The Juice. Orenthal James Simpson. A confabulated something for nearly all those I could call a classmate while growing-up. Even today, when O.J. isn’t something pulpy, it’s this lunatic. Our minds register an obvious and we ride those tracks. Is he guilty? Who cares—he desked college’s top prize and notched the first two-thousand. Maybe he left a bloody trail. Maybe the dog did indeed wag its tail. Maybe Oprah is a top-notch biotch.

I’m not so sure about the exact workings of a murder. How to do it. Stiff or soft, pillow that is? Whether one blacks out when in rage as one might when in writer’s block. Whether a ghostwriter has the literary legs to push-on—nobly or as he or she should.

The issue I have with this is that most just crowded before the television and pointblank criminalized the man. Needless to say, this was an era before internet news or some social media crisis blitzing wall to wall, so it was imperative that all tuned in to the exact same thing at all the exact same moments. There was no okay, well that happened, and on to the next.

Full circle. Trayvon Martin. Race on race. Not white on race, because when we say ‘race’ we mean anything not bleached perfect for heaven’s gates. And to be lackluster honest, I noosed the Z-man rather quickly. I listened and or read the evidence and that was enough. Yes, 911… That mother-father is guilty. Guilty.

Fast forward, acquittal.

Rewind, acquittal—O.J.’s that is.

One was migrained by their wife and potentially Ronald too. The other did more than flashlight who he perceived to be a thug. The media kind of re-seesawed and unanchored the besmirched persona of their lovable Trayvon. The potential of his mayhem was real, not just the imagined race-y stuff we conjure up, as we suspected Zimmerman had.

What aches me is all those sitting around all those waiting for tomorrow’s headlines. The kids. The former fontanelles. They sit, listen, and become ossified in their beliefs. Stuck in the perspective of a seven year old. That’s how old I was when number thirty-two walked. How old I was when the chlorinated beliefs of my superiors became my mutated own. The murderer was not guilty. The gloves did not fit. White bronco. Those three details, probably the only three that survived, but they were enough. Enough to blight my garden of neurons and shade any further synapse.

Maybe he did it? Once again, who cares—he desked college’s top prize and notched the first two-thousand.

How old were you when nine-eleven became national go-buy-a-fuckin’-flag day, and then another? And learned about the robe-genies and the many sleeper-cells poling-up our Betsy Ross as if she sewed stars for them?

How old or nonexistent were you when JFK met bullet and like an Eminem song, his head popped off. Head popped off? And in the dungeons somewhere, they have documents.

My plea is that maybe you should grow a set of your own. That maybe you should in fact just grow-up. Look deeper. Give the guilty a chance. Knock perceived innocence. Don’t jump the gun and bandwagon. Don’t reiterate the whispered tactics of the media.

Become eight. Heck become nine. And if need be, double-digit and beyond. Never stop. There’s more to everything than the obvious truth. A wife behind the man. A hostile maybe on the other side of the glass. A motive. The tossed wrapper to ideality. Something else entirely and if not enough, the perspective at least.

Learning that 9/11 occurred because of some Nazi-ish head-to-toe skirts were terrorists is as destructive as learning that Martin Luther King Jr.’s role was better bathroom etiquette for the obvious dirty hues themselves. Like gulag-ing the gays and waking up early every Sunday to the robed man who wishes nothing but mouthes full of genitals upon his servers. Like stripping the better athlete of his trendy yellow bracelet pride while standing behind the lion who elfs behind the convicted serial shower santa.

I’ll never know it all. No one will. Only a few know the secrets of a few. Sometimes we are that few, but more often our knowing can only be molded. Sometimes it’s obvious and sometimes it’s made out to be obvious when it’s barely a pin in the hay. The idea is to never ignore the obvious and to always determine whether it is in fact obvious at all. And to become good at this, because after 10,000 hours or so, you will begin to see the clumps in fresh pasteurized milk. What’s obvious changes with time, but that’s the sort of obvious that puts the king atop the hill and the slaves at his ten.

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