Last week*, I had the pleasure of sharing my body with the influenza virus. No, I’m not being sarcastic. I kind of dig having the flu. Sure, there’s the fever and the sweating and the yacking. But after all that, if you’re really lucky, you might just be given the pleasure of having The Sexy Voice.

Yes, that’s right, The Sexy Voice. A deeper, manlier voice. A voice that seems to come from some other entity inside. A voice that makes heads turn. A voice of authority. A voice of influence. A voice that cannot be ignored. It is The Sexy Voice, and it is exclusively mine.

I had The Sexy Voice last week, but not for long. I was given the gift for less than a day. And that’s just the thing about The Sexy Voice: You never know how long you’re going to have it. So the moment you get it, you have to work fast. Call your friends and see if they can tell who’s calling. Rerecord your voicemail greeting. And if you work in Advertising (as I do), walk around the agency, reading as many radio and TV scripts as you can. People will tell you,  you should do voiceover work professionally. Thank them for the compliments, but don’t let it all go to your head. Because, before you know it, The Sexy Voice will be gone.

Which brings us to today. I woke up at around 5:00 AM, hacking and coughing. The time of the sexy voice has past. I am now nothing more than another victim of the flu, sniffling and sneezing, wondering when this torture will be over. When I try to speak, I sound like Satan going through puberty. It’s not a pretty voice. It’s not a sexy voice. It’s the voice of a sick, pathetic old man. And I can live with that — as long as it means I have those few precious hours of joy where my vocal chords sound like they’re lined with velvet.

Of course, I know influenza is a very serious virus, capable of killing someone if not properly controlled. But I still refuse to get a flu shot every year. It’s not just because I have an overwhelming fear of needles (even though that’s the biggest reason), or that the influenza virus mutates every year, making the flu “vaccine” nothing more than an educated guess. No, there’s another reason, a very stupid reason. A reason that is pretty obvious by now, but I’m going to wait to tell you, just so I can add more rhythm to this paragraph and end it dramatically. That reason, of course, is The Sexy Voice.

*By “last week,” I mean more like last year. When I started writing this blog entry, I really did have the flu the week before. But it took me months to finally get around to finishing it. Yeah. Talk about procrastination.

Hey, thanks. I appreciate the thought, but it seems like you’ve made a horrible mistake. You see, it’s not my birthday. No, really. If anyone would know, it would be me. And what’s with all of these Over The Hill jokes? Aren’t those for people over 40? C’mon, give me some credit. Do I look like I’m over 40? Well, that’s my point. So do me a favor and take all of these fucking cards and balloons away. I don’t want to see them right now. Huh? What’s that? Well, technically, yes. It’s Thursday, but… Well, yes, I suppose I might be turning 40, but… OK, fine, fuck it. Just give me the damn balloons. Bleh. I might as well start looking at retirement homes in Florida.

I had to perform my civic duty last week and I thought I’d share with you what I learned. Keep in mind, this is just based on what I encountered through the L.A. County court system. If you live in a different area, don’t bother reading any further.

OK, are all those other losers gone now? Cool. Let’s get to the review:

ATTIRE: You have two ways to go here: One, you can try to look like a slob, figuring nobody will pick you for the jury. Or, two, you can go for the business-casual look. I, of course, tried the slob route, but it didn’t help. I made it past the first round of jury interviews, even when I was wearing my whimsical grey hoodie. Whatever you end up deciding on, WEAR COMFORTABLE SHOES.

Ladies, I know how important it is for your shoes to match your outfit. Screw that. You are going to be doing a LOT of walking. Leave the heels at home. You will thank me later for the comfortable shoes tip. Trust me.

DRIVE TIME: No matter where you live, be sure to give yourself plenty of time to get to the courthouse. There could be a traffic jam. You could get lost trying to find the courthouse. Or all of the above, as it was in my case.

PARKING: Most likely, the court will tell you to park at 1st and Olive. It’s closer to the courthouse, but it’s a pain in the ass to get out of there sometimes. You also have the option of parking at the Disney Concert Hall parking lot. This is a nicer lot, but you’ll have some hiking to do at the end of the day (more on that later). If you do park in the Disney Concert Hall lot, REMEMBER TO HAVE YOUR TICKET VALIDATED at the end of the day. Otherwise, Mickey and Donald will kick your ass.

