Liquidating With The Juice.

No, I am not endorsing the newest colon cleanse. Instead, I am referring to THE JUICE, Heisman Trophy winner and record setting pigskin prodigy, O.J. Simpson.

It would appear that justice thinly disguised as karma, if you proscribe to either thing, has risen and finally taking a big hearty bite from O.J.'s backside. His recent conviction on charges of robbery and kidnapping appear to be the end of the long odyssey that has been Simpson's last 13 or so years.

O.J. was the quintessential American hero. From meager beginnings he exploded on the scene as a record setting running back with USC. After leading the team to the National Championship in 1967, he won the 1968 Heisman Trophy and continued on to the NFL where he further established records and wowed fans with his uncanny speed and agility. His popularity as a player and his Madison Avenue good looks paved the way for movie roles and lucrative commercial opportunities. Few black men in American history have fared better than O.J. Simpson.

But in June 1995 the brilliant star that was O.J. fell from the sky as hard and fast as SkyLab and with far more damage and loss of life. The Juice's estranged wife, Nichole and friend, Ron Goldman were found brutally murdered at the Brentwood home of Nichole (and former crib of OJ). Simpson was arrested and charged, the circus of OJ's trial unfolded and thus began his desert wandering days.

Ito, Furhman, Clark, Darden, Bailey, Shapiro, Cochran, Kardashian, Resnick, Vanatter, Lange and Kato Kaelin nauseatingly became household names and the mostly black and female jury took about twenty minutes to return a not guilty verdict. Two years later in a civil suit brought by Goldman's family, OJ was found guilty and ordered to fork over 8+ million dollars. As of this writing, the Goldman's claim to have never gotten a penny from OJ who deftly hid what he could by moving out of California and through legal entanglements. Pity that. But it had to cost him. Lawyers aren't cheap.

OJ's latest arrest occurred when he and a few cronies were caught attempting to aggressively take sports memorabilia items that OJ claimed belonged to him. One can only surmise that his years as a pariah had left him a little thin in the wallet. He probably needed his "stuff" back to sell for his own benefit. OJ did pocket 600 thousand bucks in advance of his hypothetical book, If I Did It, but Goldman was able to wrest that cash cow away through the edicts of his aforementioned civil suit. The Juice had to be getting desperate for cash. Why else would he take the kind of chance he took in that Vegas hotel room? Well, perhaps that is a dumb question; after all, this is The Juice we are talking about: that perfect blend of skill, sex and stupidity all mixed up in a racial kool aid imbibed only by the most diversity sensitive of our society.

After the 1995 murders, The Heisman Trophy was gone, the movie and commercial deals were no more and his reputation dried up faster than Nichole's blood on the Brentwood pavement. The OJ phenomenon had run it's course. This latest run in with the law may effectively remove his mug shot from memory. Most folks, save the most dedicated race hucksters, think it's high time "The Juice" gets what he deserves. This latest conviction and destined trip to the stripey hole is viewed by many as a deferred payment for that bloody scene the cops found in Brentwood; and for the farce that transpired in the L.A. courtroom.

I suppose that OJ will have to convince someone on the outside to continue the dogged search for the killers of Ron and Nichole on the golf courses of America.

Robbing Peter to Pay Paul...

usually results in a sore Peter...so used to say an old co-worker of mine back during my corporate days. The Trillion dollar bail out of the federally created Fannie and Freddie seems to be a transaction of that type. The result will most certainly be a sore, and may I add, depleted Peter (Tax paying citizens). The bloated bureaucratic pols that wired together these nasty twins in a government funded laboratory are now urging US taxpayers to bail them out, lest we suffer catastrophic financial ruin. Under what credibility are these swollen politicos operating? For 30 years they handed out cash to anyone with a heartbeat- all in the guise of "making the American dream available to everyone"- (vote buying is more accurate) and now comes the realization that a lot of those "clients" were not capable of, and in many cases, not worthy of receiving the largess. And many of our dear leaders knew that prickly fact from the rancid beginning, but did nothing to stop it. But, now that the cat burping feathers (mixed metaphor alert) is out of the canary cage, our government can only offer socialism as an answer.

I sarcastically ask, are we paying these guys too much?

The entire ruse reminds me of the scene in the movie Ransom when Mel Gibson comes to the cold realization that the kidnappers will kill his son regardless if he pays off. Likewise, if we bail out Washington, then they'll kill us with encroaching Marxism and it's ugly children, political correctness and multiculturalism, or if we let the "banks" fail...well, who knows? What will our government kidnappers give us in return for the ransom? An economic corpse so decayed that the free market DNA needed to rebuild it is worthless?

And the up coming election offers no respite: The Obamassiah himself has benefited handsomely from the purveyors of this governmental shell game; and judging by BHO's taxpayer gouging, community organizing past, we can nauseatingly assume that, should he become POTUS, a big, fat and growing government sow would be a veritable greased groove in which to install Obamatopia . And about half the voters are in favor of eating this crap burger. Dayum.

