I was reading this article about this guy who made the seemingly innocent mistake of driving through Nebraska with a large amount of money in his rented car.

This guy—Gonzales had teamed up with a partner and combined their life savings to buy a refrigerated truck and start a produce business. In total, they had $124,700 in cash. Gonzales found a truck for sale in Chicago and flew out there on a one-way ticket with the cash to buy it. However, when he got there, the truck had already been sold. So, with all this cash and no truck, he decided to rent a car to drive back. Since he didn’t have a credit card, he had someone else rent the car for him. Nervous about traveling with so much money, he hid the money in a cooler and stuck it in the trunk of the rental. Off he goes back home, until he gets pulled over for speeding.

A Nebraska state trooper stopped him on the interstate and in the process of giving him a ticket, noticed the guy’s name wasn’t on the rental contract. He started questioning Gonzales, who had a limited ability with English and ended up searching the car. He found the cooler with the cash and called in a K9 unit, thinking this guy must be either going to buy drugs or has just sold some and is slinking home with the profit.

The police dog shows up and sniffs out the car. When the dog gets to the cash, he starts barking. The cop tells Gonzales that he suspects him of trafficking drugs and confiscates the fucking cash! All of it!

Here’s the problem, up to 80% of US currency has trace amounts of cocaine on it. You take enough cash, especially the “I’ve been saving all my life in jars buried in the backyard” variety of cash, put it all together, yeah, it’s not so surprising a drug dog’s going to smell smell something.

Gonzales and his patner contested the seizure, won a ruling, but an appeal by the police had a circuit judge ruling against them and making the judgement that “Possession of a large sum of cash is ’strong evidence’ of a connection to drug activity.

Read the article. there’s no point in me rehashing the whole thing. The point is, I think it’s fucking ridiculous. I’d also argue that what the circuit judge realy wanted to say was “Possession of a large sum of cash and driving while Latino is ’strong evidence’ of a connection to drug activity.” It’s fucking disgusting.

I’m psyched to see that over the holiday weekend a US branch of the Pirate party was established, or at least got their website up and running.

I first read about the Pirate Party after it was first established in Sweden and made news in conjunction with thepiratebay.org’s trials, travails and public snubbing of US corporate bullying. My first thought was “Hell yes, but this party needs to be in the United States, the source of all unfair media restrictions, ridiculous copyright laws and all evils in between”. Thankfully and with hope, it has now arrived.

There’s not much going on yet and hopefully this won’t be one of those lame-ass, never off the ground, dead in the water, psuedo non-projects started mainly to garner attention. I find that really don’t care for the name, “Pirate Party”. While I understand the use and recent history concerning the term pirate in regards to digital media, it’s use is still to grey to me and given it’s historical connections with murder, theft and a whole mess of negative things, I question whether it’s appropriate for a party mainly concerned with copyright and usage reform. Sure it’s catchy, but in today’s buzzword-dependant media, amongst the non-7337, perhaps older and less media and tech savvy population, it sounds bad. Isn’t the whole purpose about freeing media, liberating ideas and fostering creativity? If so, why chose a word that denotes thievery?

Looking at the site, I was suprised to see that the pirate party also has branches in Belgium, Italy and France as well, which is great. I’d really like to see more countries join as well.

This past Thursday, fate stuck her incisors in my ass and I found myself ordered to appear at the Brooklyn Criminal Courthouse for a round of jury duty. I figured that my exile to that gulag of civic duty known as the Juror’s Assembly Room was in some way payback, be it karmic or realistic, for my extreme tardiness over returning that damn juror questionnaire for about four years. This time, I intended to be a good little American and show up on time and get this shit over with. I felt pretty confident that, once meeting during voir dire, no sane lawyer would ever want me to actually sit on a jury. I’ve been the victim of several crimes, one violent. I’m a leech on society and an all-around utterly despicable person. Good luck finding any sincerely redeemable qualities. Go me!

Choosing to heed what I later found to be decidedly unsound advice, I went out drinking the night before and got myself as wobbled and hobbled as any a self-respecting scurvied pirate with a bad case of the dreaded clap could wish for. In the morning, I dragged my still-drunken ass out to the courthouse and collapsed on a bench, lost in a undulating sea of near-vomitous joy. Covered in a light sheen of alcohol sweat, I passed the first couple hours twitching, itching and rocking back and forth like a Hare Krishna gone off the deep end, all to desperately divert my mind from the increasingly urgent fact that my stomach was knee-deep into a virtual Richard Simmons workout of projectile-like proportions. Hell, served clammy and cold on cheap, vinyl seating.

