I went to court on Monday. Save the snide remarks, I was not booked for indecent exposure. You’re looking at someone with a clean record, or the fortune of never getting caught in the act. Call me O.J. On second thought, don’t. I was there to fulfill my civic obligation — jury duty.

I am one of the fortunate few including J-Lo, Brad Pitt and Oprah, who had the privilege of being part of the fair and balanced judicial process of this country in 2007. Are you spotting the sarcasm yet?

This was my first taste of Lowell court and hopefully my last. I was to report at 8 a.m. sharp. At that hour I am usually still dreaming about Tom Brady with nothing but his pads on. Abandoning my football fantasy I headed to my downtown destination. Two loops of one-ways later, I finally located an empty spot in the metered parking lot across the street.

After setting off the security gate more than a dozen times, the guard gave up and let me through anyway. I filled out a questionnaire that asked me just about everything except whether I was a terrorist. Wait a minute, that was part of the true or false section. I left it blank.
The court officer informs us that the city doesn’t allow anyone reporting for jury duty to park where I did. Myself and about a dozen others were instructed to move our cars a few blocks away to South Street. It would have been nice if that was posted before I dropped $2 worth of quarters into the meter.

At my new parking location, I was greeted by a homeless hippie. I thought he was the lot attendant until he began screaming at the pigeons about how a Smurf swiped his blueberry muffin earlier. If I still had those eight quarters I just pumped in the meter, I would have bought him another muffin and a coffee too.

Trying to make him laugh, I told him it must of been Papa Smurf who stole his muffin to feed the rest of the Smurfs since Smurfette is anyone but Martha Stewart when it comes to cooking. I think I may have confused him more than he already was, if that was possible because he started to bark.

Walking back to the court house, I began to wonder if he would think my collection of Britney Spears albums in my back seat were worth anything. The homeless man, and I am presuming he was since he looked as if he had been wearing the same clothes since Brit was dating Justin Timberlake, was better dressed than myself. You see, my trick was to look as disheveled as possible in hopes they would take one look at me and send me home. That plan backfired right when I walked in the door and saw the rest of the jury pool. I should have started talking about Smurfs and muffins. That guy had the gig down. I am almost positive he has never served on a jury.

Settling into a seat in a cramped room with no windows, the lady to my left pulls out a Walkman. At first I thought it was George Carlin stand-up, but as I listened more carefully, it was a self help audio book. For the next five hours, I learned how to tell the “aggressor” in a relationship that it is not your fault and that love is a gift. I kept thinking I was in an episode of Seinfeld and was about to pull a Costanza.

It was my own fault. I am not one to shirk my duties, but last week I thought about postponing. I Googled “getting out of jury duty,” and fetched more than 1,780,000 hits in .28 seconds. There was a guide named, “How to Get Out of Jury Duty and Be a Hero for it” and CNN called dodging the duty a “national pastime.” To encourage people to attend in Florida, the judicial system plastered Harrison Ford on billboards as a spokesperson. I am assuming the subliminal message is you should feel lucky to serve ... punk.

I could have listened to my friends for once. They suggested I pretend to be prejudiced. I didn’t want my fellow jurors to think I’m an insensitive racist. But this was not a jury of my peers. Looking around the room of 50 people there was one young Spanish woman and a 20-something man of Middle Eastern descent. The room resembled a meeting to block the Home Depot in Billerica, not an inner-city court room. The defendant would take one look at the jury and think it would be more discouraging than working the valet at a Family First fundraiser where Ann Coulter is the guest speaker. No tips that evening.

I told the judge this when he asked me if I harbor any prejudice. As you can imagine I was sent home, but at least no one will think I have white sheets hanging in my closet next to my BCBG dress.

The city can send my $2 to 491 Dutton St. Others can e-mail lowellita@lowellsun.com.