As I approached the park bench near the boat launch, turnaround point of our walk, I noticed the male mallard wander off, leaving the two little ones scurrying along behind mama duck. Gulls are omnivores, and I wouldn’t put it past them. Years ago I watched a nature special that had gulls raiding a puffin colony’s eggs and hatchlings, and it boiled my blood fairly well. I’ve never seen gulls the same since. Every so often a gull cruised menacingly close to mama, causing her to veer off with the little ones hurrying behind.

 “What’s the matter with you?” I wanted to holler at Papa duck. “Get back over here!” But he kept paddling off toward an egret and some shorebirds. “Dereliction of paternal duty!”

 I kept an eye on them in the midst of all those much taller gulls, as we continued back toward the USS Hornet, but there wasn’t much I could do. I considered throwing a rock or two at the gulls, but what good is that? I’m going to take the day off work and stand out there all day, rocks in hand? I wondered if I’d ever see them again.

 And yet, over the course of the next week, I did see them. Well out of the cove, near the shoreline riprap next to the soccer field. It’s darker in the overcast mornings now, but there they were in the gray morning gloom, two dark little ducklings paddling along behind Mama, tiny little guys.

 I met my dogwalking friend Ray that weekend, August 27th and 28th, and they were still there. He has chickens in his backyard for their eggs, and on Sunday we sprinkled some of his chickenfeed on the boulders closest to the water, hoping that might help Mama and her little ones grow. They swam out away from the shore as I worked my way down the riprap, and then we walked off, hoping they would come in and feed.

The next Monday all the chickenfeed was gone, and so was the little family.

 All that week, the start of September, I didn’t see them. I know there are raccoons out there; in the darkness I once realized Edie had chased them into the water (two pairs of glittering eyes watching us in the inky water just off shore).  Along about Friday I did see a lone female farther out in the water, calling plaintively, and I wondered if it was her. One morning I stepped up to the edge of the riprap again, looking up and down the rocky shoreline, and out popped a female mallard. I felt bad, and even spoke aloud. “I’m sorry you lost your little ones.” And at the sound of my voice out scurried the two little guys from their hiding place in the riprap!

 She quickly led them out into the bay and I led Edie, my black lab, away from the shore, but I was happy to see they had made it that far – the little ones were clearly growing.

 I don’t see them every day now, but I see them occasionally. About a week ago I figured the ducklings were a third the size of Mama, and this morning they seemed to be about half her size. They steamed out from the shoreline before I got to their usual hiding area, going in opposite directions, me heading toward the boat launch, them heading out toward the rotten piers before the USS Hornet and the container ships. There must be food for them out there.

 I’ll try to remember to bring my camera and see if I can get a picture—bearing in mind that bringing the camera probably means I won’t see them.

 It’s awfully late in the year to have little ones, but as we have mallards here year round, I suppose they don’t have to migrate anywhere. And I don’t suppose they’ll be going to visit their Dad, the deadbeat. Mama ought to sue for duckling support. Is this where the phrase ducking your responsibility comes from?

One said:

I’m already against the next war.

That one induces a bit of a wince. I’d like to think we might support our next military venture. But after the conservatives forced millions of us who opposed the war to waste our tax dollars on their pointless, indefensible slaughter in Iraq, I fear the next campaign will be as arrogant and ignorant as the last. (Of course, the same people who forced all of us to waste billions in the sands of Iraq complain loud and often about liberals forcing them to spend nickels and dimes in social welfare programs … )

The other bumpersticker read:

Slower minds keep right

 I laughed out loud at that one; it pretty much explains American politics for the last 30 or more years.

I first became a fan when I was a freelance book editor, back in the early 90’s. I had various tasks, some more demanding than others, so I’d take care of the stuff requiring concentration first, and save the easier stuff for 10 o’clock when I turned the program on.

They never pick a year in the preceding decade, and back when Dave Morey did the program he never picked a year earlier than 1967 (that I ever heard). So it was stuff circa 1983 and older. Good for me, in that I like the period from ’64 to ’73, as well as the new wave era, circa 1977 through the early 80s. When Morey retired, “Annalisa” took over and she will push it back a little earlier, circa 1966 or ’65, which is fun.

As I work 8-5 in an office now, I don’t listen during the week. But I used to turn on the Saturday morning marathon, when they’d play all five of the weekday shows back-to-back.  I cleaned the kitchen with ten at 10 on in the background, and would even check the web site to see the sequence of years they were playing, so I could have a year I really liked going while I loaded the dishwasher, cleaned bottles for my brewery, washed tupperware and scrubbed out pots and pans. It made a ho-hum task a lot more pleasant.