The first order of the day for myself and the other prospective inmates was a short film about the history of the judicial system. Hosted by Ed Bradley and Diane Sawyer of 60 Minutes fame, this cinematic gem featured such glorious moments as a reenactment by a bunch of renaissance fair flunkies of a medieval trial where the defendant is tied and dumped in the river, his innocence or guilt dependent on whether he should float or not. The aim of the film aside from putting food on the table for the lowest tier of out of work actor was to show us a timeline of the judicial history and hopefully make us feel better about our stay in the courthouse, because by golly gee, look how far we’ve come. We wouldn’t want to go back to dunking defendants and crucifixion would we? Well, actually I would be in a much better mood about having to spend an entire day sitting in a room with a whole shitload of strangers if we had some good old fashioned executions to sweeten the moment. How can you be bored when you have a guy with nails through his wrists and feet, hanging from a tree to keep you company?

It’s a fair assumption to say that if you take a hundred or so people and put them in a room, at least one is going to be shit-nuts insane. Normally, I’m resigned to wear that moniker myself. Show me a jar of peanuts and I’ll show you “fucking nuts”. However, that day I was surprised to find that I had some serious competition in the form of an elderly African American lady who for most of the morning, had been sitting quiet and unassuming in her seat near the front of the room.

After the film ended and the person in charge of keeping us in line returned to the room, the old lady sat up and asked for a question and answer session. The court officer rather reluctantly agreed and the woman proceeded to pull out a couple pages of scrawled notes and began shouting, “Why did you lie to us? The court system began in Africa! You stole it! Admit it! You’re a liar! I refuse to recognize this court because it’s based on a lie! Y’all a bunch of thieves and liars! Thieves!”

The court officer, with a look of glazed pain tried to nip it in the bud by informing the lady that the Jurors Assembly Room’s purpose was not to serve as her personal soapbox and that she was welcome to come into his office where he would be happy to hear her complaints and answer any questions she might have. “Hell no! You’re a liar! You’re big, fat and a liar and there ain’t no damn way I’m moving my ass for you! Hell no! You’re a liar and a thief. Admit it!” The court officer quickly retreated from the room and spent the rest of the day addressing us over the PA system, leaving us to fend for ourselves.

At one point in the early afternoon, the doors opened and a group of tourists were led into the room by a guide. Apparently, the Brooklyn courthouse attracts sightseers. A rather large posse of Asians and what looked to be Sikhs came in, cameras flashing. Their guide introduced us as the lovely and patient Brooklyn jurors, happily waiting to do our civic service. Naturally, this was meant as a light joke, but the crazy lady immediately stood up and started screaming, “That man’s a liar! We’re prisoners here. Ask him where the court system originated! He’ll lie to you! He’s a liar! The court system came from Africa!” A swift exodus of the befuddled and slightly terrified tourists was made.

In between trying not to puke everywhere, plugging my ears against this lady’s rants and another man’s wall-shaking snores, I mentally went over my game plan. Surely no court would want me on the jury and only a few questions would bear that out, but just in case, should I sweeten the pot with some choice behavior faults be they true or imaginary? I envisioned myself in voir dire, and the possible questions that could be asked based on my extensive knowledge of the New York legal system à la Law & Order:

Q: “What do you do for a living?”

A: “I make magazines, but my real love is rubbing my genitals against door handles. Hey, gotta love New york!”

Q: “Have you ever been a victim of a crime?”

A: “Yes! The court system was founded in Africa! Y’all a bunch of fathead liars!”

Q: “Based on your experience and knowledge of the crimes the Defendant is charged with, do you feel that you will be able to weigh the facts impartially?”

A: “Well it depends on whether he floats or sinks after we dunk him in the water. Just kidding. Actually, yeah I think I can. I’m wearing clean underwear. Do we get free tinfoil? Anything longer than an hour without being able to rub my junk against a door handle and I have to wrap that shit up, if you know what I mean and I think you do, you dirty, dirty devil.”

