Simpson’s ex-wife, Nicole, and her friend Ron Goldman were slashed to death almost two years before I unpacked my two suitcases and settled here. I last visited LA four years ago, when I came to see Jenny, whom I don’t plan to call or see because I fear it will only remind me of that old doormat Ken. One day, while I’m walking down palm-lined Bundy Drive, a chubby tourist politely stops me. “Excuse me,” she says, a camera dangling from her neck. “Do you know where the O.J. house is?” “It’s the one with the gate,” I say, pointing to the stucco condominium across the street. Walking away, I am heartened to think that I am now living in such a vast, transient city. After just three days in this smoggy, sunny, car-clogged urban paradise, three time zones and oodles of emotional twilight zones away from the emasculated confusion of my prior, East Coast life, I already qualify as a bonafide local.
