Edward Albee is speaking tonight at 6:00 at Ingram Hall at the Blair School of Music on the Vanderbilt University campus on the topic of “The State of Theater and the Arts in America.”

It’s free and I guarantee they’ll be turning folks away at the door. I don’t know how many chances there will be in my lifetime to see someone who has won a Pulitzer Prize, much less THREE of them.

For more details, head on over to here and get the skinny straight from the Commodore’s mouth.

Nice.

Sorry I haven’t posted for awhile. I can only chalk part of the time away up to the fact that I had jury duty.

But I’m here to tell you, it wasn’t as bad as I though it would be.

I have always bragged, “I’d be glad to serve on a jury. In the unlikely event that I was ever involved in a jury trial, I’d sure rather have a dozen reasonable, thoughtful people like me on the jury instead of twelve people too dumb to get out of jury duty.” As the date of my service approached, I began to waffle on my sense of civic pride.

To back up a little bit, I got the jury summons about six weeks before I was due to serve. That allowed plenty of time to clear my calendar. The letter was clear in its instructions and included a parking pass, a map to the designated underground lot and a number to call the night before in case they didn’t need me. (No such luck.)

I intended to be as absolutely self-righteous as possible and take the bus to my first day of duty since the Courthouse is only a couple of blocks away from the main downtown bus stop. But apparently the MTA adjusted the schedule the #7 bus since I last rode it and I got nervous about showing up late. I’m not into contempt of court penalties

So I ran back to get my truck and drive downtown. The lot underneath the public plaza is huge, five levels deep. I’ll have to remember that next time I can’t find a spot before a Preds game. Passing through security was easy and they shuffled us into a big comfortable waiting room where I figured I’d pass a lot of time. It turns out I was wrong.

Judge Haynes welcomed the couple hundred prospective jurors and led us in the pledge of allegiance. I was feeling more patriotic by the minute. She told us that the juror pool is not drawn from the voter registration roll as is commonly assumed. It comes from the drivers license list. So if you don’t want to be eligible to serve, you can still register to vote. You just can’t drive yourself to the polls.

All the civil trials start on Monday and they are usually over by Wednesday, so we were promised air conditioning, 90 minute lunch breaks and $10.00 a day plus parking if we actually served on a jury. But with only three trials on the docket, I figured my odds were pretty good to be out of there in a day.

Wrong.

I got called in the second group of names for the prospective jury pool. Still, they called 25 names to fill 13 slots (including one alternate) so I figured I was still a coinflip away from freedom.

Wrong.

“Mr. Chamberlain, please sit in seat number 3.” Hmm, maybe I’ll get excused as part of the lawyer questioning.

Wrong.

I won’t get into the details of the case, but it was a chiropractic malpractice case and they never asked any questions that I could even make an objectionable answer up for. “Oh yes sir, your honor. I think I could judge people fairly. As long as they’re not guilty.”

But on the whole, the process was interesting and worth my time. It wasn’t like “Law and Order,” but it was better than “Matlock.” The judge and officer of the court kept excellent control of the process and my fellow jurors were a pleasure to serve with.

You aren’t supposed to talk about the details of the case at all until you start deliberations, but you are locked in the juror room for several hours a day during breaks and while the attorneys hash out objections and points of order with the judge. The small talk was fascinatingly meaningless as we danced around topics and personal histories.

Everybody wears name tags, but the type was so small that I tended to just give everybody nicknames for my own reference, kinda like regulars in the bar. I tried to guess what BikerDude thought of the slimy expert witness who he kept scowling at. NiceOldLadyWhoBroughtCookies looked like she was going to be a sympathetic juror who I worried might drag deliberations on and on. RichGuyWithTheSuitAndBriefcase always took copious notes and had “foreman” written all over him. HotChickWhoNeverTalked sat behind me. Damn.

In the end, our prospective foreman was drawn as the alternate right before we went into deliberations, so he was excused. In his absence, I was elected foreman since I fessed up to having led lots of meetings and being good at building consensus. Luckily, after three days of testimony, we were 95% of the way to a verdict for the defense when we first shut the doors. We did take the time to thoughtfully go over all the evidence and exhibits and answer any questions that the jurors brought forward.

However, I did have a bus to catch and folks had spent a long time cooped up in that room, so after awhile somebody said, “What the hell are we doing? She’s lying, right?!”

Your honor, we have a verdict…

So if you’re called to serve, don’t complain. Jury duty is a chance to serve as the collective conscience of Davidson County. I’m counting on folks like MetroBlogging Nashville readers to bail my ass out if I ever get in trouble.

