More "stuff" about OJ

Now that the initial tidal wave of publicity has crested, some aspects of the bizarre saga of OJ Simpson have become slightly clearer. When I first heard the term “casino robbery” on the news, I thought this sociopath had kicked his brief career as a movie star into some real-life variation of a Hollyweird antic. I have some former Sicilian in-laws, and no matter how much the Nevada Gaming Commission claims they’ve cleaned up Vegas, I would not want to try and take down the count room at a casino. Fortunately for Orenthal James, fear and common sense seem to have won out over the psychosis that propels so much of his life. Even if you’re convinced that the universe revolves around you, robbing the Mafia is not a good idea. Those caper plots work well at the movies, because it doesn’t happen in the real world. Messing with La Cosa Nostra will get you a .22 bullet behind the ear, and a bouquet of flowers with a “Nothing Personal” note at your funeral.

So, it’s leaking into the news that whatever was happening in that hotel room was apparently about “stuff”. That raises a question or three, going back to my previous befuddlement: what was he thinking? I think it’s in The Written Rules of the Universe that if you viciously murder your wife and get away with it, you’re supposed to go hide somewhere and thank your lucky stars while you beg God to forgive you.

In his comedic heyday, George Carlin had a great existential monologue about “stuff”. In my 5½ decades of existence, I’ve accumulated a lot of “stuff”. Some of it was quite nice “stuff”. I can also cite three distinct instances where I’ve been looted of this “stuff”. Cars, jewelry, antiques, clothing, tools, firearms, furniture, electronics; you name it, and I’ve had it stolen. We’re not talking avaricious ex-wives here; we’re talking common thieves, and in all the instances, I knew their identities. Some of the stolen property had deep sentimental value, and it stung to lose it. However, it never occurred to me to saddle up a “posse” and go chasing after people on my own to recover “stuff”. I’ve never seen a hearse with luggage racks, so when it comes to material items, you either replace them, or learn to live without them.

That brings me to my second question: what was OJ doing with “stuff” of any sort? The last time I checked, the jury in his civil suit was a lot less sympathetic than the frightened gaggle who sat in judgment at his criminal trial. He has a protected pension, and a nice roof over his head. Otherwise, he owes the Brown and Goldman families millions of dollars in compensation for stealing something much more valuable than “stuff”: two human lives. If OJ has any “stuff” beyond what he needs to live hand-to-mouth with the rest of us little people, that “stuff” rightly belongs to the families of his victims. Although there’s a broad belief in certain demographic groups that Simpson is truly innocent, the physical evidence at his trial was overwhelming. The original murder trial was more of slam-dunk than this Vegas craziness.

Now that the news vultures are gathering—Van Susteren’s already in Nevada—we are being treated to seemingly endless file footage of OJ; smirking, giving little “toodle-do” waves, and playing golf. I have zero tolerance for murderers, and, as in the case of the alleged shooter in my father’s case, who was struck and killed by a truck some years ago, I can only hope the karma train is pulling into the station for OJ.

And that brings the final question full-circle back to the first. What was he thinking? He stepped into this monstrous poo-pile for “stuff”? I’ve known a few people who would probably meet a loose clinical definition of “sociopath”, but they are not public figures, and they had enough self-preservation instinct to know when they’d dodged a bullet, and keep their pointy heads down. We’ll have to wait for some of the mystery to unravel in the coming days; I get the distinct whiff of an elegant set-up, what with this tape recording of the confrontation in the hotel.

We have a saying in The South. It’s not racist or anything, but certainly appropriate to whatever’s going on with OJ: “That boy ain’t right.”

Holy Ned! Can I call 'em, or what?

Boy, am I prescient!

I haven’t seen the remake of “Ocean’s Eleven”, or “Ocean’s Twelve”, or “…Thirteen”, or whatever. I vaguely remember the 1960 Rat Pack movie, with Sinatra, Lawford, Martin, and Davis Jr. I’m sure I’ll spill my popcorn when the Clooney franchises reach the satellite dish.

This isn’t about movies. Up at an ungodly pre-dawn hour, I was treated to bleeped dialogue that sounded like a serious showdown from a hard-R movie. Naw, it was just OJ Simpson holding forth in a Vegas hotel room.

Does golf cause brain damage? I’ve smoked some pretty potent concoctions, but never anything as mind-bending as what OJ must be indulging in. I don’t have a lot of sympathy for a proven murderer, especially one who gets away with it, but I have to wonder: what is this guy thinking of? I said it before: if I skated away from “the trial of the century” and got away with offing my ex-wife, I think I’d find a quiet corner and hide.

A little golf, sure. Doing some desultory searching for the imaginary “killer”, certainly. Hiding my assets and poor-mouthing is a given. If I’m a stone psychopath, I ain’t giving nothing up.

