he Michael Jackson trial escalated to the seventh level of hooplah Friday as prosecutors introduced into evidence a bloody sequined gloved that had not been previously revealed publicly. The defense requested a recess, to which the witty judge replied that no one had been good enough to deserve recess, but they would take a brief break. It gave the Jackson defense, led by attorney and Warhol knock-off Thomas Mesereau, a chance to recover from the five-fingered blow.

Nothing could hide the shock of Jackson and his attorneys as Santa Barbara County District Attorney Tom Sneddon held up a plastic bag containing a sequined left-hand glove so much like the famous right one long worn by the pop icon. The article of clothing, according to the District Attorney’s office, was found on the Neverland Ranch around the famed Ringo Starr cabana, which is halfway between the Neverland Hard Rock Café and the velociraptor compound. Sneddon claimed that, though the owner of the DNA had not yet been identified, scientists who all dressed snappy could verify it was human blood and did not belong to Jackson.

Mesereau’s first tactic, thought by many Monday morning counselors to be a real fumble, was to claim the defense had not had proper time to examine the accessory because in a poorly-Xeroxed evidence list it appeared to be “love,� which they all thought intangible and beyond examination. The judge thought this was funny, but not funny enough to grant a full recess to the defense. Mesereau then challenged the validity of the DNA findings, when he found out Sneddon had carried the bloody glove back to the lab himself, rolled up in a pile of his sweat socks in the trunk of his car.

“For all any of us know, that blood could well belong to Bubbles the monkey,� said Mesereau, evoking a horrified gasp out of the entire court. “But… probably not. And really, there’s absolutely no proof that it belongs to my client. You’ve never seen a picture of him wearing two sequined gloves, have you?�

The prosecution admitted the best it could produce was a picture of Jackson wearing two Bruno Magli shoes on his hands, but no such luck with the glove. The Santa Barbara County District Attorney’s Office did catch a break later, however, when returning to court after lunch, Jackson picked up the plastic-bagged bloody glove and said very loudly, “Hey! I’ve been wondering where I left this.�

Defense counsel argued in the afternoon that one bloody glove doesn’t prove anyone’s a murderer and it certainly isn’t grounds for child molestation charges, and promised the court it would call an expert next week who would testify Hollywood tough guy Steve McQueen had an entire room in his house devoted to bloody gloves. Mesereau also suggested that Jackson’s glove could be explained by an elaborate underground Fight Club, but would say nothing further about it since rules one and three prevented him from talking on the subject.

The prosecution concluded for the day by introducing more evidence of mysterious behavior at Neverland Ranch, including a pornographic magazine which had the fingerprints of the accusing child on one page, and several pages containing the fingerprints of District Attorney Sneddon. Then, just for laughs, the prosecution showed some of its other Neverland findings, such as a small Portugese man who spoke no English and had been putting on Jackson’s shoes for him for twenty years, and footage from a small hidden security camera in Jackson’s underwear.

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Recently I became aware of the completely bogus trend of huge corporations purchasing the naming rights to sports arenas all over the country. Qualcomm Stadium, MCI Arena, Depends Dome, Enron Field, Pepsi Center, McDome Deluxe, Fleet Center, Sta-Free Stadium, Arco Arena, Staples Center, Ex-Lax Arena, Bank One Ballpark, Anusal Arena and Joe's Crab Shack Stadium all blot the national sports landscape with their stinky names. And these are only the most obvious examples; some other crafty executives have even slipped their company names in under our collective radar. Did you know Coors Field was actually named for the beer? Neither did I. Crafty bastards. I thought that was the team name, like the noises doves make. And yeah, I thought that was a pretty candy-assed name for a baseball team, but that didn't mean it wasn't true. Just look at the Boston Butterfly Kisses.

One faithful reader was sharp enough to point out that this kind of thing has been going on for years, and that one needs to look no further than Wrigley Field for proof. And I'll be damned if the fabled home of the Chicago Cubans isn't the biggest stinker of the bunch, naming their stadium after a cheap line of plastic insect replicas aimed at gullible kids.

Many (at least one) readers of my column have written in, asking if I'm pissed off about this issue, and the crass commercialization of our culture. You're damned right I am! Where the hell was I when they were dreaming this stuff up, and why wasn't I cut in on the action? In case nobody has noticed, a commune salary doesn't go as far as it used to, especially not since they realized that Omar Bricks and Bricks Omar are the same person and they stopped sending me two paychecks every week. Who's the executive scumbag who thought I couldn't use a cut of those fat naming-rights checks, and where can I find his car?