Did I mention my neck hurts?

Oh yes, please give us a glimpse into the distant future 15 minutes from now.

Then at 6:30 Jennifer and Tom proceed to rehash the top headlines from the days of yore thirty freakin’ minutes ago! Worst of all, they make us wait until five minutes before the hour and two separate sets of headlines and weather forecasts before us sports fans can get our short Titans fix.

Here’s a hint, it was hot yesterday. It’ll be hot tomorrow. You can take up a half hour for the weather when it changes. Or the quarterly tornado threatens Rivergate Mall.

I’ll admit Tom and Jennifer are attractive and competent, but their talents (and my time) are being wasted.

I’d like to buy a vowel, Pat. Can I have a “K?”

In related news, Eddie Van Halen and The Eddie Van Halen Band* has announced a new tour with Diamond Dave. They’re not coming to Nashville.

Strike one.

*Rockin’ Todd Snider song reference

But in an effort to appease the tobacco lobby, the Smoke Free Tennessee legislation will not officially be enacted until October 1, 2007. Smoke `em if you got `em.

But not at Bosco’s in Hillsboro Village.

They decided to formally eliminate smoking inside their Tennessee restaurants more than two months earlier, beginning Monday, July 16. They kicked off their smoking ban with a weeklong promotion last month called “Trash Your Ashtray,” whereby the company donated one dollar to the American Lung Association of Tennessee for every ashtray that customers dropped off at either of the two locations.

To ensure that the fundraising component got off to a solid start, Boscos guaranteed a minimum donation of $1,000 to the American Lung Association of Tennessee. Says Chris Kizer, manager of the Boscos in Nashville: “Some people are surprised that a restaurant such as ours would be so adamantly in favor of the statewide smoking ban since some of our customers enjoy smoking in our bar areas and on our decks. However, the health concerns we have for our customers and employees far outweigh any loss of business that we may experience as a result of the ban. This is simply the right thing to do, and that is why Boscos made the decision to ban smoking ahead of the formal implementation of the law.”

A silly promotion? Maybe. A good idea? I think so. I, for one, am glad they stepped up early. I’ve been to both Manhattan and Ireland in the first month after their respective indoor smoking bans. Despite all the hewing and crying about how it would ruin the social scene and the bar experience, people adjusted very quickly.

As a matter of fact, standing outside of the building enjoying a smoke has become a new opportunity for singles to meet like-minded vice sharers. “Yeah, my friends banished me out here too. That’s a cute trach tube you have there. You wanna go get a cup of coffee?”

They apparently have finally shelled out the $7.99 to buy their own domain and get it off of Bart Durham’s law office site, but it is still just as bizarre as ever.

Rumor is that you can also see it on Comcast On-Demand, but I’m really frightened by the prospect of seeing Bart’s Munschesque visage on my big screen in high def. I would expect some sort of Medusa reaction, so I think I’ll stick with online viewing.

I’m not certain why something called Nashville Soap Opera was filmed in San Antonio and Malibu, but I smell a boondoggle. Maybe the Durhams should specialize in tax shelter laws instead of personal injury, but that’s just me talking.

Anyway, I heartily recommend knocking back a bottle of Benedryl (strictly for allergy treatment, of course) and curling up with your laptop to view a few episodes of this serial. It’s enjoyable in a freak show sorta way.

In a word…no. (Go ahead and pronounce that like you were saying it in Spanish.)

Our group of three approached the hostess stand and was asked if we would like to eat inside or outside. Since this was before the recent heat wave began to melt the asphalt on Edgehill, we requested an outside table. A manager-type stopped our server halfway to the door and yelled, “You can’t seat them out there! I already promised a table to a couple who is in the bathroom.” We felt like we needed to apologize, but a quick peek out the window led me to point out that there were indeed three empty tables outside.

The manager relented and allowed us to sit on the patio, but only after loudly admonishing our server that “We just can’t treat people that way.” Indeed.

Imagine my surprise when I looked over at the shiny happy table next to me and saw my fellow MetroBlogger Andrew enjoying a birthday fete. The fix was in. Rosario’s had been fully infiltrated for the evening. We agreed to independently evaluate our experiences and not to talk during the meal. (Which was fine anyway, because they looked like they were having fun and our group was kvetching about how hot it was and that the margaritas sucked. But I’m getting ahead of myself.)

Our server arrived at our table fairly quickly and attempted to take our drink orders. Two margaritas were quickly ordered, but when I asked if they had a top-shelf version so I could try something different, his train of thought became completely derailed. “Top shelf? What do you mean?”