But I use the past tense for a reason. KFOG has stopped playing the Saturday morning ten @ 10 marathon! I’ve no idea why. Just shut it off on us cold turkey, man. One more example of life getting worse, ya know? Is it so much to ask that we keep one little thing making life a bit easier?

Is there a petition somewhere? A letter writing campaign to other radio stations telling them there is a ten at 10 void they might fill?

What was it, the 30- 40 minute block of time without current advertising? So stick in additional advertising segments rather than pulling the plug entirely, for cryin’ out loud.

Sigh.

On the bright side: another local radio station plays the Beatles every Saturday morning. So I’m filling the weekend morning gap with a lot of John, Paul, George and Ringo on 103.7, “the Band”. Take that, you unnamed Cumulus Radio exec who pulled the plug on my Saturday mornings!  I’ve gone over to the competition, baby.

And I’ve got a good mind to start buying the products they advertise, and to write letters to your advertisers explaining why I’m not buying their stuff, too …

They are using security cameras to catch the predatory knuckleheads who are taking advantage of the situation to rob and loot. Not everyone believes the cameras have been used to good effect. And the surveillance camera system is already being criticized.

 But I live in a city next to Oakland, and we saw the riots after Oscar Grant was killed by BART police on New Years 2010. Anarchists used the chaos of the protest as an excuse to smash windows and grab goods. Bad enough in and of itself, but on top of that, we all pay for their parasitic partying.

After cleaning up the mess, the shopkeepers simply file claims with their insurance companies and the government, which costs are simply passed on to the rest of us. On top of the costs of increased police presence.

We don’t have cameras like this in the US, and if we tried them, doubtless the overzealous first amendment crowd would be up in arms claiming it is an invasion of privacy.  What privacy? The right to cause mayhem, rob and loot? It would seem to me that law abiding people have a lot less to hide than criminals.

 If the London Police already have 600 people in jail, good for them. I’ve seen enough of the joyous kids in hoods dancing around and laughing in the background on the TV news coverage. And I hope the British use every legal advantage they have to get more names out of this crowd, and raid more houses to get back just as much of the loot as they can. Give the next generation of looters something to think about before they gleefully head out the door the next time a protest grows unruly.

I even have notions every so often, and write posts in my head, usually while commuting or walking the dogs or during a bout of insomnia.

Am going to try and be better about committing them to electronic ink.

I do have one bit about our doggie IQ test and how the pups scored, involving a picture.  But I’ll have to retrive the software for my camera to download the images since the near-death viral experience my home PC barely survived in April …

Because her mother is older now, the missus was out of bed like a jack in the box, so I woke to her side of the conversation. “Yes. Yes. Okay. Thank you.”

It was the police. Someone had stolen the catalytic converter out from under our Toyota truck, which was parked across the street from our house.  The neighbor closest to it heard the sound of tools on metal, looked out the window and saw a “dark vehicle” near our truck, and called the police. The dark vehicle left a few minutes before the police arrived. Leaving with our catalytic converter.

Apparently, there are fences out there who sell catalytic converters to junkyards and such. The police dusted for fingerprints. If the #$%& jerks are caught, the reward will go to the woman who called the police — our thanks to her, again.

What a nuisance.  It’s a $100 deductible to us. Plus, we won’t have the truck back for a while, until the insurer approves the estimate for replacement.

The kicker? This is the second time the catalytic converter has been stolen from that truck …

My instinct is not to answer, which is ultimately pointless, as I’ll just lay awake until I get up in annoyance to go check the machine and see who the hell it was.

 My wife is more sensible, and answers the phone. Her responses to the caller are calm, measured, along the lines of:  it’s okay, no they don’t, it’s all right, no, okay.

 I figured it’s her octogenarian mother, who sleeps irregularly and thus would be awake in the middle of the night, and it’s true, she has been, and was watching the news. “There’s been an earthquake in Japan, and she called to see if tsunamis come here.”

 I didn’t get back to sleep, and occasionally for the duration of the morning thought of how big a wave it would have to be to engulf the Golden Gate with sufficient volume to flood San Francisco bay enough to register on our little island.

 Shortly after 7 I queued at the ferry to get in to work. Just the usual line of commuters, most in their own worlds, a few who’d also had early phone calls, comparing notes.

