I have spent the last week visiting all over Northern California. I went to Sacramento, Santa Cruz, Napa, San Francisco, Monterey and a mess of other places in-between.

I toured such places as The Mystery Spot, just outside of Santa Cruz where supposedly, the laws of gravity are slightly twisted. There was all sorts of nausea-inducing vertigo, complete with yourself and other’s bodies leaning at an angle. You can see some photos I took on my Flickr account. Sorry, but there’s not too many.

I visited Alcatraz, the ex prison-island in the San Francisco bay and browsed empty inmate cells and spent a few moments contemplating extreme isolation while standing in “The Hole”- the tank they throw the misbehaving inmates into when they’re bad. No light, no sounds, nothing but you and darkness. I saw Al Capone’s supposed prison cell and saw the evidence remaining of a major hostage taking, prison escape attempt, resulting in a bunch of people killed. There were scars in the floor from hand-grenades, tossing into the cell-block by F.B.I. agents. It was a pretty fucking cool tour. Here’s some images of it. Here’s a link to some of the history of the island prison.

On Cannery Row, I went to the Monterey Bay Aquarium. I’d have to say that it’s the single best aquarium that I’ve ever been to. I molested a sea cucumber and ogled scores of penguins, sea otters, sharks, tuna and jellyfish. That place is one seriously major aquarium. I was really impressed. More photos here.

I even spent the night in a supposedly haunted house. A Victorian B&B in San Francisco, according to it’s manager was the residence of a little girl and at least one adult male, both deceased. the girl’s screams and weeping could be heard on the third floors as well as many unusual noises and apparitions. Over the years, testimony from guests, having bizarre experiences in the bedrooms had cemented the house as being haunted by those who worked there. The house isn’t advertised as such, so I’ll refrain from naming it. I spent the night there, alone except for one guest on the floor above me, having the entire second floor to myself. While I didn’t spy the undead, creeping through the the halls, I did hear some questionable noises and was sufficiently scared so that I didn’t sleep a single minute the entire time I was there. It was damn freaky shit and I was glad to leave. I took multiple photos of all twenty-two rooms with the idea that I might catch something odd. No such luck, but you can still see them here. Let me know if you see the face of Satan or anything I might have missed.

When I got home from work yesterday, there was a letter waiting for me in the mailbox from the Brooklyn city courts. Apparently I’d failed to respond to two previously mailed juror questionnaires and the letter was informing me that I was to present myself at the courthouse within ten days of the letter’s date or face a fine of one-thousand dollars and possible imprisonment.

Unfortunately, the letter was mailed to my old address and Brooklyn mail being what it is, took three weeks to get to me. So, since the letter was dated September first, my mind was suddenly filled with the horrid thoughts of unreasonable fines or worse, being the ass-toy of whoever has the most cigarettes on the cell block to buy me. Not my idea of fun. This kid is far too pretty and way too skinny for prison. I was never much into sports and at this stage in my life, it’s really not in me to embark on a professional career as a shower room soap-picker-upper.

I tried calling the courthouse, but they were closed for the day, so I was left to stew in my own neurosis until the next morning where, assuming I survived the night, I could run my ass straight down there and try and sort things out. I lay awake till four in the morning, running through every scenario ranging from indignant and righteous ranting at the court and mail system to lying prostrate and whimpering before the judge, begging for leniency towards my poor, withered self.

Of course, my mind and paranoia being the state that it is, I started thinking about imprisonment. Specifically, jail time in the New York City correctional system. What if they threw me in the slammer for not responding to jury duty and/or for just being a shifty degenerate leech on society? Could I handle it? Would I be able to just walk in there just like Paul Newman in “Cool Hand Luke” and gain the respect my fellow inmates by bucking the system and refusing to bow to the “man”? Not likely, seeing as I’m not particularly charismatic, nor do I have a likable smile, backbone or the hard-boiled egg eating prowess that Luke commanded.

What about gangs? Should I join one for protection? I think my IQ would be too high for the Aryan Brotherhood. Biker gangs are out, unless it’s a bicycle gang and even then, I don’t ride anymore and any gang that might have a name like “Schwinn’s Angels” doesn’t seem too fear inspiring. Bloods are out. So are the Crips, unless they let you in for being mentally crippled. The Mafias out, unless they have a Irish/French Canadian branch that I don’t know about.

