice, right?

"Make sure the back of your jury slips are filled out completely," he continues. "Any error and we may not be able to properly reward you with the princely sum to be paid for doing your duty."

I applaud when he says, "If you have a cellular phone, please do not use it in this room.

Go out into the hall to make and receive calls. No one wants to listen to one side of your conversation, no matter how interesting you think it is."

That's telling 'em!

Besides the cell phones, juryroom annoyances includes a geriatric woman apparently in the late stages of tuberculosis. Her coughs are harsh and continual. Amazingly, she does not spit blood.

Then there's the talker. You know the kind, often teenage girls. This one's a small man not much older than me. He sits across the room, but there's a non-stop unintelligible drone. Extremely annoying.

Now, the grey-haired MC goes into a stand-up comedy routine. He's Jay Leno, twenty pounds lighter-- without the chin. "Now we'll collect the jury ballots and ask you to sit back down. I direct your attention to the two video screens..."

For the first time, I notice there are two TVs, one behind the main desk, one on the wall to my right.

"For your entertainment and education you'll meet celebrities and ordinary people," he continues, "much like yourselves, who will try to convince you that what you're doing is more than a civic pain in the posterior. Please pretend to pay attention."

The roomlights dim. On the screen is Ed Bradley, the Negro from 60 Minutes. He's telling us the history of juries. How in the Middle Ages they had trial by fire, and trial by dunking and how we've come so far from then. He tells us about the power of juries. How in England a jury found someone not guilty who the king wanted to jail.

Instead, the king jailed the jury. After a massive protest, no jurors were ever again jailed for voting their conscience.

That's the argument for "jury nullification." That means, jurors can vote against a law they think is bad, even if they believe the person on trial violated that law. Jurors can ignore the judges instructions and vote not guilty on principle. There's nothing the judge can do. Gimme a drug case! Come on! I dare ya!

There are two lawyers represented in the video. One is a Negro the other a woman. Typical of what you see in the courtroom. Yeah right.

Then comes Dianne Sawyer, the queen of sleaze TV. She's responsible for destroying people's reputation just to sell TV dinners. No juries for Dianne. She's a female scumbag who'd drag you naked through the mud if it could boost her ratings. SHE comes on the screen and has a sincere heart-to-heart with us prospective jurors.

"You'll have to face a voir dire," she says.

"That's Latin for 'see say.' That's where the lawyers ask you questions and get to see, as well as hear, your responses."

"The jury system makes America great," she says. "It's your protection against tyranny."

Yeah? What about ABC's tyranny. What about how you set up guys with fake drug tests, then "expose" them later? What about THAT tyranny, Dianne? Your stings and entrapments. Your lies and innuendos. What about those, huh, Dianne?

Video's over. Lights come back up. The MC returns.

"Wasn't that wonderful?" he says, sarcasm dripping from his mouth like cum after a blowjob.

Then he's gone-- for another hour.

Cell phones ring constantly. A brnnnnng here.

A bau bau bau there. Most people, answer quickly, gather up their belongings and go out into the hall. There is one girl, though. About 25, she's plump, with a brown ponytail. One hand is wrapped in an ace bandage as if she'd hurt it punching someone who asked her to turn off her cell phone.

She radiates hostility, though not at the continual stream of people who call her. On the fifth call, a skinny blond woman, sitting in the front of the room, turns around.

"Could you please take that outside?" she shouts.

Bandage-girl ignores her.

"Excuse me," she persists, "would you take that outside?"

Ignored again.

The blonde gets out of her seat, goes through the back door of the waitingroom. In a few minutes, she's back. A few minutes after that, the MC returns to the front desk.

"I'd just like to remind everyone," he says, "if you have a cell phone, please use it out in the hall. We want to have as little disturbance as possible."

The blonde told on her! She snitched! I would have rather seen her confront the bitch. Just go over there and say stop it. Rip that phone out of her hand. Whack her one. Scratch her face. Pull her hair. Direct action. Isn't that the problem these days? No one wants to do anything directly.

They just take it to the cops, the courts, the government. We can't take care of our own problems anymore. Would we need so many jurors if people interacted with other people instead of going through THE LAW?