THE HIKE: Do you like exercise? Well, you’re certainly going to get some when you do jury duty. The courthouse you’re assigned to will most likely be at least three blocks away. Nevertheless, the walk from the parking lot will be pretty easy. It’s all downhill. Which means, yeah, it’s all uphill on the way back. Of course, these streets aren’t San Francisco steep, but they do require some effort, which is why you need COMFORTABLE SHOES.

THE CHECK-IN: When you get into the courthouse, you’re going to need to go through a security check. So have all of your metal stuff in one pocket ready to take out. And leave your gat at home.

THE ELEVATORS: The elevators near the front only go to the higher floors. Depending on where you need to report, you may have to fight everyone to get on one of the other elevators. Good luck. You’re going to need it.

OUTSIDE THE JURY WAITING ROOM: I don’t remember the official name of this room. I like to refer to it as “Hell On Earth.” If you get here early, you’ll just be waiting with everyone else in the hallway. There’s not much point in it. Still, don’t arrive late. Even though you’re just going to be sitting there and waiting for hours, if you show up late, they’re going to turn you away and tell you to come back tomorrow (as they did with me).

INSIDE HELL ON EARTH: There are some things you can do to make this more bearable. For one thing, find a good seat. They’ll tell you to sit in the front, but don’t listen to them. Take a look around. If you need an outlet for your laptop, find a seat near one. The rows of seats in front may look uncomfortable, but they have flexible backs, so you can sort of recline. This is great for relaxing. But it sucks if you happen to have a large woman with frizzy hair sitting in front of you who likes to recline. Bleh.

GETTING ONLINE: Looking for some free WiFi? Good luck. The only Web access for the lowly jurors can be found in the center of Hell On Earth. You’ll find some computer kiosks there. It’s $5 for one hour of access or $15 for the entire day. Once you sign up, you can check out the latest Yelp Talk threads, sign on to AIM, etc. I tried plugging my flash drive into the computer, but it wouldn’t show up anywhere. Oh well.

THE WAIT: Bring some work to do. If you have no work, bring a book or a magazine to read. Otherwise, you may have to talk to the people around you. About two hours into the wait, you’re going to wish you sat in front of one of those computers and sprung for the $15 to get online. Trust me, you will.

LUNCH TIME: You get an hour and a half for lunch, but I think you spend twenty minutes of that waiting for the elevator to take you down to the first floor. Do what I do. When you’re in the waiting area, you’re allowed to walk out into the hallway to make a phone call. Take that break about fifteen minutes before noon. Then just wait out in the hallway until you see the stampede of jurors coming out the door. When you do, make a mad rush for the elevator. You beat the system!

Remember, you have an hour and a half for lunch. Use it. Don’t spend it choking down food in the cafeteria. Get some exercise (you did wear your comfortable shoes, didn’t you?) and hike up to Grand, just past MOCA. That’s where the good food is, such as Mendocino Farms (they make a killer sandwich).

THE CALL: If they do call your name, you’re screwed. No, I kid. If they call you’re name, it means you’re going to another version of hell, one with less comfortable seats. If they ask you to drop by the window before you go to the courtroom, you’re not in trouble. They just picked you to give the clerk (or whatever they’re called) the list of jurors for roll call. They also might give you a piece of paper to write down the actual time you entered the courtroom after they sent you down. (It was about 30 minutes later, by the way.)

IN THE COURTROOM: This is the grueling part. When they pass out the numbers, hope you don’t get one of the lower ones. Numbers 1 through 12 are OK, because at least you get interviewed first. Plus, you get to sit in the cushier juror seats. The higher numbers have a less likely chance of getting picked, but you have to sit on the hard, spectators’ bench for hours while all the other potential jurors are interviewed. Of course, you have no choice in the matter. So good luck.

DURING YOUR INTERVIEW: Just stick to what you’re supposed to say. We’re all waiting. If you were on a jury before, tell them if you reached a verdict. DON’T TELL THEM WHAT THE VERDICT WAS! It says on the board not to tell what the verdict was, but there’s always some dolt who can’t read. Usually, more than one.

If you want to get out of being on the jury, be an asshole. I found that the assholes were the first ones to be let go. Just say that you don’t care what the law is. If someone is in a gang, they’re automatically guilty of whatever they were charged with. Or you can use my tactic: hesitate when they ask if you can put your feelings aside and look at the facts. And when you say “yes,” don’t look them in the eye. Look off to the side. They’ll think you’re lying.