So, the smart money’s on hiding somewhere and watching.

The alleged shooter in my father’s murder case was hit by a truck and killed deader than fried chicken. This reinforces my faith in a righteous God.

Despite what the frightened jury said in The City of Angels, Orenthal James Simpson attacked and killed two people with frightening ferocity. He skated away from a conviction. A good cop’s career was ruined. Lots of lawyers made a lot of money.

I’m an old hippie. I remember John & Yoko back in the day. All of a sudden, we have instant karma. Years after the fact, we have OJ laid bare before the throne of God.

All other things taken into consideration, I still have to wonder: what the hell was he thinking?

They say that Vegas is all cleaned up now, and kind of a family-oriented place, as opposed to the old happy hunting grounds of La Cosa Nostra. It’s not my first choice for a family getaway, but I’ll take the word of The Chamber of Commerce. Nevertheless, the rumors and myths persist. Okay, so OJ, what were you thinking? Does anyone in their right mind start some misguided plot to rob the Mafia? My ex-wife is Sicilian; she has some uncles who are decidedly sinister. That stuff only works in the movies. You wouldn’t want to meet my ex-wife’s uncles.

I am going to enjoy seeing this bad boy take a fall. Holding him on “no bail” is a good start. He will, of course, be afforded “the presumption of innocence”. Vincent Bugliosi explained the fallacy of that constitutional ideal in Outrage, his take on OJ’s original murder trial.

As usual, this piece of scum will eat up more news coverage than he deserves. If the God who guided my father’s killer into that truck’s path is watching, this time OJ will get a portion of what he deserves.

Gimme a push and be done!

Holy Ned! OJ is in trouble again!

If I murdered one of my ex-wives, and got away with "the trial of the century", I think I'd lay low. Any given of the past wives could have pushed my wheelchair-bound ass down a steep set of stairs and claimed an accident.

I'm a lucky duck who never struck back. I never had the money for expensive lawyers. I didn't murder my ex-wife, although the urge passed through what's left of my mind. I love my ex-wives, especially the second one, but I am lacking in empathy. I don't like them too much these days. In my book of The Perfect Universe, we all get to live to the fullness of our days, and murder is an abstraction that doesn't happen. Frankly, I love my ex-wife; I will charge into the breach if she or my kids are endangered.

So we got OJ, and he's still lookng for "the killer" in Las Vegas.

No stranger to violence and murder, this joker amuses me. I tried a book; I don't have ghost writers. Murderers are still real.

Gosh, it must be fun to get away with murder! I have been taken for houses and cars; settling out with my ex-wives has never been comfortable.

A lost comment

I tried to post this as a comment to my pal Hawkeye's take on 9/11. I have a lot of sign-in problems with Blogger™, dating back to their takeover by the Google™ monster and subsequent screwing of this modest blog. They require a sign-in to post comments, but when I try to comply, they tell me I already exist, and I should try again. Then we begin an endless feedback loop between my password and their mistaken reading of my e-mail address.

No matter. Rule #1 is "Don't sweat the small stuff." Rule #2 is "98% of everything is small stuff."

Hawkeye [link to "View From Above" is at right in the links column] posted about those whom I call "death cultists". As usual, he is right on with his commentary. I tried to say a few words, and got balked. Here ya go:

"First off, let me thank you for the kind words you left at my blog as a comment on reading my dad's murder file. I can only paraphrase one piece of Scrpture off the top of my head; it's the last two verses of Ecclesiastes, the part about giving my life to know madness and folly.

That would lead directly into a comment about the state of mind of the jihadists. I have more than a passing acquaintence with evil, and if I've learned anything about the nature of the beast, it's that it's an unthinking creature.

Illness and frustration have shortened my fuse. The failure of good Muslims - and I know they're out there - to step up to the plate and denounce the death cultists only results in a blanket dismissal that they're all "heathen mother%#@!$"

I live in a wheelchair, so what happened to Leon Klinghoffer aboard the Achille Lauro is never forgotten.

I have frequent flyer friends, and I always tell them, if anything untoward starts happening, fight. Fight back! Take a page from Todd Beamer's book. They're going to kill you anyhow, so go down like a gunfighter.

I keep tearing up at this week's replays of what happened at the World Trade Center. Anger mixes with sadness.

I have an exemption to weapons rules, so if someone waves an AK-47 and tries to dump me anywhere, I'll draw, and the best man wins. I can do more damage from the confines of a wheelchair than the average 21-year-old soldier.

This might end up as a lazy man's post at UPI.

Thank you again for your kind words and Scripture at my blog. It's uncharitable to wish disaster upon others, but what with the Democritter rhetoric of late, I hope they reap what they are sowing."

