There was nothing I could do, and standing on the street would have made it even harder for qualified emergency personnel to get through, so I came back to the office. I like to think of myself as a pretty callous guy, but I have to admit that I was rattled and I'm still kind of rattled right now. I've scanned the papers and searched the web, but I've yet to see any word about the incident. I don't know what the point of even mentioning this is, but, you know, I'm pretty sure I saw a man die yesterday.

So, anyway, I don't know if this is me being sentimental or a big pussy or whatever, but take care of yourselves, okay? Don't jaywalk. Thanks. I'll try to snap back into being a dick again first thing in the morning.

Why? People. Let me tell you about other people. They are morons, and self-important morons at that. I'm generally ill at ease in any environment where a large number of people are asked if they have any questions, because the questions are always retarded and repetitive. Either people don't read their forms before they come to court or they don't understand them (or, most likely, they don't think they apply to them), but there's an incredible feeling of bile that rises in my throat when I suddenly realize that my next hour is going to spent listening to some schmuck try and tell a government employee who couldn't care less why his business trip is of such vital import to the nation's economy that he cannot be expected to perform his civic duty. And then another hour of a different schmuck explaining exactly the same thing, even though it didn't work for the last guy. I immediately felt sorry for whatever defendant drew these dunderheads as jurors: I'm pretty sure that 90% of all guilty pleas are decided on a "I'm going away for the weekend; let's just lock him up and get the hell out of here" mentality.

In any event, the first day was mostly eventless. The courthouse has Internet access now, so I was briefly able to catch up on Gawker and curse the fact that FUCKING DOREE GOT TO DO ALL THE RUPERT MURDOCH STUFF. But I tried to stay offline, and spent most of my morning reading the newspapers slowly and with rapt attention—much like the way one has sex when one isn't actually getting paid for it. The cliché about jury duty downtown is that the best part is having lunch in Chinatown, but it's true. When you get two hours in which to eat and you have an incredible array of places in which to do it, you sort of understand why the Europeans are way ahead of us in leisure activities. (FYI: The tong po pork at New Green Bo, 66 Bayard, is astounding: Fatty pieces of braised belly shellacked in Shanghai gravy, then stuffed into steamed buns with baby bok choy? It haunts my dreams.)

Returning from lunch, I was sort of excited to learn that I was getting called for a case. Maybe I'd miss the next three weeks of work! They herded us into a courtroom downstairs and gave us the details: small-time crack sale arrest. The judge said it could take up until August 13th. YES! I mean, sure, Conrad Black would probably mow down seven people before taking his own life and FUCKING DOREE WOULD GET TO COVER IT, but getting up at ten o'clock each morning and dispensing some justice, Balk-style? I could handle it.

Then the reality: There were other jurors. Some of them seemed smart and attentive, some of them were a decent subsection of Mahattanage (am I the only one who plays Hot juror/Not juror? You know, where you look at the folks in the box and think "I'd stare your decisis!" Really? Just me?). But the majority of them were clearly interested in getting the hell out of there, and, suddenly, so was I.

Everyone has their own prejudices and views of the world, and I accept that, but I was astounded to realize how many people refused to accept that a defendant's choice not to take the stand did not in any way imply guilt. Never mind that it's a bedrock principle of our Constitution, never mind that given the astounding power of the state to deprive someone of their liberty that person has no obligation to personally argue against charges proffered against them, never mind innocent until proven guilty: To some members of the pool, the fact that you were unwilling to testify in your defense clearly meant that you had something to hide. (And, sure, sometimes it does! That's not the point!) I suppose it shouldn't be shocking that juries really do operate on a general assumption of guilt, but it's not a bad thing to be reminded of every now and again, and for that (and that tong po pork, which is fucking amazing) I actually am sort of grateful for the experience.

But enough bleeding-heart yapping: The judge eventually came around to me and asked the standard question about how I made a living. This was something I had wondered about in the days before the call: What would I say? "Blogger?" Yeah, right. Can you imagine anything more embarrassing? Writer? As if. Let's be honest, I'm a blogger. You're not reading 280 pages of My Cock & Me, by Alex Balk anytime soon. (Although if you're interested and have the juice, drop me a line.) So I simply said "editor," which is, after all, my job title.

When it came time for the baby-faced A.D.A. to ask us questions, he turned to me.

"Mr. Balk, you said you're an editor? What do you edit?"

"Well, it's a website?"

"What kind of website?"