WANT TO BE ON A JURY? I can’t help you there. I got sent home after the second round of interviews. Just keep in mind that once you’re on a jury, they’re not going to let you park any closer to the courthouse. In other words, if you’re trying to lose weight or want to build up your leg muscles, this might be a great way to do it. However, if you’re like me, a lazy ass, you’re just going to be hating life. Jury duty sucks.

So, as many of you don’t know, I’ve been growing a beard for a couple of weeks. That said, I went into the men’s room where I work and took my position at the urinal. As I stood there waiting for things to happen, a colleague of mine came in and stood at the urinal next to me.

“You gonna keep growing that thing?” he asked.

I paused for a moment. “We are talking about the beard, right?”

OK, maybe you had to be there. Not that you’d want to be.

Have you ever had someone try to tell you a funny story, but when nobody laughs, they say, “Well, I guess you just had to be there.” ? Actually, this happens to me quite a bit. So before I tell you my funny story, I will attempt to actually put you in the scene:

It was Friday at around 12:45 PM. The place: Good Stuff restaurant. The city: El Segundo, California. This is your quintessential beach-town eatery, with floor to ceiling windows and surfboards on the walls. The air outside was rather chilly, with just a hint of the morning fog still lingering. Inside, the temperature was a comfortable 76 degrees.

We were seated in one of the less desirable spots: a center table, right near the front door. It was a table for four, yet there were only three of us. I sat facing west, while my friends chose to sit opposite of me, facing east.

There were no females in our party, so the banter tended to lean toward the discussion of the surfer-chick waitresses, most of whom did a very good job of distorting the restaurant logo on the front of their t-shirts: gOOd sTUff.

After my friends and I finished confirming our heterosexuality, the topic of discussion turned toward childhood exploits. This was the story I told:

One day, when I was a kid, I gathered all of my friends and family to watch me “pop a wheelie” on my friend’s bike. There they all were, lined up on the sidewalk, waiting for this momentous event. I climbed onto the bike, got it up to speed and when I felt the time was right, I pulled up hard on the handlebars. Unfortunately, in my excitement, I pulled up too hard. Before I knew it, my butt was kissing the asphalt and the bike was crashing into a parked car.

This story got a little chuckle out of my coworkers and reminded one of them about how, when he was a child, he used to be able to ride a wheelie all the way around the block.

“In fact,” he said, “sometimes I still dream about riding a wheelie down the street. Don’t you ever dream about doing something you used to do a long time ago?”

“Not really,” I replied. “Well, sometimes I dream I’m having sex.”

Anyhow, that’s the story. What? OK, maybe you had to be there.

It seemed like it was months since they last made love. True, passionate love. The kind of love that would cause a person to walk funny for the next few days. But tonight was the night. All those bottled up emotions were released in every powerful thrust. The box springs squeaked with unbridled fury. The headboard pounded against the wall. They were no longer civilized human beings. They were animals, wild animals. They had lost the ability to speak. All they could do was express their love through various grunts and moans. And I, I was there beneath them, lying in my own bed, a book in my hands and my eyes on the words before me. But I found my mind wandering, fantasizing, dreaming of being in that room above me, with only one objective on my mind: I would run up to that bed, raise my trusty bullhorn to my lips and shout, “Shut the fuck up! I’m trying to read! Jeeze, have some fucking goddamn courtesy!” And then, of course, I would run like hell.

So get this: My computer decided to take a crap this weekend, after I spent half a day working on a new blog entry. Ha ha ha ha ha.

No, wait, it gets better: I lost a lot of my files, so I drove to CompUSA to pick up Disk Warrior as a last resort. Ah, but today is Easter Sunday and, apparently, the folks at CompUSA were too busy hunting for Easter eggs to open up their fucking store. Funny, huh?

Which meant it was off to the Apple Store in Santa Monica. For folks who have no idea where I live (all of you), that’s about twenty-five minutes away. Of course, I decided to call first. I wasn’t about to head over there unless I was certain the store was open and the fucking software I needed was there. I’m no idiot. (or so I thought)

So I called directory assistance on my mobile phone, as I raced down the highway to the Apple Store (yes, it’s still legal to do that here in SoCal). Directory assistance patched me through to the Apple Store, which dumped me into their automated phone center. I was supposed to press “5″ for all other questions. I accidentally pushed “2,” which kicked me into Tech Support. FUCK!

So I redialled directory assistance. They credited my account for the previous call and patched me through again. Finally, I got in touch with an Apple Store rep. They were open and they had Disk Warrior! Thank goodness for pagans.