The MC returns. He carries a little metal drum, like the kind churches use to pick out bingo numbers. About the size of a gift-can of popcorn, it's rusted red with a crank on the side.

"And now ladies and gentlemen," he says, "you might have your first chance to prove yourselves fighters against tyranny. If you hear your name-- or some close approximation, please stand out in the hallway. You will meet the judge. You'll be voir dired, just like in the video. Please be respectful of the judge. Wisecracks or other forms of disrespect may land you in extremely profound fecal matter."

He spins the drum and pulls out a name, "Carlos Ramirez."

"Here!" comes a voice from the crowd. A mustachioed man, about 35, stands and walks out into the corridor.

The MC calls about thirty names. Mine is not among them. Both the cellphone girl and her accuser are chosen for the same voir dire. I hope they get on the same jury. THAT will be fun.

"Thank you," he says, "the rest of you may go to lunch now. Be back at two fifteen."

After lunch there is one more jury call.

Again they don't draw my name. The next day, at noon, there comes an announcement from our MC friend.

"Thank you ladies and gentlemen, all jurors for the week have been chosen. Your jury service has ended. See you in four years. Don't forget me."

Discouraged, I pick up my bags and leave. A young Negress smiles at me. "Well, that was painless, wasn't it." she says. "I was afraid I'd be picked for a jury or something."

"Yeah right." I answer and head for the elevators.

ENDNOTES:

--> You can check out the details on one of Diane Sawyer's horrible media slaughters. Look at: http://www.brillscontent.com/columns/investigators _0299.html.

-->And they all charge an extra buck fifty for the cash machine dept: The e-zine Interesting: (subscribe with an email message to:

rich.sagall@pobox.com) reports that The United States has more banks than the rest of the industrialized world combined. I don't know if this means bank BRANCHES or different banks. The way it's going in my neighborhood, soon only Chase Manhattan and Citibank will be duking it out for Shylock of New York. Or.... the new Citichase bank. Soon to be bought by Microsoft.

On a related front, Interesting also reports that American bookbuyers bought 1.06 billion books in 1996. Barnes & Noble sold 13% of them. Barnes & Noble, the largest bookseller in America, has over 400 stores. That's more than twice the number of its closest competitor, Borders.

Now, how long before it's Barnes & Borders?

--> Put some diapers on that baby Jesus dept: If you remember last month, I told you about the great article on viagra written by David Steinberg. He's since informed me that you can read it directly on the web at:

www.sexuality.org/davids.html.

You should.

Also from David comes the story of photographer, Craig Morey. He wanted to send four of his fine art prints to a publisher in England.

He brought them to DHL and shipped them from Southern Ohio.

Two days later DHL returned the photos with no explanation. When he called to find out why. A spokeswoman told him, "DHL does not handle pornography."

The photographs were simple nudes, with no good parts showing. Morey asked what made them "pornographic." There was no answer. Morey inquired about the privacy issue. Does DHL open, inspect, and pass judgement on packages before they ever reach foreign customs. Do they do the same to packages WITHIN the US. Again, no answer.

Steinberg decided to find out for himself. He called DHL. After a run-around, he finally spoke to a PR man.

"DHL is governed by the customs regulations of all the countries we ship to," said the flakman. "There are differences in the customs regulations of different countries. We reserve the right, as do all private express carriers, to open and inspect the contents of any shipment."

Steinberg pushed onward, "What I want to know is why DHL puts itself in the business of deciding what British customs would or would not consider obscene, instead of letting them decide for themselves."

"DHL is not in the business of testing the bounds of foreign customs restrictions," came the reply. "DHL has a legal obligation to insure that shipments in its networks are in compliance with foreign customs laws and restrictions." (Not true, according to Steinberg.)

"Many countries have prohibitions on the importation of pornography." he continued. "Since the shipment in question contained nude photography, it fell into this category."

Wow! Nudity is pornography. I bet

Michelangelo is sure glad he's dead! That David, with its dangles, would never make it to the US-- at least not via DHL.

"Let me be absolutely clear," Steinberg says, "You're telling me that no one can ship a nude photograph of any kind to the UK via DHL."

