Swelter 26

Shortly thereafter the witness-to-chic set taking a breather from social dramas, lingering outside on the patio and falling into Simpsonian chat. The rumored fiancee/consort/bride Paula Barbieri has Boca Raton connections, and did the grandstanding F. Lee Bailey really represent Simpson when he recently negotiated for a house in Manalapan? Would O.J. be accepted in the bosom of Palm Beach society? Marylou Whitney might not have him over to tea, but it makes a certain sense, South Beach being a short limo hop away. This town would welcome O.J. like a conquering hero A with coke, B-girls, and his own one-nighter. Within the circle of vulgarity that is modern life (the gaudy thrill of lawlessness), the district remains in the avant-garde of American whoredom. I briefly met and instantly disliked the patently psychotic Simpson at the La Voile Rouge opening shortly before his arrest, a creepy hired celeb deep in what Bailey now calls O.J.'s minor fame period. Something tells me I'm destined to run into Simpson again, but next time around he'll be the biggest dog in town.

Time flying by with other glitter-driven innuendos, rumors, and philosophical speculations. Arnelle Simpson, apparently dating one of Chynna Phillips's brothers, finding time in the prejudgment period to fly out to the Hamptons for the Billy Baldwin/Chynna Phillips wedding, Carnie Wilson -- who's lowering the tone of tabloid talk shows lately -- making the affair, as well. From there a free-floating debate of modern fame: Celebrities lately are as low-rent as the hapless white trash denounced on Wilson's show, and yet we all forgive them for failings our friends couldn't get away with. Naturally the conversational drift eddied around icons worthy of veneration: Jackie Onassis, Audrey Hepburn, or Claudette Colbert A the only star who ever turned Jackie into gush -- which is the biggest legend? No real resolutions of the celestial pantheon, and by 1:00 a.m., the buffet, every other guest, and a rather more immediate legend, Chita Rivera, long since had left the party.

All of us mustering out for the last hurrah of Lester's Diner, a stupefyingly surreal mix of cowboys, queens, and trailer-park trash A some Richie Rich should airlift the place down to Miami. One earnest lesbian ready for her big post-Ruby Keeler break out of cowtown: "Is Warsaw really as wild as they say? Can you wear men's clothes there?" Step right up and check it out A bright lights, big city, where the ambiguity and fun never end. The usual approach to Miami Beach, dazzled and shattered at 4:00 a.m. My favorite harbinger of civic commentary -- a shirtless black gentleman who endlessly marches back and forth across the Venetian Causeway, adorned with gold glitter in the wake of the Simpson verdict.

And then it's O.J. mania, everyone cashing in. Although Simpson more precisely represents money and celebrity rather than black manhood, Louis Farrakhan has invited the ultimate Oreo cookie A he's famous, after all A to the upcoming Million Man March in Washington, intended to rekindle black men's commitment to community and family. The first time Simpson hit a woman he ceased being a man. Rather than go to his wife's grave, the odious one calls Larry King, sells victory photographs to the tabloids, and turns a profit on murder. A dark carnival, leavened by moments of grace, the dignity of Ronald Goldman's father, and an anonymous male mourner keeping vigil at Nicole's simple headstone, transcending all the babble: "Today I am ashamed to be an American." Sickening stuff, and now, one and all, we're all nothing but gossip columnists, carrion birds at the great national banquet.