"Um, it's Manhattan-centric? Media and celebrity stuff, mostly."

"What's it called?"

Fuck. I had to admit it.

"Gawker.com," I sighed.

The A.D.A. and the defense attorney immediately exchanged glances. I can't be 100% sure, of course, but I'm pretty damned positive that working for this site kept me off that jury. There's a cruel and twisted irony in there, but at that point I was happy to take it and get the hell out.

While we were waiting in the hall for them to call us back in and let us know who was chosen and who got to leave, a couple of guys came up to me and said stuff like "Gawker? That's awesome!" [Note: Do not do this. I am extremely shy and extremely ashamed of what I do for a living. Don't rub it in.] A girl approached me and said, "Oh my God, you're Balk's Cock?" Which is how, for the first (and probably last) time in my life, I got to say, "No, I'm Balk. My Cock's down here."

Fortunately, they called us in about a minute later and cut me loose.

What have I learned? People are idiots. The system is pretty much stacked against defendants. Working on idiot websites is a good way to get out of jury duty. And tong po pork is astounding. Seriously, go check it out. You won't be disappointed.

On the theory that "if it's inevitable, you may as well lay back and enjoy it," I dropped $42 on the "combination" ticket, which not only allowed access to the Observation Deck, but also provided a ticket to something called the "New York Skyride." Essentially, it's an IMAX-style movie where the floor rocks and swivels to give one the illusion of flight as the camera soars through the city to the dulcet tones of Kevin Bacon's narration, except "IMAX-style" is short for "crappy video shown on a really big screen," and the pneumatic elements of the ride would be laughable at one of those fly-by-night carnivals you see as you're on the bridge driving past the poorer of the outer-borough neighborhoods. Also, the film itself still includes the World Trade Center, as a "tribute to the spirit and resilience of New York" (and, presumably, an unwillingness to shell out any money to re-shoot).

Once we got out of that nightmare the real odyssey began. Getting to the top of the building is like some sort of torture designed by Soviet apparatchiki to crush the spirit of the citizenry. There are at least five interminable lines one waits on before one makes the final ascent (and, naturally, at each new line there's a brand new opportunity for the building's owners to take another twenty bucks from you in the form of souvenirs and digital photos). As we wended our way through the cattle-like queue on the 80th floor we cursed the fact that the Germans hadn't won the Second World War. Say what you will about them, they know how to move people through a line with ruthless efficiency.

Finally, one of the attendants came over and told us that, as it currently stood, we'd have to wait another half hour for an elevator, but we were free to take the stairs, which was a mere six flights. We jumped at the chance, and only started to regret it on the fourth "flight," a designation apparently meant by the good people at the Empire State Building to represent three separate sets of stairs. In the wake of 9/11, we spent a number of afternoons climbing down thirty stories in the building we then worked at; should someone ever hit the Empire State, it's pretty clear that no one from, say, the fiftieth floor on up is getting out alive. Cheering!

We made it to the Observation Deck, and after standing in, yes, another line, we were finally outside. Guess what? New York from the top of the Empire State Building looks pretty much like it does from every other skyscraper, except you're looking at it through a suicide-prevention cage and the couple standing next to you are jabbering in Spanish and edging you out of the way so they can get a picture of themselves making out with the East River in the background. Don't even get me started on the American tourists: Let's just say there's a reason they sell GIANT CUPS OF SODA at the entrance; God forbid Marge and Fred go a minute without sticking something sugary down their throat.

And yet, for a moment, we almost felt a kinship with them. We were all together, at the top of this iconic structure, as one mass of people all getting ripped off by the same organization. (Sort of like election day!) The feeling quickly faded as we began the tortuous process of our descent: These tubby folk deserved everything we got. As did we, to be sure. We should have known better. There's a reason New Yorkers don't do this sort of thing: It is not cool.

We're almost embarrassed to tell you that we did this, but we want you to learn from our mistakes. The next time some friend or relative comes to town and asks you to see them up, just point them in the direction of the building and retire to your own fire escape. It might not seem like much, but trust us, the view is priceless in comparison.

[Image: Getty]

Columnist Tim Harford replied:

[W]e disapprove of umbrellas, viewing them as befitting only Bulgarian assassins. What, after all, is an umbrella but a way of redirecting rain on to other people? The rim of spikes, too, went out with Queen Boudicca. London is a busy place; it would simply be unsupportable if the British behaved as you do. Until recently, a strong cultural norm dealt with this problem.

Dear Economist... [FT]