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If You Can’t Do the Time There it was--my TV viewing experience interrupted by a helicopter shot of a white new model vehicle crawling along a Los Angeles highway. I never thought I’d find myself nostalgic for a time when Woodstock II was just a marketing scheme, but spring 1994 is looking more and more like the good old days. I had more hair, fewer kids, fewer cable channels, and a job. The Knicks had a winning record. I had one phone number. Repairs on the recently attacked World Trade Center were nearing completion. The only bush in the White House was under Bill Clinton’s desk. Most memorably, I got to wile away the hours watching an endless string of talking heads contemplate whether one of the most celebrated, well liked figures in the history of American popular culture killed the mother of his children. Now comes the Robert Blake murder case, and I’m wondering if I get to live it all over again: Top criminologists educating us on the science of DNA matching. The profound question of the American race divide. Legal experts debating which evidence is admissible. A nightly voyeuristic view into the lives of the rich and famous. Psychological profiling of a cultural icon and what might have pushed him over the edge. A topic on which virtually every last person in the street and around the water cooler had at least a semi-informed opinion. Well, Mr. Blake, I followed O.J. Simpson. I rooted for O.J. Simpson. I rooted against O.J. Simpson. And sir, you are no O.J. Simpson. Guilt is a foregone conclusion this time, not so much because all the evidence is in, but because what can you say about someone whose best friend in the cast of the Our Gang Comedies was Butch? Blake has a great alibi—he left the car because he forgot his gun. One wonders if Bonny Lee Bakley had instead OD’ed in the car, would Blake have claimed he went back to the restaurant to retrieve a vile of crack? There won’t be much outpouring of sympathy for Bonny Lee Bakley, whose rap sheet as a con artist makes former Detroit Tiger pitcher Denny McClain look like a volunteer for Meals on Wheels. When interviewed last year, Bakley’s own brother appeared wracked by the grief of someone who had just lost his pet goldfish. There will be no posthumous gawking at the celebrity’s slain wife, whose appearance could be likened to that of a reject from the Manson family. Her file photo has led many in Hollywood to speculate she was the love child of Tammy Fae Baker and comedian Louie Anderson. Furthermore, most entertainment reporters agree—there were simply too many celebrities out there using “Lee” as a middle name: Jerry Lee Lewis, Jamie Lee Curtis, Tommy Lee Jones, David Lee Roth. From among those and others, Bonnie Lee Bakley was easily the most expendable. And you can take that to the bank. No great TV advertising revenues are forecast this go-round. Get ready for a criminal trial that won’t make it through sweeps on Court TV. The civil trial later in the year won’t even be followed closely by the jury. Blake wasn’t doing so well financially, and his dream team is said to consist of Jacoby and Meyers. True story—when the verdict in the O.J. criminal trial was read in September 1995, I heard cheers coming from the home of my African-American next door neighbors. When Robert Blake walks on a technicality, who will rejoice—unemployed child actors? Really all that hangs in the balance is custody of the cockatoo. As a nation, we must accept the fact that Robert Blake has sold his last quart of Valvoline. Sure, it’s sad. First Petie, then Alfalfa, then Stymie, now this. With each passing day, the long-awaited Little Rascal’s reunion becomes that much less likely. Meanwhile, the media—nostalgic for better ratings—tries to stuff this story into a glove that doesn’t fit. All the creatine in the world won’t make Earle Caldwell another Al Cowlings, and all the marijuana in the world won’t make him another Kato Kalin. Forget about O.J. A fairer comparison would be Gary Coleman. And that’s the name of that tune. Click here to rant back. |