Wake up and smell the ignorance. It was Monday morning and my wife didn't know why my jaw had dropped into my java. Gulp. We had just done our sleepy-eyed morning walk down to Culver City's Conservatory of Coffee, and were enjoying the fresh-roasted brew and view of our fellow city stumblers when I saw her. Forty-something. Upscale, well-coiffed and accessorized and put-together, having a smiling, lively conversation with her friend as they she got into the coffee line. In an O.J. Simpson jersey. Not an ironic, snarky "FREE O.J". t-shirt. No. A vintage, limited-issue, long sleeved, very expensive-throwback kind of jersey. 32 in putrid yellow on a field of maroon blood red. (Sorry - couldn't resist the overkill.) I had to explain to my wife that "No, no. It is THAT Simpson."
I was stunned that somebody so apparently all-there would go there. HERE. In the city where it happened. Where was Fred Goldman when I needed him? He could tell her everything that was wrong about it. He might even get through to her or get an answer as to Why Her and Why That Outfit? Who was I to ask and what could I do... except tell you.
Frankly, my head is still shaking - and it's not the caffeine. Maybe she has her reason. Then again, maybe she should use some. Or maybe she likes scream in her coffee.
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