As further proof that the end of Western civilization as we know
it is rapidly approaching, the Scott Peterson trial is
underway.
As further proof that the end of Western civilization as we know it is rapidly approaching, the Scott Peterson trial is underway. Expected to last up to six months, the various news media are apparently convinced that during that entire time a nation of ghoulish spectators will want some tidbit, scrap of purported information, analysis, or what-the-hell salacious rumormongering at least every hour. For those who thought the OJ trial was the bottom of the voyeuristic barrel one can only say, neener neener. The next step will be the revelation that there was no murder, and that everyone involved in the current Grand Guignol is actually an actor in the newest generation of reality TV shows. At the end of the trial somebody gets a million bucks, a gorgeous fiancée, and a spot on American Idol.
Obviously unskilled in the art of suspense-as-entertainment, defense attorney Mark Geragos has already revealed the heart of his case: in so many words he has told the jury that his client is a cad, a boor, a liar, unfaithful to his wife, who told friends and police different stories at different times, who dyed his hair, took several thousand dollars in cash and a new car and attempted to escape to Mexico, who told his girlfriend that his wife was dead when maybe she was and maybe she wasn’t, and who wears the permanent demeanor of a smirking sociopath. However, this is a murder case and he didn’t kill anybody.
If Johnnie Cochran were on the defense team this would have all been masterfully boiled down to ”If he’s just a twit, you must acquit” and for all practical purposes the verdict would be a foregone conclusion.
Where are the pros when you really need them? I mean, here we have televised reality in its finest hour, which is as damning an indictment of television as I can think of, and the defense attorney isn’t playing the game as it should be played. For crying out loud, his client is a fertilizer salesman – what scriptwriter would have ever thought of that one as an occupation?
”OK, Vanna, tell us who our next contestant is.”
”Well, Chuck, we have a fertilizer salesman from Modesto, California.” A what from where? This is too compelling.
”And when did the alleged heinous crime take place, Vanna?”
”Well, Chuck, on Christmas Eve.” Well, television audience, there you have it; a plot based on a Charles Dickens novel as adapted by Quentin Tarantino, playing out in agonizing slow motion reminiscent of a great Andy Warhol film.
Is there anything left that we can exclude from the wonderful world of entertainment? Would it be possible to set some sort of extreme boundaries that would leave certain activities on the outside? Would it spoil some vast eternal plan if we perhaps let things like murder investigations and trials be carried out in a fashion that didn’t remind one of a particularly hallucinogenic scene from Cirque de Soleil?
What am I thinking – of course not. We’ve already been ruined and there’s no going back. Cirque de Peterson will continue to attract daily attention, complete with the newly popular online opinion polls – ”Scott Peterson: do you think he did it? Cast your vote with your cell phone, only 95 cents, and we’ll post the results.” Perhaps by September interest will begin to wane and the people will be in danger of turning their attention to the question of whether incompetently ruling the world will continue to be the job of the Republicans, who have an evil plan, or be given to the Democrats, who have no plan. But never fear: by then the Michael Jackson trial is scheduled to begin.
Child molestation. Oooh. Can’t wait.
