Usually most people dread jury duty but I, unlike most people, had not popped my juror cherry yet. Things were getting busy at work and my boss pretty much hates me. (If looks could kill I would have been dead two months ago.) So it appears that jury duty could

I have recently returned from a voyage through time and space. Or at least what felt like it. For the past three weeks, mentally, I have been trapped in a world revolving around 850 Bryant. And during regular business hours, physically, that’s where you’d have found me. I learned first

I can’t deny it; I’m a pretty busy lady, days filled with “do I have to move the car for street cleaning today?” followed often by the “Who can find my car first?: Parking enforcers v. Me” game, which in SF is about to get a whole lot more challenging,

In the collective opinion of the vast and almost complete majority of American citizens above the age of age eighteen, few things rise to the level of scorn and disgust as jury duty. And for good reason. Jury duty is essentially what happens when you take some of the worst