I looked out at the estuary and the port of Oakland and smiled to myself, of course, if all the water begins to drain from the estuary toward the Golden Gate, I’m going to turn right around and head the other way.

 I didn’t realize how bad it was, so far away, until I got in to work.

It’s bad enough to get picked for jury duty while still getting paid. I was on jury duty while on unemployment. Further, a couple weeks earlier I had been mugged. Mid-afternoon, what I thought was a jogger approaching from behind, a stiletto in the back of my left thigh and shoved headfirst into a car hard enough to scrape paint from the car onto a lens of my glasses. I blacked out, and came to as my back pocket was being shredded for the $40 – 45 in my wallet. 

It happened on a sunny afternoon on Clayton street in San Francisco, a block from the post office near Haight street. Simply reacting, I started yelling, and people were out on the sidewalk to help me really fast—as were the police and an ambulance in which I rode to the hospital with my head taped to a long board behind me, from my head to my kester. My only ambulance ride, and I was curious to look around but couldn’t see a thing other than the interior roof because I was immobile.

 Patched up, I was out of the hospital in a couple hours. Someone found my wallet and tossed it in the gate to my flat. The muggers were seen fleeing back across Golden Gate Park’s Panhandle; they probably had a car ready on the other side of the green parkway, making pursuit difficult, probably enroute to their crack cocaine fix. Anyway, I mention this because I still had the black eye when I answered the jury summons, although I think the brow stitches had been taken out.

 And then I was empaneled, and somewhat curious about the circumstances that first day when we were told the defendant was accused of indecent exposure. He certainly looked like an upright, clean-cut young man.

 During opening arguments we learned that out at the end of Golden Gate Park, near the old wind mills, there are soccer fields where Hispanic families would gather and have picnics while the young men played soccer. The children would wander off, as playing kids do, and that’s how they discovered the gay trysting spot near the windmills, in the bushes.

 So the parents complained to the city, which meant more police patrols at that end of the park, and is how horse-mounted police came across the defendant and a newfound friend in a state of undress.

 Which only begins to hint at how the trial was a bit surreal, at times. For instance, among the first to testify was the police officer who made the arrest. He clearly wanted to be elsewhere. He was asked if he noticed anything about the defendant’s, umm, manliness. He said, “it was kind of small.” I remember the defendant frowned at that, all in the solemnity of the courtroom.

 I’m not making this up.

 It turned out the defense consisted of an attack on the cop’s credibility – the defendant claimed he was wearing a piece of penile jewelry, called a Prince Albert. an example of which was even introduced as evidence.

 Ah, San Francisco.

 The defendant testified that they were kissing but “not making out,” whatever that means, and that they were just wrestling playfully.

 In voir dire, the process of selecting the jury, we were all asked if we could listen to police testimony with an open mind. We were asked repeatedly if we could be objective. And yet, the first thing that happened in the jury room was that two people claimed they didn’t believe anything the police said. They knew the police lied.

 Hello? And how honest were you during voir dire?

 It was awful.

 Despite the judge’s admonition to keep an open mind and listen to each other, one guy actually said we should all pick sides then fight it out.

 A number of jurors got hung up on the concept of “beyond a reasonable doubt.” We had lengthy discussion on what that meant. Well intended, for the most part (idealistic, even), but ultimately a sort of semantic noose.

 I hate to get too caught up in identity politics. I firmly believe in gauging individuals on their own merits. But there were two Asian-American women who saw it as I did. I still clearly remember one who said, in her accented English, “men don’t go meet other men in this way jsut to hold hands.” They were pragmatic, I think, refreshingly honest about men, and the three of us tried to convince those caught in the middle ground.

 Those who believed the defendant innocent focused on me – what would it take to change my mind? I guess they thought if they could sway me the rest would follow.

 It didn’t happen, and for the second time I was part of a hung jury. Frankly, this time I was the reason it was hung. Apparently better than the defendant. (Sorry.) It was pretty exasperating. The district attorney clearly didn’t want to spend his time on this crap, and he fled the courtroom as it ended, but I hurried out the door after him and chased him down in the hallway. It hadn’t been entered in testimony (for good reason) but I was curious – what happened to the other guy?

 “Oh,” the prosecutor said, “he pled guilty and paid the fine.”

 Yeah, that was a couple weeks well spent. Some guy defending his constitutional right to traumatize children. I’m sorry, pal, but get a room, ya know?

So I’ve been on three juries now, twice we were hung juries, and now I’m in an approximately month long trial on a complex medical issue again. Obviously I can’t write about it until it’s over, but I will say I’m already sizing up my fellow jurors. And I’m hoping, hoping.

