Somebody turn off the Sex Machine

I'm baffled by a couple of things regarding the civil case recently filed against Godfather of Soul James Brown by a former assistant who claims Butane James sexually assaulted her in 1988.

First: 1988? My daughter, who's a sophomore in high school, wasn't even born in 1988. I'm certainly not saying the incident didn't happen — there are only two people on earth who know for certain whether it did or didn't, and I suspect that the Hardest Working Man in Show Business isn't talking — but...1988? That was four Presidents ago, for crying out loud. The alleged victim couldn't have spoken up before?

And yes, I understand that some rape victims have to travel a lengthy and arduous path before they can confront their attackers. I appreciate that this would be traumatic. But...1988?

Given that Brown was recently diagnosed with prostate cancer for which he is currently undergoing treatment, one wonders whether the possibility of Mr. Good Foot's impending demise might be leading someone to make a quick grab for a chunk of his estate before the opportunity is forever lost. That smacking sound you hear may be the lips of attorneys champing at the bit.

Again, if the deed was done, the guilty party should face the appropriate penalty. (I note, however, that this is a civil action, and that no criminal charges are being sought. Hmm.) And no one should get away with sexual violence or misconduct merely because of his wealth, fame, or popularity (**cough**Neverland**cough**). But...1988?

Second: Is James Brown's manager really named "SuperFrank"?

I don't even want to know why.