And whether Raines, Johnson and Gorelick are Obamatrons are not, they all floated gently down to earth on golden parachutes as Freddie and Fannie blew sky high under their so called leadership. Isn't the Enron treatment available for these thieves? I hear crickets chirping.

And Citizen McCain doesn't get off either. He has been a senator for three hundred years and nary a peep about this massive scam he surely knew was occurring. Mr. reach across the aisle, war hero McCain is part of the problem no doubt. I've said it here before.

So it's time to grab your ankles America, it's time squeal like a pig. But there is no reason for despair or to plead for your life or to wallow in misery. After all, we are complicit. We the people have consciously entrusted more and more of our money and our freedom to Washington. We have sacrificed our individualism on the state's funeral pyre and now we are recoiling at the burning stench of it as it blows back into our faces.




UPDATE: The idiocracy in DC takes a day off and the stock market soars nearly 600 points. Well, they're back to work today promising to spend billions of taxpayers dollars (with zero accountability) to "fix" the "crisis" (the one they created) and like magic the stock market starts heading back down. Coincidence? I think not.

The Brandon File: Did he or didn't he?

While Larry D. continues his hiatus from the blogosphere, here is a little piece he penned a few years ago for his website http://www.goodpropertiesllc.com/. L.D. will return soon with all new incoherent rantings.

Greenville was once known as the textile center of the world, owing to the booming textile business that thrived here from the late 19th century through two thirds of the 20th century. The western edge of Greenville County was home to the factories and the villages that housed the workers and their families. Many of the "mill hill" folk rarely traveled far beyond the borders of the village; after all, everything needed to sustain life was right there: The company store had food, clothes and shoes; and nearby West Greenville had everything else. Yes, life in the village was simple, compact and unadorned...but there was a passion, and it was Textile League Baseball.

While most village dwellers did stay close to home, one young man broke the alluring bonds of being a "lint head" by becoming one of the greatest baseball players in the history of the game. Joseph Jefferson Jackson came like a shot of hot weave room air to the fields of Brandon. There, he caught the eye of baseball scouts and before long was on his way to the major leagues. However, "Shoeless" Joe’s stellar career ended with the scandal that "rocked the baseball world." Allegedly, he and seven teammates conspired with gamblers to influence the outcome of the 1919 World Series. To this day, Joe’s family, friends and baseball fans everywhere have urged Major League Baseball to reinstate Joe to baseball’s good graces by allowing him membership in the Baseball Hall of Fame, so far to no avail. Did Joe conspire to "throw" the Series? The statistics from that October classic do not reflect that of a man on the take; and Joe himself denied any wrong doing until his death in 1951.

In any event, Joe’s on and alleged off field activities have made him a legend. Several popular plays and movies included characters depicting Joe, the best of which is the movie Eight Men Out. Furthermore, the field at Brandon where Joe honed his considerable skills inspired Greenville County to create the Shoeless Joe Jackson Memorial Park, complete with an entrance constructed of brick from the old Comiskey Park where Joe played for the White Sox. Today, a bronze statue of Joe stands in the City’s west end (see photo above), and recently the city relocated Joe's Brandon home to a site across the street from the new downtown stadium, West End Field. Plans to convert Joe's old home place into a museum honoring him and textile league baseball are under way.

Regardless of what really happened in 1919, the legend of Shoeless Joe Jackson continues to grow... and so does the city of Greenville. No longer just a “mill town”, Greenville now boasts an impressive array of international companies and cosmopolitan residents; thriving and expanding, yet tempered by the southern charm you would expect to find here.

Nearly one hundred years later, folks still debate Joe’s exploits on and off the diamond. If you're visiting Greenville this Summer, take a trip out to The Joe. Perhaps when it's quiet, and a gentle summer breeze is blowing out to right field, you'll hear the crack of the bat and the roar of the crowd as Joe circles the bases one more time. Perhaps…

The Minibike

Summer 1969, Brandon,West Greenville, SC
It was a typical hot and muggy evening as my brother and I wrapped up the day by doing chores. We had been out all day trying our damnedest to leach the remaining few weeks out of summer before the dreaded school bell rang, calling us back into a world of order, regiment and peer pressure. I had chained the minibike to the 2x4 stud on the inside of the corrugated tin garage after a long day of cruising around the hood, as was the custom. The garage was certainly inauspicious, looking and behaving like any garage that was common to the neighborhood. But how did they know to look in my garage?