As far as I'm concerned, these stadium owners have the best racket going, and Omar Bricks wants a piece of the pie. I'd like to officially make it known that the Bricks homestead is available for renaming for a reasonable fee in the low seven figures. Or maybe less, depending on the other offers I get. I may be willing to let the naming rights go to anyone who's willing to pick up my cable bill.

Come to think of it, why stop there? After brief consideration I've decided that an even larger plum is available for the pickling. The naming rights to Omar Bricks himself are now officially on the market. Just think of it, what corporate money-monkey wouldn't drool over the idea of having a commune columnist as a walking human advertisement? Just think of the kind of boost that a mind-blowing column by Pepsi Bricks could give to that product line. Or, conversely, a biting commentary by Omar Coke, assuming of course that it was made clear that I wasn't some kind of megalomaniacal drug lord. Separate rates are available for both first and last name rights, with a package deal possible if the price is right.

But of course, should your company bear an unfortunate family name like Shitkisser or Bungwarp, I reserve the right to raise my rates. I'm not even sure that such terrible names even exist, but I know for a fact that if I didn't prepare for such a contingency, all the Assgrotens and Leiki-Nippels of the world would come out of the woodwork waving fists full of cash and I'd be screwed.

It's a high-stakes game where the winner takes all, and to let down your guard is to be devoured like an Easter Peep. So keep your gummy marshmallow eyes peeled, commune readers. Coke out.

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I definitely need to hire out as a Fourth of July consultant. If you think you don't need a Fourth of July consultant, you've never experienced a Bricks Fourth of July, end of story.

It's about a month away, I know, but when you want to make it a memorable good time, you've got to plan well in advance. It's just not smart to put a houseful of fireworks and a truckload of Miller Genuine Draft together without more than a little planning. Now usually I'm a fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants kind of guy, even if the ass of the pants rips out and you get kicked out of the kid's birthday party, but hey, it's not like I knew the kid anyway—nothing ventured, nothing gained; but when it comes to Fourth of July, Omar Bricks turns into a rocket scientist of event planning.

It's more than just explosions and drunken fight after drunken fight—shit, if I didn't have that on a daily basis I'd hang up my hat and go home already. The way I see it, Fourth of July is the world's celebration of pure, uncut freedom, and for me there's nothing better worth celebrating. Hanging out with buddies, sipping beers, and trading swimming pool-building tips is like a fart in freedom's face. Omar Bricks don't fart in anyone's face unless they personally asked for it or take out those little opera glasses in public, which is the same as the former in my book.

It takes more than a month just to save up enough money to rent the arena. Why go through the trouble and expense of renting an arena? Well, you might as well ask what's the point in having a demolition derby—you can't hold it in your backyard, don't argue with that because I've tried. And the demolition derby is the big part of the Bricks Fourth of July gathering, and in the tight-money times I haven't been able to rent an arena I find an unguarded farmer field is a fantastic substitute. If you check with your friends who fake crop circles on the weekends they can probably tell you which places are frequently unsupervised and have the best tire traction.

Then you have to select the special car, I like to nickname it the "doom buggy". The best way, I've discovered, is to hold a little private lottery the night before—if you have one hundred ping pong balls, a giant hamster ball, and a tuxedo, have a little fun with it, it's like a party in itself. Then whatever number wins that's your car, since they'll all have numbers painted on them at the derby. I would recommend keeping it something only you know. Sure, you can let everybody in on the secret, but when most people find out the car's trunk is full of fireworks the volunteers to drive it dry up real fast.

No demolition derby is complete without a lot of beer, whether you're a spectator or a driver. Still, with luck you'll get flipped over by the car with the bulldozer prod welded on the front early and can get a seat right up front in time for the first explosion to hit the doom buggy. Man, that's Fourth of July. Our founding fathers would have been proud enough to piss themselves.

That's just my favorite part, of course. Some Bricks partygoers love shaving the heads of the derby losers. Others love the swimming pool full of Thunderbird, throwing flammable things on the bonfire, or the wrestle Lil Duncan contest. I'm not complaining, I love every part of it, even the swarming of S.W.A.T. team members to close the whole thing down gets me kind of misty-eyed. Like America, there's a little something for everyone. Bricks out.

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