In the words of "Dragnet's" Dan Ackroyd: "That wasn't such a chore, was it?"

I tell myself that repeatedly, as Google™ and the AARP™ continue to take over the world. Both are sinister, obstructionist, and too closely linked to what O'Reilly refers to as the "secular-progressives" for my taste. They closely resemble Democritters, who scare the hell out of me.

I might be pragmatic if Progessive Insurance will handle my SR-22-A filings at a reasonable rate. I'm a habitual violator to the state; had I known my "Dukes of Hazzard" antics would rebound, I would have lightened up on the gas pedal of of the late, lamented Corvette. The AARP™ are "harvesters of eyes", [see an earlier column of the same name] and I would sooner consort with Satan's myrmidons in Hell than do business with these people. Christians mark their spiritual/business preferences with those little fish-things; if I see something with an AARP™ logo, a familiar voice in my head screams "Run!"

All of this has nothing to do with death cultists, remembering 9/11, or anything much except the state of what's left of my mind after yet another September 11th when we didn't suffer another terrorist attack because of bureaucratic inattention. I have a lot of trouble trying to watch the news and stay current, because every time I turn on the idiot box, some liberal eunuch is crying about withdrawal from Iraq.

Okay, it didn't work out the way we'd planned it. I live a long way from a primary urban target, but that won't lessen my pain when I see another building fall and thousands more die because some glad-handing politician said "All we have to do is talk to them."

I'm watching the drift of the country and waiting for the nukes to cross our unregulated borders. Once again, repeat after me, lather, rinse, repeat: "It's not if; it's when."

^ Remember today's date ^

Reading the file...

The file is my father’s murder file. As of today, barring some miracle breakthrough on the case, I am giving it up. I started the year hearing too much rhetoric about John Wayne’s 100th birthday. I got onto the Cherokee County Sheriff’s Department and the GBI [Georgia Bureau of Investigation.] For the last time, I played my “victim card”.

Come December 12th, my father would have been 100 years old. I don’t know that he would have made it; his health was bad, in spite of beating cancer four times. What he was entitled to was what the Bible calls “The fullness of [his] days”. He was denied this. At the age of 79, he was gunned down like one of Michael Vick’s dogs in the driveway of our family home.

The detective—who is incredibly young, by my standards—thought he had removed all of the crime-scene photographs, so nothing would jump out at me. He was wrong; he missed one. I am not a delicate creature; I have seen dead people before.

I now have names; people in West Virginia. One of them, maybe the shooter, is dead. Hit by a truck, perhaps there is a God who acts as overseer on our human plantation. The other is walking around free as a jaybird.

One other thing I learned from the file is that my father took the first shot in the arm. I deluded myself for years that he was shot in the head. No, he knew what was coming. He was a War II veteran. In spite of his willingness to give a wallet up—it’s only money, take it—he was shot down like a dog. He was not alone; there were three other victims. Forensics were not the cat’s ass in those days; one thing I learned from reading Dad’s file was that he took the first one in the shoulder and fell wounded. It was the the bruising and bleeding that showed the first one; the two head shots stopped everything, and he didn't suffer any longer. I had assured myself for years that it was all head shots: boom, boom, out go the lights. As with most things in my life, I am wrong.

The Van Susteren vampire has no interest in this case, as it’s not a fresh kill and doesn’t involve a vacation to Aruba. Thanks to my neighbors, but writing to her was a blow-out.

“Gee, that’s intriguing. What can I do for you?”

I only want one thing from one person. Step up and ‘fess. The file is full of pictures of people I think I knew from my rock’n roll days. The strongest suspect is dead, and his older brother is walking around bragging up north.

As of the end of August—the end of summer—I am giving up the pursuit of my father’s killer. No more letters to congressmen or Senators. No more letters to the editor. I give up; you win, you successfully murdered my father.

I know your name, but you have gotten away with murder.

Reading the file has given me deep insight. I have names. If you didn’t do it or put your younger brother up to it, I might still come for you. There is another name, and the focus may not lie where it appears. All things appear before the throne of God, and you are no exception.

You thought you got away clean. You are wrong. I will clean this up, so help me.

I name names because they need it. I am ready to name names on the Internet. The cops have made a mighty effort; I won’t denounce them as incompetent or not trying; they just don’t have a lot to work with.

I am counting…hoping…on one more miracle from the cop shop. Then, I have some names that I will put up on The Net. Taking people public is about the last thing I want to do. I can cop a good slander case if I’m wrong. The strongest suspect is dead. His brother is walking around loose, maybe trying to live with what he put his younger brother up to. I am looking at things from a different point of view; the cops may be completely off base, and I have learned something that raises a really big question about people who were present at the murder scene.

This isn’t over.