Perhaps I could start my own prison gang? Do they have ones for disaffected, twitchy and neurotic weirdos that have semi-erotic dreams about talking penguins? If so, would we command fear?

All I know of prison is from movies and six long seasons of OZ and if any of it is to be taken as fact- skinny, antisocial white guys have two possible scenarios: dead or wearing lipstick and braiding the hair of some big dude who considers them his personal anal pincushion. Things do not look good for the tweaky white boy.

All these fearsome thoughts kept me awake until sometime before dawn, when I managed a few hours of fitful sleep away from the horrid visions of myself as the branded, bikini wearing bitch of a Rikers Island cell block.

When I awoke, I took a moment to gather my courage before calling and prepared my strategy. If the shit hits the fan, I’d shave my head, grow a beard and tattoo “Gerome” on my forehead (an added touch to confuse “The Man”) and skip the fuck out of Dodge to someplace remote, peaceful and safe like Montana where I’d head to the mountains, living off the land and befriending bears and shit like that dude from that 80’s TV show “Grizzly Adams“.

This time, my call to the courthouse was answered and I was transferred to the Jurors department. When a lady answered the phone there, I proceeded to gush, practically verbally vomit my situation through the phone line and all over her morning bagel and coffee. Dear sweet woman, I reasoned, can you not find it your heart to understand that I am not to blame in this error? I have the yellow forwarding sticker showing the dates!!! I come from a good family but along the way, I admit that I have erred at times, but if shown this one little bit of mercy, I swear I will reform my ways to live a life of upstanding honesty and morality. No more evil, pinky swear!

Somewhere in the midst of my pleading and ranting, the lady said something along the lines of “Jesus Christ, will you calm down? Just come here, fill out the questionnaire and we’ll take care of it”. I stumbled over some profuse thanks and she hung up on me.

That was all. It was over. I filled out the form and went to my job in the city, a little bit older, a little bit weirder, but at least not about to be incarcerated anytime soon.

So I’m now of the opinion that Michael Jackson is going to get off (the child molestation rap, that is). I really do think he’s got to be a pedophile, but the case against him sucks, big time. He’ll get off on reasonable doubt and high-tail it out of the country and hire new people to make damn sure his kiddie-humping tendencies never again come to light.

I really, really want to see him burn and while I’m no fan of pedophiles, the real motivation behind wanting to see the book thrown at him is that some day, I know that I will feel compelled to read the no-holds-barred biography, unauthorized by his estate that you just know is going to come out after he’s kicked the bucket. What can I say, I want it to be good. I want some action and several chapters of that freakball alien adjusting to prison life sounds awesome. So, fuck reasonable doubt, let’s throw the fucker in prison.

Better yet, let’s throw him in the slammer and make a reality show about it for television. I can just about guarantee that whichever station takes that leap will secure the highest ratings ever. “Michael Jackson’s Real World: Cellmates”, you heard it here first.

There’s some things about prison that are general knowledge. Little guys get raped by big guys and pedophiles generally end up dead or used as the general purpose sperm disposal unit for the entire cell block. Everyone knows this. Being the disgustingly rich media star that he is, Jackson would likely cool his heels in some sort of resort-prison, much like Martha Stewart’s recently served sentence, but I can’t help but wonder what glorious drama you’d get from throwing MJ into general population at a regular prison.

Possible imagined scenarios:

1. Jackson wins prisoners over with a blockbuster bout of moonwalking and spine-tingling renditions off “Beat it” and “Bad”. Forms paramilitary pop army and takes over the world.
2. After getting beat the fuck down upon arriving, Jackson throws himself into bodybuilding and hand to hand combat, effectively becoming the world’s deadliest gloved one. After assuming control of his cell block by crushing all oppostion single-handedly, Jackson maintains control for many years with a “Hee-hee-hee” and the occasional vibrating palm of death.
3. Jackson is adopted by the Aryan Brotherhood, gets shaved, tattooed, grows a Hitler moustache and later on is unmasked as the Antichrist.
4. Jackson becomes the multipurpose fucktool for anyone with the most cigarettes. Much lipstick, dropped soap, laughter, tears and stiches ensue.

The list could go on. You see, he really needs to go to jail. It’s just too good.