Lenny Bruce once said that if you walked into a room and started yelling "nigger-nigger-nigger," at every black person you saw, that the word would lose it's meaning and become powerless to hurt or offend. I don't know that I buy that, but I don't know that I don't. Maybe Michael Richards was trying out a bit of aggro-performance art, meant to exorcise the racialist demons dormant in all of us (all of us americans, at least). Los Angeles may not have been the savviest choice of venue for something so... avant garde; but maybe he felt something and went with it. Or maybe he's just a cracker motherfucker caught between his fading star and an act that only brothers in the audience could see was worth talking through, talking shit to. For the love of Kramer (how long before some hack begins to spell it "kkkramer?"--if no one does, I want credit), I hope it's the former, but my gut tells me it's the latter. If it walks like a duck...