SHELLEY DID JURY DUTY
but was 'let go' because she made her mind up in advance about who was guilty.
BAD GIRL, SHELLEY, bad, bad, BAD!

SHELLEY WORE BLACK
Not a DONNA KAREN thing. She was in mourning.
1) She got slapped with a HICKIE that looked like a BARCODE.
'How can this dude suck my neck + leave a fuckin’ RECTANGLE?!'
But he did + everybody stared.
2) In a post yule frenzy she had a CAR ACCIDENT. She pulled into a space near THE OTHER SIDE. Got out t' check the meter.
'The one behind me says OUT OF ORDER. I'm takin' it before the next asshole makes the score.'
She backed up - purse + trade-back presents on the roof.
'CRACK!'
She doored the friggin' meter she was moving to avoid.
'FUUUUUUUUUCCCKK!'
Good news: She can close the door.
Bad news: There's a big smile in the upper right that will let in rain, snow or even a car-jacking bent coat hanger.
3) Saddest of all, looks like her PROJECT is driving itself to the GLUE FACTORY. (ie Quitsville for SWP).
'I will have no iDENtity,' she moaned. 'I'm a use-to-be actress + a dumpy waitress.'

SHELLEY ENDORSED HERSELF THIS AFTERNOON AT A HOG FARM in IOWA.
Wrapped in the FLAG she lay down in a stinking sty, bonded with the wildlife, eRUPTed a concert of lethal emission + gave a speech.
(Carried LIVE on COMMUNITY TV in WEST HOLLYWOOD.)
'This election,' she burped, 'is all about energy. OIL v ALTERNA - the Uncaused Cause of Everything!'
She rolled over in the mud.
'Me + my buddies here don't NEED no SUBSIDY. We ARE the answer. We will TAKE OUR CORNTRY BACK! What comes out of our collective BEHINDS will drive the engine of DEMOCRACY over the rainbow.'
Her slogan:
'HOG POWER - GAS FROM THE GR-ASS-ROOTS'
Vote for SHELLEY...

SHELLEY WAS EATING HER WAY
OUT OF THE HOLIDAY DOLRUMS when her VET called.
SHELL's cat, SOFIA DI PUTZI(di POOTzi), was diagnosed with a 'fat belt'.
'A WHAT!?'
A mere half an ounce overweight.
'She DID look inflated skittering across the kitchen floor.'
POOTZ was hurled onto the KITTYKIN:
2/3rds of a cup of CHICKEN N RICE FORMULA ONE pellets per day. Ladled out in sporadic tablespoonfuls.
SHELL felt guilty one day ('The LITTER BOX gets more attention.'), enraged the next ('Nothing is more lethargic or self-centered than a FAT CAT!').
Morning, noon and night poor SOF whined, clawed, moon-walked, pushed and rubbed for her din din. Slimfasted down into a feline AUDREY HEPBURN.
Meanwhile SHELL grew a FAT BELT of her own. The less she fed the SOF the more she ate herself (BELISHI doing LIZ TAYLOR choking on a TURKEY).
'Times are tough,' as she sobbed. Too many endings.

SHELLEY HAS EMBEDDED HERSELF ON THE POTOMAC.
In the trunks of WHITE HOUSE LIMOS, behind the blue curtains of the PRESS ROOM, in CONGRESSIONAL MAJORITY TOILETS, as a hefty STWEARDESS on AIRFORCE ONE.
"I'm getting to the foggy bottom of this," she whispers.
She coins her recon: 'IN THE SACK WITH THE PATRIOT ACT'.
Got herself a REPUBLICAN make-over: KATHERINE HARRIS coif w/ Cruella DeVille/Michael Jackson goth makeup, BARBARA BUSH three-tiered pearls, NANCY REAGON low heels + astrologer + a PAT NIXON martini.
"A flag-in-the-lapel mole, that's meeee," she chirped. "I know the stench is there + I'm the bitch to snort it out. They nailed my beloved BUBBA on a BLOW-JOB. Meanwhile the ASS-SHAFT they're giving UNCLE SAM is enough to about face their 'position' on GAY MARRIAGE."
SHELL has so many duct taped microphones on her body she can hardly move, let alone eat. She's co-writing (with AL FRANKEN): 'THE TRUTH DIET - Fair & Balanced On The Scales'.
"I'm gonna blow the biggest SHOCK AND AWE whistle in history! DEEP THROAT's gonna look like SHALLOW GAG!"
(Is it too late to make a 'press pass' at the perpetually sexy BEN BRADLEY?)