My second criminal trial was for attempted murder in 2002. Before I get to the specifics, I have to say right up front that one of the things I like about the city of Oakland, California is that the different races generally get along. I once heard that every city block of Oakland is integrated; so the races mix well, White, African-American, Asian, Hispanic, all things considered.

 Having said that, the defendant in this trial was a black fellow, and the jury was mixed. Additionally, at one point on the witness stand he did try and play to the jury’s sympathy on racial lines. He brought up the movie Rosewood until the judge stopped him from playing the race card.

 I hate to say it, but it made it easier that the near-victim of his murder attempt, a police officer in a hospital waiting room, was also African-American. The sad truth is it reduced the racial sting.

 And race was an issue right from the start. The hospital waiting room was full, and he felt his girlfriend was not being helped quickly enough because she was black. So he caused a ruckus and wouldn’t quiet down. Security got involved and then the Oakland police and the next thing you know, he and a cop were wrestling and he pulled the officer’s gun out and managed to squeeze off a couple rounds before fleeing out the door. He escaped then later led the police on a merry car chase onto the freeway.

 There was security camera footage of the tussle, but it was herky-jerky enough that it was difficult to verify either the prosecutor’s or defendant’s claims about the wrestling match.

 Fortunately, the jury this time handled itself well (unlike the second jury I was on, more on that later). A few people were argumentative, but the rest of us worked hard to ensure that everyone was heard. So the jurors who were most cautious about convicting the defendant made their points, and we could go through them carefully.

 It wasn’t without incident. One woman kept interrupting the foreman (who was African-American) and it got loud. Without telling us, she went to the judge and complained, which got us all a remedial course in juror etiquette. (Oh, for fun.) She later made a big issue in the final voting of how we still didn’t know what she really thought (regarding additional allegations) but by that time an air of determined calm was there for the rest of us. She said her piece, we stayed focused and moved on.

 When it was over, she made a point of telling us how impressed she was with the intelligent analysis exhibited during deliberations. Similar to final deliberation, we moved on unfazed. And I couldn’t get away fast enough.

 But at least we had reached a verdict. Ten years earlier we hadn’t been so decisive – in a more exasperating if comical trial, which I’ll post on next.

I was really hopeful I might not get picked this time, and went into the jury box as opinionated as could be. No luck. I’m juror number 7. An asbestosis case, no less – grim stuff, lots of medical testimony, and then 12 of us to decide whether some guy deserves monetary compensation decades after the exposure happened.

Additionally, it’s down in Fremont, and jury trials in this courtoom are heard in the mornings from 8:45 to 1:15, so it’s not like they are speeding it along. It’s half days and then out the door.  After two days I already felt like a trapped animal ready to gnaw it’s own limb off to escape.

 The first time I was on jury duty it was a civil case in 1982 or ’83, involving a construction worker who fell and hooked his arm around a beam—the violent jolt of his arrested fall caused severe elbow joint damage. He subsequently was in physical therapy at a bay area hospital and alleged that the aggressive therapy caused even more damage. The two bones of his forearm suffered ossification, fusing them together and limiting his range of motion.

 I do remember one of the attorneys cross-examining a medical expert (in that jovial courtroom manner attorneys have as they pal around) and telling us he had tried to get the doctor he was questioning for his client, but the other side got him first. Thus I learned of the lucrative trade in testifying as an expert for monetary gain.

 After we heard all the evidence and closing arguments, things in the jury room did not go well. For me, back in my 20s, it began as an interesting experience in the machinations of the law and quickly descended into captive stress. Jurors did not agree. People were desperate to get out – one guy was a day laborer and pled with the judge to let him go, to no avail. Another fellow from New Orleans locked himself in the bathroom and said he couldn’t take it. He gave notes to the bailiff to take to the judge begging to be excused, but to no avail.

 We were a hung jury, and afterward found out we were the second time through litigating the same case!  Argh – how do you expect 12 laypersons to fairly determine advanced medical issues?

 And now, almost 28 years later, here I am again.  *Groan.*

Just to round out the fun, this doesn’t lessen my duties getting out the door in the morning. I still walk the dogs, et cetera, but now I have to make my way to BART to go southeast, the length of the Fremont line to the county courthouse out there, and then, when they spring us sometime between noon and 1:15, I get back on the BART train and go all the way in to San Francisco to do my job for a few hours before turning around and heading home.

So I’ve invested in some BART reading material, at any rate …