For better or worse, all my preparation was pointless. They never called my name. I spent the entire day in that assembly room. At around four-thirty, I was released with a sheet of paper to prove my service and promised that I would not have to repeat it for another six years. I left the building restless, relieved and with the understanding that I’d done my civic duty. I was a fine little American and I didn’t have end up rubbing my nuts on a door handle to prove it.

I can’t say I didn’t see it coming. Michael Jackson was acquitted and while he didn’t exactly moonwalk out of the courtroom on the backs of naked little boys, he certainly skated away scot-free, back to Neverland. It’s good to know surreality has a physical form on the planet, but don’t think for a second that I feel like he deserves this get-out-of-jail-free card.

I don’t know Michael Jackson. I’ve never met him. Yes, I owned “Thriller”. Yes, I am embarrassed about this fact. No I did not fetch the Vaseline for him, nor did I see him behave inappropriately with someone else’s child. I am not a lawyer. However, I still think he’s a pedophile.

I have my reasons, which I will list shortly, as to why I hold this belief. While I think he should be in jail, I acknowledge that the case against him was in large part utterly pathetic. You have to wonder what Tom Sneddon was thinking when, after amassing the evidence and witnesses, he decided he had enough to connect the dots and get a conviction. The accuser’s family, especially the mother was just straight-up shady, unreliable and seemingly pretty unstable. Even with a truckload of serious evidence, showing Michael Jackson to be a confirmed child molester, it doesn’t mean shit unless you can prove that he molested the specific child that he’s charged with touching. The fact that the kid has a mother who’s crazy and the whole family has a prior stain of being grifters is going to really fuck things up. Blame really has to fall to Sneddon for rushing this case to reality on such shaky ground. This trial was about whether or not Michael Jackson molested a 13 year old cancer survivor. I have to say, I can’t blame the jury for acquitting him. I think it’s believable that he did not molest that boy. Do I think his sexuality, whether internalized or externalized, is wrapped up in underage boys? You fucking bet I do.

Perhaps I’m jaded but I just can’t accept this “saintlike” painting that’s been put forward concerning Jackson and children, that he’s childlike and a “pure” person who’s love for children is all-encompassing and unconditional. His behavior, his mental state, lifestyle, company (as in children), his reclusive habits and the fact that he lives in an amusement park and models himself as a real-life Peter Pan all point to an obsessive interest in children. When was the last time you saw a photo of Michael Jackson with a little girl? If you stripped away the fame and the name and then asked anyone to look at the details of this man’s life, who wouldn’t come to the conclusion that there’s something seriously wrong going on in Neverland?

It is possible that Michael Jackson is not sexually active with children. His deviate leanings could be very well separated from his actions. While he can’t resist surrounding himself with young boys, he may be sane enough to understand that while he is sexually attracted to them, touching them is verboten. While it would be fortunate that he could control himself, it doesn’t make it okay for him to surround himself with boys and sleep in beds with them, however platonic.

However it may work out in his world, what it boils down to is a extremely rich man (regardless off his current debts you see in the news, Jackson still has major bank) who is very ill, mentally and is surrounded with people who are enabling his behavior instead of controlling it. It makes me wonder where his family’s and especially his employee’s motives lie when they allow him to pursue his interests with young boys. If you had a relative who is mentally ill and could possibly be hurting young children, would you stand back and allow him or would you assume as much control as needed to keep him from hurting himself and other people? That’s what stands out to me. This is a guy who is most definitely not self-sufficient. He requires handlers, employees and his family to oversee and run his little empire. What were they thinking and why aren’t they culpable as well?

A small part of me feels sorry for Michael Jackson. His private life was just dragged out and trashed for all the world to see. It really has to be hard to moonwalk a mile in his shoes. But the pity I feel quickly dries up when considering the dearth of evidence, much of it disallowed from the trial that makes it near impossible not to come to the conclusion that Michael Jackson’s sexual identity and history involves underage boys. A pedophile is back at his amusement park compound, essentially free to continue molesting children. Whether he or his handlers are going to be smarter about it in the future remains to be seen, but one thing is for certain, pedophiles do not have an off switch. He’ll do it again.

Yet another sign that America as we know it is going to moral and litigious hell. What kind of country do we live in where you can’t even sue a bitch for busting your jammy? WTF?