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The verdict and the vermin

Once again, since I wasn't working today, I should've been putting up "I'll do anything" flyers. And once again, that's not what I did. Didn't feel like it.

Turned on the radio instead, because it had been pre-announced that OJ Simpson's verdict would be announced at 10:00. They had to pre-announce the announcement, because there's no telling whether 'guilty' or 'not guilty' has a greater potential for riots.

Had to tune to NPR for live coverage, because a satellite uplink requires big bucks that Free Radio Berkeley doesn't have. As I listened, someone said "Not guilty" twice, and then in the press conference afterwards, the father of one of the victims bawled into a microphone that the verdict doesn't represent justice

Condolences, Daddy-O, seriously. Death is the most fucked-up part of living, and murder is the worst way to go.

Everybody has an opinion on OJ, so here's mine, as someone who paid scant attention to the trial: Maybe he did it, maybe he didn't. The press seems to believe he did, so I tend to believe he didn't. But I didn't sit in the courtroom for months and months, hearing the testimony and looking at the evidence. The jury did, so I'll take their word for it.

More generally, nobody should expect justice in an American courtroom.

♦ ♦ ♦

Snagged a newspaper from the recycling bin at the BART station, and enjoyed the sports section more than the news. Says here, the Seattle Mariners won the AL West with a tie-breaker victory over the Angels.

I don't go to many ball games any more, but used to be a steady customer. From the cheap seats in Seattle's cheap stadium I saw the Mariners lose hundreds of games. Reading that they finally won a big one, with stick-man Randy Johnson defeating that whiney prima donna Mark Langston, made a good morning even better.

♦ ♦ ♦

There are five of us living in this house, along with three cats and a dog. I'm not sure who owns Elton, the black and white cat. I asked Judith once; she's not sure either. She belongs to the house, I guess, but she seems to think she belongs to me.

She sits on my shoulder while I'm typing, sleeps nestled in my lap, and for the past month or so, since we became friends, Elton has been sleeping in my room most nights. We're having a trial separation, though, until I buy her a flea collar and bugbomb this room.

The fleas are everywhere in here, but they're especially in the bed. They tickle, crawling up my arm or in my hair, and they're hungry. I've been itchy and scratchy for days, but somehow hadn't seen any fleas until tonight. Suddenly, little sores and itches are up and down my legs, all over my back and belly, and a flea walked across my keyboard a paragraph ago.

Out, cat.

From Pathetic Life #17
Tuesday, October 3, 1995

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

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