I explained (to a freakin’ waiter in a MEXICAN RESTAURANT) that a top shelf margarita usually contained a higher quality of tequila than the Pep Lopez swill that regular margaritas are based upon and that it frequently had a float of Cointreau and/or Grand Marnier. As an aside, Red pepper in East Nashville makes a great top shelf margarita with Sprite and Orange juice to torque up the flavor.

Our server pulled a drink menu (finally) out of some recess of his pants and dropped it in front of me on the table. “We’ve got all sorts of really expensive tequilas if you want `em, but I think they’re for shootin’. If you want a margarita, I wouldn’t go messin’ with the good stuff.”

Friendly, yet unwanted advice. I ordered a glass of sangria, because what else ensures a good Thursday morning hangover better than red wine, brandy, sugar and fruit juice. When the margaritas arrived, we decided that I had made the right call.

It wasn’t the best sangria I’ve ever had and they weren’t the worst margaritas in Nashville, but nobody asked for seconds. The sangria was cloyingly sweet and the margaritas tasted somewhere between a straight shot of sweet and sour mix and a glass of yellow Gatorade with a splash of tequila. Neither was very refreshing, unfortunately.

For our meals, we ordered the drunken shrimp burrito, the chili relleno and the tofu burrito. Yeah, I’m the one who wanted to try the tofu. Somebody had to represent for Kate O’. Our server gave us the option of “wet or dry” with the burritos, with a further choice between red or green sauce. We opted to try both sauces on the side.

While we waited, and waited for our food we snacked on the $2.00 order of chips and salsa. Sam Davidson had raved about them and he seems like a pretty level-headed dude. Or maybe he’s just a lot more forgiving than we were. I’m hoping maybe we just we caught them in between fresh batches, but the chips were stale and tasted store-bought. The salsa seemed to just be a recently-opened can of stewed tomatoes with no other discernible flavoring added. Gerber’s baby food would make a better dip. Feh. They do not offer queso to make them any better.

But we remained optimistic for our entrees. After all, this is a restaurant I can walk to and I really wanted it top be good. My girlfriend is not the type you can cross too many times and get away with it however. How I’ve managed to keep her around this long is one of life’s great mysteries.

We should have known when the food arrived without the normal Mexican warning of “hot plate, hot plate, hot plate” that something might be amiss. On the whole we were disappointed again.

The chili relleno had very little spice in it at all. I expect a good chili relleno to fight back when I eat it, or at least to be swimming in so much grease that I feel a little guilty. This one tasted like a stuffed bell pepper from Luby’s Cafeteria. The drunken shrimp burrito was filled with a paucity of shrimp, and the ones that were present were the tiny cocktail king that you can buy by the bag in the freezer section of a grocery store. It was really more like some sort of Sea Monkey holocaust than a drunken shrimp party.

I have to admit that I liked my tofu burrito. I say I “have” to admit it, because it’s never a good thing when I enjoy my meal and the people I’m dining with don’t. See the above bit about my girlfriend…

The preparation of the tofu was well executed. Sometimes when I eat meat substitutes, I want them to mimic the meat they are replacing. Other times, the attempt can just get distracting as there is no way I’m going to believe that bbq wheat gluten will actually pass for pork.
In this case, the tofu made an excellent burrito filling especially in concert with the absolutely rocking red mole sauce that Rosario’s hangs its hat on. Of the entire meal, our group’s lone unanimous praise was for this sauce. The green sauce was a little acidic and hot for our liking, but the mole had just the right combination of smoky, peppery chocolate overtones that complemented everything on the table. We would have added it to the margaritas had they not already succumbed to three inches of melted ice.

Our bill for three people including (barely deserved) tip was $72.15. We decided we could have eaten for a week at Las Palmas for that.

Surprisingly, the Tennessean gave Rosario’s and excellent review last week. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised since I have a long history of disagreeing with the opinion of the Tennessean. Not the least of which is the fact that they apparently think that Nancy is a funny comic and has been worthy of precious funny page real estate for over thirty years.

But we can agree on the mole sauce. They raved about it and I concur. But will I go back just for the mole? Probably not.

Thanks to the efforts of a certain feline member of our household that has managed to pry off several keys from my ancient Dell laptop, leaving me forced to write like e.e. cummings, I am in desperate need of a new laptop. Unfortunately, having just returned from vacation, I don’t have a grand and a half to spend.

But let’s pretend I did. Where would you send me and what should I buy? This is not intended to spark a Mac vs. PC debate. I’m already bi that way, so I am open to any and all suggestions.

But even I have to admit that this one threw me for a loop.