The Jackson Verdict

Oh, how far we have fallen.  I know, I know . . . every generation at every moment believes it is witnessing the final obliteration of the moral and cultural fiber of humanity.  In the 20s it was the Charleston, in the 40s it was sailors smooching their sweeties on public street corners, in the sixties it was love beads and hair, more recently we have rap music and the idolization of basketball players.  Oh my, oh my; what is the world coming to? 

The Michael Jackson verdict brings to the forefront the utter death and destruction of the propriety of the American legal system. 

I grew up with Perry Mason and 12 Angry Men.  I believed in innocent until proven guilty and beyond a reasonable doubt.  One of the things we do as Americans is withhold our own personal judgement on the guilt or innocence of anyone accused of a crime in favor of the well informed and studied judgement of a jury.  When the jury speaks we say (collectively):  'Oh;  see there?  He did it. The jury said so.' or 'So he didn't do it after all.  Thank goodness for the American system of justice.' 

But in recent years we've put as much stock in our own opinions as that of the people charged with making the decision.  It's a form of masturbation, I think.  We get all worked up over the lurid details of the crime and then circle jerk with the media in speculation about how and why the accused did it, then we cum in a gloppy splatter of debate and second guessing when the verdict is rendered.  It's a behavior that flies in the face of the glorious foundation of the justice system:  the notion that the jury knows best. 

In the last couple of days, I've heard poll after poll and news story after news story about The Verdict:  Do you agree with the verdict?  Do you think he did it?  Was the jury right or wrong? 

WHO CARES?

The jury has declared that the prosecution did not have sufficient evidence to judge the man guilty.  That's it.  That's reality.  Why do we get all worked up in our own second guessing?  I don't get it.

The local news has been doing a lot of man in the street interviews on the subject. That's gross enough on its own; but what strikes me is the language so many of the interviewees use.  They rarely say:  'I think blah blah blah . . . '  They usually say:  'I feel . . . '  It's as if we put more faith on our own intuitive sense (that has been forged by the media) than in the careful conisderation of a dozen people who invested months in sifting through the details.

We get KFI out of LA here in SD:  More Stimulating Talk Radio.  JohnandKen (it's 2 people forever joined at the ass) have been having a field day since the decision came down.  They, of course, are certain Jackson did the dirty deed and should have been found guilty regardless of the evidence (or lack thereof).  It's a point of view that can be fanned into a frenzy of outrage and indignation, guaranteed to boost listener calls, ratings and ad revenue.  I mean:  how much radio talk could you do if you believed the jury did its job and that settles the issue: period?  No; these professional badgers search the news for the places where their opinionated passion can blossom forth on the airwaves.  If you listen to the tone -- not the words -- it becomes clear that JohnandKen have only one speed:  outrage.  It makes me wonder if they really believe all of the horseshit they're spewing or if they just adopt the opinion that will produce the most interest in their show. 

And this is not intended as a jab at JohnandKen (wink, wink - grin, grin).  They are just good entertainers.  It's an indictment of us, the general public, for letting them make up our minds for us.  Lordy; if I didn't believe in the dumbing down of America before, I certainly do now.  We are such monkeys, such parrots.

(Before he vanished into the black and white world of Christian fanaticism -- in which I am definitely black -- my brother became a fan of Rush Limbaugh.  It got to the point where you couldn't have a conversation with him without hearing Rush's words pour out of his mouth.  Seriously:  words, phrases, whole sentences uttered by Limbaugh littered by brother's conversation like so much trash on an old highway.  Today he let's his pastor make up his mind for him.)

So here we are: jerking off and jerking off and jerking off.  Smelling our own farts and giggling wildly.  Seeing who can belch the loudest.  I'm starting to think my dog is the most intelligent person I know. 

(By the way:  we were attacked yesterday.  Homer (the dog) and I.  We were out for a walk when we came upon a woman with two very large dogs.  I suspected trouble when I noticed they both had muzzle collars on and saw her struggling to get them up on a driveway and off the sidewalk so we could pass.  Homer is the sweetest, friendliest dog in the world.  He loves everybody and everything.  He also knows to ignore what's around him and keep moving when I give his leash a little tug.  And that's what I did as we moved by the now snarling barking dogs.  Just then the woman shrieked as the bigger of the dogs broke his leash and lunged at Homer.  The leash actually came apart.  I quickly pulled Homer aside with my right arm and reached down to hold the horrible hound at bay with my left.  He was a very big dog and my effort was failing.  I understood that this animal wanted to kill my dog and his owner was not able to stop him.  So I took his neck in my hands, grabbed hard on the loose flesh that was there and held him back.  The weight of the surging beast was enough to topple me and we ended up rolling around on the concrete in a wrestling match.  I was vaguely aware of cars stopping in the street and people coming out of their houses to watch and react in horror.  I'm sure it looked like I was being attacked.  And I was.  If I hadn't had an iron grip around that dogs neck, he'd have mauled me.  I have no doubt.  But there was no way in hell I was going to let him get to my dog.  Finally, the woman, now screaming and crying, reached in and grabbed the animal's collar and pulled him off of me.  I hopped up and led Homer on down the sidewalk and away.  I never looked back.  I was shaking with the rush of adrenelin and bewildered by the event.  My knee and elbow were scraped skinless and were oozing blood.  At the corner I sat down on a bus bench and dabbed at them with my hand. . . I had no handkerchief or towel.  Just then, Homer came around to face me, sat down on the sidewalk and looked up at me with complete adoration in his eyes.  Then he leaned forward and licked my bloody knee.)