While Judith Regan, the shameless publisher of this epitome of sociopathic high conceit, claims to consider this O.J.’s “confession,” the man himself remains on the hunt for the “real killers.” (How this is to help flush them out has not yet been made clear.)

Although the silver lining may well be that Fred Goldman might now have a hope of recovering some of the more than $30 million dollars in lawsuit money that O.J. owes him, the dark moral cloud of confusion surrounding it hardly seems worth it. (By the way, has anyone ever explained how it’s possible for O.J. to be innocent of murdering his victims—but guilty of causing their “wrongful deaths?” Did he call up the “real killers” and tip them off as to where to pick off Brown and Goldman? Did he lend them his Bronco?—Actually, that would explain how O.J.s, Nicole’s and Ron Goldman’s blood all ended up in the Bronco, when the three of them had never been anywhere together.)

For those of us yet old enough to hearken back to the O.J. trial—and the gigantic racial mess it left in its wake—this re-opening of old fatal wounds seems a colossal exemplar of the worst possible taste. Having watched every minute of the trial (sitting on the couch nursing my newborn son and basically trapped in the house anyway), even I can no longer find anything but a sick fascination with a man who may be the most egotistical sociopath that ever played in the NFL.

My personal jury is still deliberating as to whether or not to acquit myself of this opportunity to participate in the logical end of this very public historical moment, as I did with the rest of America in its beginning. It seems the inexorable conclusion to the story that O.J.’s felonious moment in the sun should terminate so publicly, so blatantly, so inappropriately. After he had blasted into America’s consciousness as a criminal, driving at reasonable speed along that California highway, it seemed somehow incomplete for him to merely go quietly away after his acquittal.

For a time, he vanished from our consciousness, mercifully leaving us to pick up the pieces of a legal process that seemed (at least to white people) to have been blown apart forever. Occasionally, one would hear something—that his house had been destroyed, that he was dating a new woman that looked just like Nicole, that he had to sell off his football memorabilia—and tried to ignore it. We were slightly cheered by the news that a civil jury had apparently not drunk the Cochran Koolaid (excuse me, “Flavor-aid”) and had found O.J. to be responsible for their deaths. Yet it seemed a bittersweet victory, implying as it did that the original jury had indeed been receiving its advice on law and logic from the mother ship hovering over California.

So, now he wants to come back to us, like a little boy who can’t stop himself from letting on that he got away with something. His face covered with frosting, he presumes to deny stealing a bite of the cake—and innocently tests the waters: “If I did do it, what would happen to me?” Except he’s even more brazen than that. Convinced of his own uncatchable brilliance, he is compelled to show us his genius. He couches the confession in a disingenuous posture of unassailable innocence, yet must—absolutely must—show us how he did it.

Were this the world of Columbo, there would be some way to throw him in prison forever once those allegedly false words pass his lips. Someone would come up with incontrovertible proof that it was true. Were this the world of Law and Order (Criminal Intent), the amazing Detective Bobby Goren would somehow trick him into offering himself up to be duly punished, and we could all turn off the television, finally satisfied that the episode is over.

Unfortunately, this is not either of those worlds. We have no bumbling yet brilliant man in a rumpled raincoat who can always find the key piece of evidence that traps the most famous person in the cast (like Johnny Cash) or the most familiar (like Jack Cassidy, William Shatner, or Robert Vaughn). We have no tortured genius, as powerfully brilliant and intellectually devious as the criminals he lures to their convictions. No, this is the world of O.J. and Bill Clinton, where the hopelessly guilty go free, only to later return to laugh at the world that tried to catch them the first time. This is the world of Marcia Clark and Christopher Darden—and Boulder D.A. Mary Lacy—where the people who represent the people find themselves defeated by fancy lawyers, clever criminals, and plain bad luck.

This is the world of Bill and Monica, of Mary Kay LeTourneau and Vili Fualaau, of Alcee Hastings returning to claim a committee chairmanship. This is a land of second chances. But will Americans welcome this explosion of traumatic memory back into their living rooms? Yes, the O.J. trial made the careers of some of our now famous newspeople—Greta Van Sustern, for one. And it thrust into prominence people like Henry Lee and Michael Baden. But is it worth going through again? Even as a catharsis?

Can we hope that this will end the O.J. saga? Or will his unremitting ego drive him to run for the Senate one day?

And if he does, will our memories be long enough to keep him out of office?