END OF AN ERA
Monday, December 1st, upcoming, is gonna be Berlin's last night at Jacques. They're 'letting him go' - got the call. A new drag show is 'packing 'em in'.
This marks the end of the longest 'residency' (every single Monday night for 7.5 years/ once a month this last year and a half) he's ever been a part of .
He's sad. He'll miss the joint - phenomenal memories of phenomenal shows. A giant opportunity for any performer, to have a regular gig. He's also relieved - You can only do so much for so long before an idea fades into a glitzy back curtain, awash in a trashed spotlight.
What he'll miss most, however, is the chance Jacques gave him to book artists (sight unseen, sound unheard) to take a risk, to put their work out there for the Very First Time Ever on those well-heeled boards. Countless songwriters, bands, spoken wordists, comedians, film-makers had their first show with Rick at Jacques.
Heart goes out to: Charles Isenberg, Donald Richards, Kris Turelli, Henry Vara, all the grlz and staff at Jacques and to every single performer/band who hung out on a dingy Monday night.

SHELLEY APPALLED HERSELF ON A BIG DATE.
She REALLY liked the guy. Honestly. He was the Real Deal. Had put off the 'moment' out of respect, hope, decency. But in the wee hours of the morning (was it something she ate?) she woke herself up.
An explosion (4 on the Richter scale) blew the sheets off her bed. Her eyes popped. Her hair stood on end.
'NO!' she thought. 'No no no no NO! I didn't. I couldn't. I wouldn't. I was DREAMING!'
But the fact of the matter was...she had.
And next to her he slept. Or pretended to.
She went to the window + looked out.
'Dear God, promise me he didn't hear that, OK?'
(Church can help in a crises.)

SHELLEY TOOK A NOSE DIVE LAST THURSDAY NIGHT
(along w/ the National 'NATION')
She was all mixed up. She kinda liked GRADY. Now she was crushed. Like finding out that BURT cheated on her during THE BIRDMAN OF ALCATRAZ. Or that MARYLYN had taken her life. It was that bad.
'Now I think I get it about HEROIN. I really want NOT to care this much.'
She took a cab to FENWAY, sank to her chubby knees + prayed.
'Dear SOMEBODY UP THERE? Don't let this happen to this town or this team EVER AGAIN. Ok? We had a collective heart attack. Part 2? Don't let those guys think for ONE MINUTE they weren't the best team in the world, that they woulda gone to the SERIES - no shit - with one less IDIOTIC MOVE from LITTLE.'
Then she dropped a tab of MR NATURAL she'd refrigerated for DECADES + FROOGED herself into baseball oblivion - shouting:
IT AIN'T ABOUT MAYBE NEXT YEAR! IT'S ABOUT TODAY! WE WON GOD DAMMIT! IN MY HEART WE WON THE WHOLE DAMN THING!'
Hallucinating + deluded, SHELL stumbled into the BASEBALL TAVERN. She 'saw' D-LOWE running towards her, pick her up, give her a big sloppy kish + storm into the rainy night.
'DAMN!' she thought. 'What a killer dude.'

SHELLEY WASN’T SURE
WHAT SHE WAS DOING OR HOW SHE GOT THERE but found herself on a rooftop, soaked-to-the-skin, staring at the sky as the rain pelted down ("They won't see tears. Won't let 'em.")
SHELLEY isn't religious. Close she ever got - 'may the Force be with you'. But Sunday afternoon she 'prayed'. Stared above the rain, beyond the sun, past the stars, to the place
"PEDRO points when he walks off the mound."
If she was morose, if she was rip shit, she got over it. She believes in RED SOX NATION more than GOD.
"Don't let those ice-in-their-pants YANKEES screw us outa the PENNANT. I mean it. You, BURKETT - pitch the game of your life. MUELLER - do what ya did all year long. We're goin' to WRIGLEY God Damn It THIS IS THE YEAR!"
She struggled w/ a SHIRLEY MACLAINE visualization: PUMPKINHEAD ZIMMER face first in the grass as the best bats in history explode overhead.
More quietly - "However it goes down, this team gave us the season of a lifetime. May the Force be with us all."