The gang of boys slithered along the dark streets of Brandon, almost Italian in their movement. The short, swaggering leader, followed by the big dumb muscle boys who hung on his every word and followed close behind. They knew that he knew where to go-after all, he had scoped out the minibike earlier that day on a walk by of the premises. He had heard through his sister that 'Linda's brother' over in Brandon had a minibike and was showing out on it and he decided to take a look at it for himself. Tonight he would own that minibike.
Now he led the way, the night air heightening his senses and making the hair on his neck stand. The prize for this night's work would be a quick sale of the booty to a fence, who would then unload it to a minibike chop shop. Then the bike would be stripped and repainted, a new serial number added and BAM! - the minibike is sold on the black market overseas. Thoughts of the quick $50 made him quicken his gait. The dumb muscle boys accelerated as well.

The Heist
"You suck, you bastard. You always get to clean the den when there's no cleaning to do" brother Gary whined. "Get over it" I retorted. Translated into today's lingo I was basically saying "get yo bitch ass back in da kitchen and wash those pots and pans! And close yo pie hole!". We had a schedule of chores divided between the three brothers - kitchen duty (the worst), Den duty (the easiest), and the bathroom (sucks - but it ain't the kitchen). This week I was den-man. I was floating along now, floor done and dusting 90% complete. I heard the noise outside but was distracted by Gary's whining about the unfairness of life, so I failed to react to the strange sound.
Fast forward 20 minutes.
Gary has finished the kitchen and talked about making a run to Edwards store for an RC Cola. I agreed to accompany him and we stepped out the back door. As we closed the door behind us, Dad was pulling the old station wagon into the driveway. When his headlights illuminated the garage, a crime scene unfolded right before our eyes. The garage door akimbo (well, it was standing open), an emasculated chain drooping down from an angle-attached 2x4, and an empty, lonely space where the minibike had been parked. My heart started racing as questions from my Dad and my Brother whizzed by my head..."did you lock it?"..."did you have the garage door closed?"..."Yes!" I cried, I did have the door closed! "Yes!" I screamed, I did lock the bike! Truth is, I did have the door closed, but the chain was not locked. I had lost the key after fastening the lock to the chain and so I would just drape the chain around the frame of the bike, making it appear to be chained. This was my fault. This was all my fault. "Who took my fucking bike?" I yelped at anyone and no one. My Dad was the picture of calm as he exited the station wagon and went into the house, obviously ignoring my sweat-laced profanity. The next two hours would be hell!
These are the life moments that shake you and wake you and, for the next couple of hours I was a whining little hormone-filled bitchy, pissy-assed teenager trying to hide a truth, one which my dad already had the answer for – the locked chain. The chain was key to the theft. The lost key led to the weakness of the chain. I had lost the key, making the chain as useless as a fake security camera.
All heavy thoughts for a 12 year old. I had fucked up, been busted, called out and had to admit that I alone was to blame.
A deep scar now runs along another young man's psyche.


Minibike Recovered
The gang of boys walked along the street, taking turns pushing their new minibike. The streets of Mountain View Apartments were well lit and only the small space between the street lamps gave any cover. The brick apartments all looked alike, the only differential being the make and model of the car parked on the street in front of each unit.
Built just after World War 2 and located about a half mile north of Brandon, the neighborhood had become an early form of “project” housing. Like the villages, it was a healthy mix of good people and scum and villainy. If a 1952 ford was on blocks in front of your apartment, you had been there for awhile and were not new to the hood. If a 1948 dodge were sitting out front, had boxes loaded in the back seat and the bare mud front yard of the apartment were strewn with tricycles, chances are you wouldn't be staying there long.
"We should ride it before you unload it", said one of the big dumb muscle boys.
"You crazy?" the leader barked. "We can't start this thing up tonight. Somebody'd hear it and call the heat. Don't be stupid".
Great leaders, no matter what their calling, rise to the top by making quick, sound judgement when problems arise. A problem was about to arise.

Mr Gillespie had received the news about the minibike from his daughter Lucy, a friend of my sister.
Lucy and Linda were yacking on the phone when Linda casually mentioned to Lucy that her brother's minibike was stolen that very evening. After overhearing this news flash, Mr Gillespie, driving his one-owner, red and white 1965 Chevy pickup, was heading for Edward's store for an RC and a pack of smokes when he happened upon a group of hooligans pushing a minibike. He stopped and inquired as to what they were up to. Stepping into the full light of the street lamp, Mr Gillespie recognized the boys as a gang of neighborhood wannabe tough guys. Having seen the powerful minibike on previous trips to our house, Mr Gillespie recognized it as mine and had the hooligans load it into the back of his pickup. As Mr Gillespie drove away (smiling that he'd made the bastards load the thing into the truck) with the gang's new found prize, the gang's leader realized that he had a bit of work to do to achieve his true greatness potential.
Mr Gillespie pulled into our driveway at 11:12 pm on the nose. He and dad exchanged pleasantries and both made sure that I had indeed 'learned a lesson' from this event. That night, the minibike stayed with me in my room, the bike and I to be forever parted only a few months later by another of the notorious gang of thieves (okay, maybe one dude) from the Brandon hood.
True story!