CASEWORK
So, does Michael Jackson molest little boys? There are many who would say he does. Or did. There are perhaps as many or more -- fans -- who would swear such an innocent looking, childlike being could never commit such a heinous crime.

Then there's the trial. Michael Jackson -- King of Pop, Moonwalker, Childlover, Oddball, Global Celebrity -- was acquitted on all counts of the indictment against him, much to the joy of his slightly demented fans. Why? Why, when all indications would seem to clearly demonstrate he's a pedophile?

The question becomes one less of Jackson's guilt or innocence and more on the procedural phases and boundaries of our legal system; specifically those of a given case. "Indications" and "would seem to" and "demonstrate" are words that don't pass muster in the courtroom. Juries are instructed to weigh all the facts. But those facts are rigidly circumscribed to the case at hand, what's presented in court, and cannot or shouldn't be shaded with the implications of other times, other events, other alleged victims. Even a mediocre defense attorney will work his or her crooked little tail off to eliminate hearsay or evidence with no direct relationship to the case at hand. A slightly better attorney will connive to instill every iota of reasonable doubt in the minds of jurors. And that is key: Unless a smoking gun is found on the perp and is unquestionably linked directly to the crime, often reasonable doubt isn't difficult to establish. "Beyond a reasonable doubt" asks a lot, and that is as it should be.

Despite a dazzling accumulation of would-be evidence and testimony of crimes committed by Jackson, the mother of the key witness decimated much of the prosecution's case against him. This is aside from other accusations, the claims of children being given alcoholic beverages, witness testimony to Michael's bedroom habits and even pornography discovered at Neverland. Because, you see, direct evidence, evidence beyond a reasonable doubt, was lacking. And the one claimed victim jurors were asked to focus upon apparently has a slimy, greedy mother. The prosecution for some reason was ill-equipped to respond powerfully and appropriately to the defense strategy as it unfolded in the courtroom, so perhaps one big, smelly fact became swallowed up by relatively smaller ones, like a corpse disappearing under ravenous maggots -- a sweet, sometimes random circumstance that defense attorney's cling to. Even when their clients are guilty as sin.

DISHWATER BLONDE
After another long delay, I'm back to post. We picked up this new issue's "overage" from the printer yesterday, and I must say, with all due emphasis, it's dyn-o-mite! Consider me objective? Well, admittedly I'm not, but I sure love how the magazine has evolved into the vibrant piece of popular literature that it has become. Thanks, Nancy & Bill! We contribute, but our new zoom is largely due to your outstanding and never-ending efforts!

Now about the title of this post. Odd thoughts occur to me every day, but Sundays are the worst. While I was washing dishes this morning, as I was staring into the murky shallows of my sink, the term "dishwater blond" popped into my head and I spent about three long minutes contemplating the term and trying to decide what it really meant. Is it meant to be pejorative? Or is it simply a term that is exactly descriptive of one of those haircolors that hangs somewhere between light brown and dull yellow? I did a search. Because that's the kind of empty, pointless, inane and typically unproductive activities I indulge in on Sundays.

Don't tell me to go to church. I've had enough of that, what with having a parent who was a minister and having once been a member of a highly unconventional but spiritually savvy church with cult overtones. Anyhoo, one dishwater blonde plays not too terribly awful rap music. Another portrays a doll, if you will:

In other news, I lost my purple ranking at on-line Scrabble. But rediscovered BOXERJAM! These are fun but very challenging games.

That's it for now, kids. Promise to have more significant matters here . . . someday.