SHELLEY GOT SO WORKED UP OVER THE RED SOX
she wound up in a HANDSTAND CONTEST (outside DOYLES) w/ fast-talking KELLY MAC.
'I can do this,' she lied to herself, barely noticing: a) the sidewalk was CEMENT HARD + b) it slanted to the right.
Kelly flipped into position like a cheerleader. Shelley groaned her way up, got disoriented + her flabby arms gave way.
'What th' *^#!?'
BONK! Head hit the sidewalk like a bowling ball. She crumpled into her upper body like an accordion. Kelley laughed so hard she had to sit down 'or else'.
Next day she shaved her head.
'If TROT can deal, if DEREK can deal, if DAMON CAN'T DEAL, I can deal. I'm an actress ferchristsake. It ain't some punkasses 'do'. It's SOLIDARITY!'
Saying this looked funny w/ her head off the beam, tears in eyes + a DACHAU do. But she went for it. She didn't care.
'OCTOBER ain't about KAREER. It's about the BEST TEAM THAT EVER PUT ON A BASEBALL UNIFORM.!'

SHELLEY TRIED TROT NIXON'S
BEER BASH. Soon as she saw him do it. Stormed into the kitchen, yanked 2 cans o' COORS + CRACKED em, like eggs, in front of her face - laughing out loud.
But nothing happened. No explosion, no suds.
'What th' Hell?!'
They were all dented up but still holding...WHAK! She tried again. WHOMP! They began to look like discarded cigarette packs.
Jumping up and down, tight fists: 'I wanna celebrate TOO!!!'
She threw on her moldy WHITE FOX, whistled down a cab + beat it over to the corner of Boyleston & Jersey in time to catch TROT stumbling outa the TAVERN. She shoved him 2 cold ones.
'Here, baby. Do it like ya done it.'
'Aw SHELLEY,' he said. 'That was jes dumb luck.'
He picked her up - well ALmost - in both arms.
'Here's one for the NATION,' she cried + planted a big sloppy on his neck.
He shook his head, smiled, put her down gently + walked down Jersey like HIGH NOON.
'This is the year! THIS IS THE FUCKING YEAR!!!!' she yelled after him, crying and laughing at the same time.

SHELLEY DUG OUT HER DATE BRA
to show JEILA.
'What IS a 'date bra?'
'It's obvious, girldude.'
'Oh.'
Then she remembered THE INCIDENT. Flashback: MAN RAY. Way into interpretive dance. VIOLENT FEMMES screaming outa the speakers. Spine snapped to the beat, bracelets zinging, eyes back, beer jizzing over club kids.
'Then it happened.'
'WHAT happened?!'
'It came loose.'
'The DATE BRA?'
'Flipped like a strangle snot around my neck. The rest of me hanging like Christmas...bloop, blomb...out from under.'
'That's so EMBARRASSING!'
'So yeah. It's yours.'
'What?'
'The DATE BRA.'
'Ah...gee...thanks.'
SHELLEY reasserts cleavage wherever she can.

SHELLEY BEGINS TO WORRY ABOUT THE GUITAR HERO.
'Where he AT!?' she sputters.
Rummaging thru her attic of 80's RAWK she cranks up one MAJOR DOMO GUITAR SOLO after another. Every single tune has a MONEY MOMENT.
'Dude sticks his crotch in your face, hair flipped, rings flashing + rains from the rafters one Niagara cascade after another. Every kid on my block hunkered down in sweaty underwear - guitar strapped on in front of a dusty decaled mirror - gave up childhood + memorized JIMMY PAGE r EDDIE VAN HALEN r SLASH like the big bother they never had.'
Then she remembers the EDGE.
'He don't show off. Hides under a HAT. U2 would be nuthin' without him. Delay + eighth notes. Oceans of 'em. Does the job. The ANTI-SOLO GUITAR HERO.'
But SHELL's suspicious of: 'it was better then'.
'First sign of gettin' old.'
So she hops online + STEALS download after download of hairband MP3's.
'Go ahead. SUE my ass!'

