O.J. Simpson’s trial began yesterday morning, and I couldn’t resist driving downtown to check out the media circus that pitched its tents and raised its masts next to the Regional Justice Center over the weekend. Thinking back to the encampment that settled in next to the Los Angeles courthouse back in 1995, I wondered how close I’d be able to get to the corner of Lewis and Third.

Well, all I can say is, 2008 Las Vegas ain’t 1995 LA. This isn’t to say no media vans had shown up—a dozen or so logo-covered vehicles sporting masts and satellite dishes had bivouacked inside a fenced-off section of the parking lot. In addition, a small cadre of police cars had mustered in front of the courthouse, guarding more than enough barricades to contain a nonexistent mob. Apparently, even though O.J. has been accused of serious crimes including kidnapping, his trial is just not riveting the country the way his first one did. Back in ’95, it would have taken far more than a former Miss Wasilla to overshadow the drama in Judge Ito’s courtroom. In ’08, it appears to be plenty.

That has got me thinking about all the changes in the world since that white Bronco took its slow cruise back in ’94. I had just left Los Angeles on an open-ended road trip that began when my house burned down (a whole other story). I was sitting in a restaurant on Seattle’s waterfront watching a one-legged seagull capitalize on his disability to score better scraps than his two-footed pals when the waitress told me that O.J. was dead.

Dead? Really?

Yes. He committed suicide.

Shut up! For real?

Well, he hadn’t, as we all know, and I spent the rest of the afternoon like 97.3% of the rest of America, watching the slow white Bronco.

My road trip, like O.J.’s trial, had more twists and turns and lasted far longer than I expected. I was in Fryeburg, Maine, when “the verdict came in.” I put the words in quotes because the phrase had taken on a life of its own well before the jury actually did reach a decision.

And—agree with it or not—a decision was reached. O.J. went to Florida, and everybody else had to deal with “trial of the century” hangover and get on with life.

OMG! I just remembered I even wrote a poem back then! It’s never before been published, but that’s exactly one of the points I was going to make about the difference between 1994 and 2008. First off, I can write “OMG,” and expect you to know what it means. Secondly, thanks to “new media,” I can share my poem with the world without becoming intimate with an “old media” reporter. Okay, so here goes—my poem, inspired by another “trial of the century:”

Original verse:

Lizzie Borden took an axe
And gave her mother forty whacks.
When she saw what she had done,
She gave her father forty-one.

My suggested second verse:

O.J. Simpson took a knife
And stuck it deftly in his wife
When he saw she’d met her end,
He pulled it out and stabbed her friend.

Thank you! Now I can free up some space in my mental RAM that’s been occupied for over a decade.

Okay, back to the trial of the—um—month? Las Vegas hosts lots of colorful courtroom dramas, so it’ll take time to know how this one will rate. What it will do, however, is allow all of us to reminisce about where we were on October 3rd, 1995, the day “the verdict came in.” I was in Maine, as I mentioned before, and the overwhelming interest in the verdict in rural New England provided undeniable evidence that fascination with the case had infected the entire continent.

And then it died down because, well, it had to. The guy’d been found innocent by “a jury of his peers,” and there’d be no going back for another try. Johnny Cochrane’s future was paved in gold, and Marsha Clark was, if not a winner, at least a celebrity. The rest of us could forget about the whole affair until that abomination called “If I Did It” hit the bookshelves last year. Oh, yeah, and for those of us here in southern Nevada, until O.J. came to Las Vegas.

I shouldn’t have been surprised. Everybody comes to Vegas. It’s just that the vast majority don’t commit crimes when they get here. In addition, I can’t ignore the irony that I left Los Angeles when O.J.’s first case was brewing, and now I’m in Las Vegas for OJ II. I wasn’t fleeing O.J. when I left, but I also never planned to chase him.

Guess the universe is telling me start working on the third verse…

O.J. Simpson took a gun
To Palace Station, just for fun…