Is she dating Smashing Pumpkins frontman Billy Corgan?
It seems like all anyone wants to talk to Jessica Simpson about is her love life.
Is she still angry that John Mayer dished about their sex in Playboy?
Cover the 405 in pulp and gore and fragments of bone? C.” Cowlings, reach unharmed his house on Rockingham Avenue—“the Rockingham estate,” as the talking heads were so fond of calling it—in Brentwood, where a 27-man SWAT team was waiting for him, a sniper with an AR-15 rifle hugging dirt in the kids’ playground out back. The murder had written all over it.) Instead of coming up with an alternative killer, they focused their efforts on making their client the victim. Not that the mixed nature of their message hurt it any. For the majority of Americans, certainly for the majority of white Americans, the ending was less a shocker than an outrage, a serious bummer any way you sliced it, but it wasn’t ignored.
Leave two of his children, already motherless, fatherless as well? An hour later, after telephoning his mother and drinking a glass of juice, he’d be placed in an unmarked cruiser, transported downtown for mug shots and fingerprints, then given a brand-new identity: Prisoner 4013970 of the Los Angeles County jail. Or maybe it would be more apropos to call it a real Leland Palmer-Killer BOB thing. Not with Johnnie Cochran Jr.—who as a showman would have put Clarence Darrow to shame, who as a showman would have put Orson Welles Clarence Darrow to shame—as the bearer. People stuck around for it, an estimated 150 million of them stopping what they were doing to catch the televised verdict.
By comparison, a mere 90 million had tuned in to that year’s Super Bowl. Though nobody knew it at the time, out of that horrifying crime something new was born, or maybe “spawned” is a better word: reality TV. Lots of greenery and nature left au naturel and houses that cost an arm and a leg but were low-key about it. The two had looked like the perfect couple—the Heisman Trophy winner with the million-dollar grin, the California dream girl hanging on his arm. But then what happened was the people who liked soap operas got addicted to the Simpson trial. I mean, obviously—47 years old and living the life of a jailbird, in court each day fighting for his freedom, trashed by the media, the public, the victims’ families, and still a total dreamboat, the tired droop to his eyes and mouth emphasizing his handsomeness rather than detracting from it.
Hello from Brentwood This wasn’t a there-are-eight-million-stories-in-the-naked-city-this-has-been-one-of-them-type story. No nightlife to speak of and proud of it, the social hub the charmingly ramshackle Brentwood Mart, where one could sip an espresso, or a fresh squeezed carrot juice, while reading the trades after dropping off the kids at school, playing a set or two of tennis at the club. And they got really upset when the Simpson trial was over, and people would come up to me on the street and say, ‘God, I loved your show.’ ”Soap-opera-ish, as well, were the extreme good looks of the participants. By participants, though, I really meant the rest of the cast, the supporting performers—Kato Kaelin, 35, and Faye Resnick, 37, and Nicole’s sister, Denise, older by two years, a former Ford fashion model, and Paula Barbieri, 27, O.
It had a narrative sense that was second to none, an instinct for how to draw the audience’s attention that was assured to the point of flagrant, to the point of gloating, opening—bam! Congeniality super-dude, now a fugitive from justice, wanted for violating, on two counts, Section 187 (a) of the California Penal Code, holding on himself a .357 Magnum, the barrel kissing his temple—yet its pacing was stately, languorous, very nearly balletic, the action hot and lurid and low-down, but the view of the action coolly detached and God’s-eye. The suspense was killing, the public watching with shock-widened eyes an American hero in the middle of a free fall. (Making a break for it, that was tantamount to a confession of guilt, wasn’t it? It must be admitted, though, that, as a whodunit, the Simpson case was a flop, with nary a twist or turn. J.’s physical equal and opposite, to Hitler—forget the piss-ant Klan—in his closing argument, which got the dander up of fellow Dream Team member and Jew Robert Shapiro.) This was surprisingly easy to do, the times being what they were.
Above, in the clear blue Southern California sky, a dark cloud of news helicopters had gathered, seven in all, the pilots having followed the police transmissions on their scramblers, now very much in on the fun. championship series, the New York Knicks versus the Houston Rockets. A neat freak as well as a sex freak, he also thought her housekeeping efforts sub-par.
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