"That's right," said the spokesman.

"What about nude photographs shipped within the US?" asks Steinberg.

"The same procedure would apply," says the DHL man.

"What about written material?" asks Steinberg, more and more amazed.

"DHL, says the spokesman, "would apply the same 'conservative approach' to any written material that could possibly be considered pornographic."

What can I say, except "Hellooooo Federal!"?

Federal Express shipped the photos without opening the package. There was, of course, no trouble at all with British customs.

-->Washington Post Truth-Jockeying dept: Brill's Content (June issue) reports that The Washington Post printed a horror story about how 226 pretrial inmates escaped from custody during a three-month period. Worse than that, according to The Post "83 of them were later rearrested on new charges, including armed robbery."

The numbers are true, but the story lies. Of the 83 new charges, 63 were for ESCAPING. That means the escapees did NOT commit new crimes. They only escaped. What about the manslaughter and armed robbery? One of each. That's it. The paper used real numbers to lie. You can do that with statistics. Just ask The Washington Post, or most any social scientist.

-->I can do anything you can do better dept: Remember the execution order that the Iranian head Moslem put out for Salman Rushdie? Remember how it was splashed all over the press and how evil that made Muslims seem? Ho ho!

The Toronto Star reports that, in Jerusalem, Rabbi Shalom Mashash issued an order of death again two Tel Aviv Jews, Benny Pour and Amnon Cohen-Shur. The crime? They questioned the credentials of another Rabbi. Did you read about THAT one in your local paper? Missed the splash, huh?

--> What do they mean "Palestinian Autonomy" UNDER Israeli rule dept: The following is taken from the "Queer Arab" mailing list, forwarded to me by my friend Bassam. (To subscribe send a message to: www.sexuality.org/davids.html with "subscribe queerarabs" (no quotes) in it.)

"I once knew a gay Arab Israeli who cruised the park in front of the Hilton in Tel Aviv and liked to get it on with Israeli soldiers, in full uniform with their Uzis knocking against him in excitement as they made love behind the bushes.

According to him it was also quite common for Israeli gays to have fantasies about dominant Arab men. In Tel Aviv, the Palestinian Arab and Israeli Arabs would try to pass as Jewish Israelis at the gay clubs, even speaking Hebrew.

The joke at the time (this is a couple of years ago) was that you could tell who were the Arabs because they had even more gold on than the Jews."

--> You want to like 'em, but they're so dumb dept: While in Canada, at a radical bookstore, I picked up a leaflet headlined "Why

Environmentalists Should Not Use the Internet."

The unsigned (always a cowardly move) piece of paper claims:

1. EVERY TIME YOUR ORGANIZATION BUYS A COMPUTER, 20 TONS OF WASTE IS CREATED IN MANUFACTURING.

No evidence. No numbers. No idea where twenty tons could come from. My computer weighs 12 pounds!

2. AUTOMATION IS ACCELERATING THE RATE AT WHICH INDUSTRY REPLACES ARABLE LAND.

Huh? Automation makes NO change in arable land. It simple replaces jobs done by humans with jobs done by machine. It's possible that some of those machines cause more air or water pollution than the humans they replace. It's debatable, but certainly reasonable. But "arable land"????

3. NOT USING THE INTERNET IS THE MOST VISIBLE WAY TO INDICATE YOUR INTENTION TO REDUCE THE USE OF COMPUTERS.

Double huh? The internet itself can reduce the use of computers-- or at least the purchase of new ones. With the internet, people share information. To give ten people information without the internet, you need ten computers. But with the internet, you only need one website.

Libraries have internet connections so you don't even need to own a computer at use it.

Funniest is that all this is set in very large type, using only one side of a piece of paper. With normal type you could print two leaflets on half a page. This uses a full page for one notice. How many trees died for this one?

-->FWI Dept: The Thorsazine website reports that In Maryland, it is illegal to sell condoms from vending machines with one exception: prophylactics may be dispensed from a vending only "in places where alcoholic beverages are sold for consumption on the premises."

-end-

--Mykel (mykelB@ix.netcom.com)

http://www.freeyellow.com/members2/seidboard/index.html