truth

I watched Dr. Phil tonight, trying to forget a headache--his subject was O.J.'s new book, which I call confession. I remember an article in "Esquire" soon after he was acquitted where the author says, "Eventually, he will confess." And so he does, in this book. Dr. Phil spoke with his ghostwriter, Pablo, and Pablo believes that details are revealed in this book that only someone who was there would know. It's no surprise, really. The Goldmans were on, too, talking about why they took over publishing the book so that O.J. wouldn't profit from it. People don't understand why he was acquitted, but I do--because the jury was predominately Black and because they have seen the kind of police brutality and racism that was alleged during the case--it was a reaction to two hundred years of history, not a reaction to his fame, and not reflective of the prosecution's case, though I think the defense did a great job of creating reasonable doubt.

I used to work with this accountant, Barry, who thought I was an expert on all the things that he didn't understand about being Black. We stopped working at the same company and lost touch, but, a couple of weeks after the OJ verdict, he called and asked me out to dinner. We sat down, and he began quizzing me about why this jury had acquitted someone who was plainly so guilty. I, naively, tried to explain it, but there is no explaining something like this to a narrow-minded jerk from the 'burbs who thinks that the only Black person he knows (from the 'burbs) represents an entire race of people and their collective opinion, if there is one. Besides, he took me to a bad restaurant where there were peanuts on the floor. Cheap bastid.

Psychopathology is psychopathology. O.J. wrote (or had ghost-written) what he knows. So, in a twisted way, this has brought something into my awareness--I've struggled to write about different eras of time, different parts of the country, totally different people, but maybe what I should be writing about is what I know. And, of course, those are the scariest things to write about, and certainly what I've been doing in this blog. There is research, of course--there is metaphor, and method, certainly--but the stories that live in me are about relationship, shame, madness, elation, giggling about body emissions in church, loss, sadness, abandonment, a sprinkle of paranoia, the agony of word choice, finding something fashionable to wear in the array of tent-like clothes offered in my size, finding a way out of no way, climbing over walls when you barely have the strength to stand up, failed friendships, mis-communication, late blooming, fear, compassion, loving in the face of neglect and indifference, laughing at funerals, pushing limits, inanity and emotional arrest and lust, damnit, lust. A love of chocolate that borders on the pathological. Almost daily headaches that make me want to de-brain myself with a spoon. Occasional thoughts about the bliss of not being in this life anymore. What if heaven is just one giant shoe sale? Yum yum.

And the fact that we live with un-punished killers among us. Vice-presidents, sports heroes, our own cars and consumptions. Make sense of that shit.

And Condelezza Rice. In the mid-East. Do the Israelis and Palestinians give a damn about what she thinks should happen? I wonder what goes on in her big ole brain. Does she lay awake at night, after G. W. has been and gone, straightened hair a fright wig on the silk pillows, thinking about all of the youngsters she's consigned to the human slag heap? Trotting along obediently behind men who wouldn't notice her twice if it wasn't so politically incorrect? Giving her life over to chaos and destruction? I want to see Condi's MRI, please. I'd like to see that area of her cerebral cortex that belongs to Evil.

And so we come back to O.J. A man so out-of-touch with reality that he thinks it's ok to slaughter and rob people and get away with it--oh, wait! That's what we're doing in Iraq, and Dafur, and Roxbury. He and Dick-less Cheney should hang out, maybe shoot each other in the face. Can you dig it?

Dick: Uh...er...welcome to Texas, O.J. You like huntin'?

O.J.: I'm familiar with it. The car chase, you know.

Dick: Heh heh heh. Gun or knife?

O.J: I'll try the gun. I'm sick of knives.

Dick: (shots ring out) Whoops! Sorry. Had a slight heart attack. You okay?

O.J.: Damn, man, you shot me in my pretty face! I'll kill you, mother******!

Dick: Here, let me hold your gun while you staunch the bleeding.

O.J: Hold on! You think you can take my ****?! This ain't Vegas, mother******!

Dick: Just calm down, Mandingo. Think how much sympathy you'll get with a face full of buckshot. (snaps open cell phone). Hello, Condi? Got a situation at the ranch...one of your people. Yeah, the Simpson fellow. Get him a book deal, will ya? That'll calm him down. (closes cell phone). Hey, O.J., how about $600,000 and a fake Rolex?

O.J: I'll take it!

Fin