When the Amanda Knox verdict was reversed a couple days ago, my friend Duane said I should write the screenplay. Forget that that would be like applying for a Pulitzer, or that publishing companies are already lining up at the airport, ghost writers in tow. The truth is I can't. It would be a violation of professional ethics.
I think I might be in love with Amanda Knox.
Now, I don't know much about the case, really, which would also hamper any attempts to write about it, because I'm guessing that would require research, and not just Google and Wikipedia, real research, and I'm not so big on that stuff. I've gathered bits and pieces, of course. Amanda was living in Italy, maybe as a student or something, and I think she had a boyfriend named Rafeal or something similar, and then her roommate was stabbed dead, and then Italian prosecutors claimed the death was the result of some sex game/love triangle gone wrong, and you can stop me here and correct me if you want. But I never much cared for her actual innocence or guilt. Becasue she's just so damn cute.
I'd be lying if I said that the whole "sex game gone wrong" angle didn't titillate, pique my interest. Then there was that part where Amanda said the two girls were planning to "cuddle." Two girls in a foreign land planning to cuddle? Christ, I'm just a man. That their cuddling session was interrupted by murder captivates my attention because when I am not writing on this, I like to write crime and mysteries. And I know that somebody died, somebody's daughter who was loved. I'm not making light of that. I don't need a deluge of responses that I'm being insensitive to someone else's pain. But this isn't real to me. It's a TV show, a Yahoo article, a Facebook status update. It's no different than Casey Anthony. I didn't know anything about Casey Anthony, just an article or two online I'd read, but I was still ready to join the rest of the mob, pitchfork in hand. Casey looked guilty, everything about her face ugly, manipulative, smug, creepy and evil. You just want to punch her in the head over and over for what she did to her own child. Except, I don't know what she did or didn't do. I have an opinion. Just like I do with OJ, Phil, and Baretta. I'd defend that opinion. And if tomorrow a report comes out of Florida that Casey Anthony was cornered in the bathroom of a Perkins Cake and Steak and savagely beaten, I will rejoice in the justice of it all. Is that right? I don't know.
But it isn't real. It exists in the realm of the fantastical. That story, as horrific and unfathomable as it is, even more so because I have a child of my own and can't imagine the sort of monster who could be capable of doing that, still only resides in the abstract. The shrewish homely face of Nancy Grace. The outraged op-eds. The Facebook posts calling for her head. It is, sadly, just another form of entertainment, however perverse, in the 21st Century Digital World. None of us will ever meet Casey Anthony. We will continue to receive our information via the Shrew and People Magazine, and nothing we read, see, or do brings that little girl back. And that is heartbreaking. But we will never meet Kim However You Spell Her Last Name or that new princess either, but magazines will still fly off the racks (and websites crash) when one of them gets married.
Which is why I don't pay attention to Casey Anthony. There is a God. And I have a feeling that God treats those who abuse helpless children the same way D Block at San Quentin does: He fucks that shit up. And I don't pay attention to Kim or Kate. Because, well, simply put, I don't find either particularly attractive.
But Amanda... (sigh) She's like a little wet kitten in a cup of tea.
I just can't believe she could do something like that, hurting somebody she'd had plans to cuddle with. And I think the accusation (and four years in prison) is what made her make this sad, troubled face:
Amanda is too pretty to be sad or troubled like this. Plus, I've been to Italy. There's a lot of greaseballs over there (I can say that; I'm Italian). Plus, y'know, there's...the Mob. Pretty girls don't kill. At least not that way. They don't need a knife. They do it with a kiss, a sweet nothing whisper, while they blow one of your oldest friends in Houston.
This thing is, I think Amanda and I could be happy together. Yes, I am married. With a child. And my hip is falling apart. I'm grumpy, convinced I'm dying, turning agoraphobic, etc. But let's set all these things aside momentarily, overlook the plot holes. Like a Michael Bay script, just push it all in a room off stage that no one can see under the dizzying, CGI special effects.
I think one of the reasons relationships can start to stagnate is they succumb to familiarity, which can breed...children, lots and lots of children, and then you're at the mall, fighting about funnel cake.
The truth is I think I love Amanda Knox because she reminds me of Amy Kross, a girl I knew in college and fawned over but never won over, left with only the sad songs I wrote about not being able to hold onto her heart (because, you know, I hadn't thought of the right words).
And being with a potential murderer would be a win-win in a lot of ways. It would appeal to the two sides of Joe: the self-loving and self-loating. Amanda would be grateful that a man as good looking, muscular, intelligent and compassionate as I is taking a chance on her, and so she would dote on me, and the constant press would mean I'd be forever in the spotlight. Very cool. And conversely, if she chopped me up at the end of some kinky S & M game, well, that'd be cool too. Because a part of me hates myself and thinks he deserves it. See what I mean? Win. Win.