So I got home and ran Disk Warrior on my computer, only to find out it was too late. My disk was done for. Fortunately, I backed up my hard disk not that long ago. So I decide to reinstall the system software and start over.

The reinstallation of the software went OK. But as I was waiting for the back-up process to complete, I pushed back in my desk chair and glided gracefully across my polished cement floor. Then I heard an unsettling thunk. I turned around, to discover one of the casters on my desk chair caught the power cord to my laptop, pulling it off my desk, resulting in an impromptu suicidal swan dive onto the cold cement floor.

Now my computer’s really dead. Yeah, I’m an idiot. And I’m fucked. With stories like this, why do I need to make anything up?

Have you ever discovered your finger was bleeding, but couldn’t remember why? That happens to me a lot. Which basically means one of two things: Either I’m completely oblivious to the world around me. Or I suffer from Multiple Personality Disorder. I’m hoping for the latter.

Sure, MPD is a horrible mental disease. But sometimes I like to think that maybe, just maybe, there’s a part of me that likes to go out, wreak havoc and have fun. For instance, that cut I discovered on my finger. Maybe it wasn’t from an accident. Maybe it was from punching someone in the face during a late-night bar fight. And I fucking won! Yeah! Take that, motherfucker!

Hm, if I do lead a double life, I wonder what my other name is. Tyler? Nah, too obvious. It’s gotta be something wicked sounding, like Ivan. Yeah, Ivan. “Oh, shit!” the bar patrons would cry. “It’s Ivan!” And then they would scramble. But there would always be that one guy who was new and wasn’t easily intimidated. “Who the fuck is Ivan?” he’d ask. And I’d be more than happy to give him the answer. But then, to show him there were no hard feelings, I’d give him a lift to the hospital, maybe even send him a get-well card. Ivan may be one tough customer, but he’s also got a heart of gold.

OK, that might explain the cut on my finger. But figure this one out: A couple of mornings ago, I woke up to discover that my left achilles tendon was hurting like a motherfucker. I mean, I could barely move it. I ended up limping around for most of the morning until I broke down and popped four Ibuprofen and half a Vicodin. The Vicodin wasn’t just for the tendon. It was to kill the pain from icing my damn foot. OUCH! Twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off? Who came up with that shit, some kind of masochist?

Anyhow, where was I? Oh right, the tendon. I don’t know how this could’ve happened. I never exercise. So it’s not like I pulled it doing power sprints or something. No, there could only be one explanation: Ivan. That motherfucker. He must’ve gotten up shortly after I fell asleep and then went jogging — without bothering to stretch first! Yeah, so now I have to deal with this ache in my ankle. Thanks a lot, Ivan. You selfish prick.

. . .

OK, fine. I admit it. I kind of remember feeling a slight pain in my achilles while i was walking up the stairs the day before — walking, mind you. Not running. Oy, I am so out of shape, it isn’t even funny. Actually, I guess it kinda is.

Uh oh. I’m only in my late thirties and I’m already becoming a grumpy old man. Here’s a copy of the e-mail I just sent off to AOL headquarters. My name has been changed to protect the innocent.

Is there any possible way to remove my street address from your bulk-mailing list? I have no intention of ever using your service again. Isn’t it ironic that the company that claims to be fighting the spam problem is littering our landfills with unsolicited/unopened software CDs every day?

You need to rethink your marketing plan, AOL. What’s wrong with just having the CDs at the checkout counter? If people want to join, they’ll grab a CD. Sure, you might get a lot of new members with your bulk-mailing system, but at what cost? And by “cost,” I don’t mean your ROI. I mean the planet.

So if you could see what you can do about geting me off that list, I’d appreciate it. I’d include my street address in this e-mail, but I’m afraid of what you might do with it. No, you tell me who I need to talk to, and I’ll send it to them.

Thanks for your time.

Smivey

Step 1: Purchase a very nice gift for his parents and his baby sister. Make sure everyone else’s gift is much larger than the gift you got him.

Step 2: Give him something nice that he can’t use, such as two game cartridges for the GameBoy Advance system when he only has a GameBoy Color.

Step 3: Go to dinner with his family. Wait for the child to get in a better mood.

Step 4: Offer to walk the boy across the street to EB Games so he can pick out something for his GameBoy Color instead.

Step 5: Discover that EB Games does not carry cartridges for older GameBoys.

Step 6: Walk deflated child back to car.

Easy peasy.