SHELLEY THROWS THE RICE
BY THE END OF 2003 she’ll have gorged her way thru FOUR WEDDINGS. Eats too much, drinks too fast, peers judgmentally at the children of relatives, becomes inappropriately horny.
'Maybe it's that first GODFATHER movie. I want ANYone. After 4 champagne flutes they all look hot.'
The danger zone - desert. SHELL parks herself by the Big Cake + as soon as the frosted tiers get sliced, it's back n forth n back n forth, hunk after hunk - like a cocaine run to the powder room.
'To be married is like saying: Bitch, get FAT! You own the dude, right? Why bother with pretty?'
But cynical SHELL is really a sentimentalistafarian. Pulls up the hem of her wedding MUMU + cries her brains out.
'Been married 3 times - the one's I remember. Why did I DO that? It's not like I wasn't 'getting any'. I had career, bank account, a big closet, big ass, big life. I'm from friggin' HOLLYWOOD fer Christ sake! Even homos got married here - to LESbians (apologies t Tom + Nicole). It's a JOKE!'
Still she hopes. Crosses fingers that things'll go fine. That the pick, pick, picking of the Forever Married + Re-Married escapes the newly hitched.
(SHELL has a 6th sense about outcome: a tea-leaf transparency envelops the couple as she squints 'em down.)
'I feel like Siskel + Ebert. They invite me, but they HATE me being here. Their future's all over my fat face.'
Hence the cake station.
'I EAT myself stupid + hide the crystal balls.'

SHELLEY - A NEO-GEEK?
'SERiously, she reasons. 'Nerds turn me on, big time. They're bashful/aggressive in this covert behind-the-glasses way. Ya gotta love 'em. With these dudes, vanity takes a back seat to brains. Love a guy who can think on his sandals + rocks in bed - permuTAions of positions. (MIT is the hottest little gang bang in the IVY LEAGUE.)'
PROBLEM:
Her old iMac - 'PURPLE' - was on the fritz. Crashed so many times she pasted Zolof in the CD tray. ('PURPLE' was the nickname of her childhood BRINDL. Had an striking rear-end 'plum'. Suitors of all breeds went for purple's purple in a big way. Her ol' pal was that cute, 'til the crashing began.)
She plopped on her EARTH SHOES, motored to COMPU-GARTEN + sprang for a new turkey with all the trimmins.
'Everything but a VIBRATOR!' she pursed.
Getting around on it was a freak show - like snow boarding on acid. It swooped + dived + rang + sang + enthralled. SHELL was worried.
'PURPLE's havin' nightmare's. About the glue factory. But DAMMIT JANET a girl's gotta move on. New crop o' geeks comin' t town.'
O'ertop a pair of genius specials (black-rimmed), SHELL labored into the night. She's hittin' the Juleps, chattin up a filth storm on nerd.com + preparing for her Project's first fall foray.

SHELLEY'S STARTED READING 'MIDNIGHT'S CHILDREN'
(SALMAN RUSHDIE) - before the author was forced to go into hiding from a piss-n-vinegar AYATOLLAH. Opened up to -
'Most of what matters in our lives takes place in our absence...'
'But I was THERE.' she thought. 'I was ALWAYS there. I met KRUSCHEV + JFK, fer Christ's sake. I was MARYLYN's friggin' roommate. For YEARS! I was THERE dammit. Like where was I NOT?'
(The SHAKESPEAREAN turn escaped her. Then she thought about WOODY. The quote -
'I'm not afraid of death so long as I'm not there when it happens.'
'Ah HA!. The BIG QUESTION. Not celebrity minor-league FOX CHANNEL dumb down sound-byte.'
As in thoughts of...DEATH!?
Sank her into an ice-cream fortified funk. A gallon of WHITE CHOCOLATE in one slurp.
'No more you-think-too-much pour MOI,' she grimaced, clicking on the OSBORNES. 'MTV gets it right. Drink, eat, screw, ladle out lobotomized lyrics...WHAT-TH’?!!'
On the telly sat gal pal MATTDOG w/ the OZZSTER hizself. On a FISHING BOAT off stinkpot LA.
'Goes t show. Missed that. Wasn't THERE. Maybe SALMAN was right - missing out is his way of clueing in.'
'SHUTTHEFUCKUP!,' her parrot (FLOYD) squawked. 'WHERE'S THE WEEEED!?' ...whistle
'I need stupid,' Shelley sighed.

SHELLEY'S TRYING TO 'GET INTO' NOISE BANDS.
She thought she got it...
'You sort of play like KEROUAC wrote - like an unedited SPEED FREAK. But more like JAZZ. JIZZ JAZZ is what I call it. Because like JAZZ you listen to each other, but like JIZZ you spew all over the place.'
'You're dead wrong, bitch,' said the bartender (at the CHOPPING BLOCK). 'MASTURBATORY riffing went out with the 80's. NOISE is more like shitfaced CHESS w/out taking turns. It's like seriously funny, absurdly passionate comic book written like a novel...'
'Shut UP + BARtend dude, uh-kay?!'
'NOISE is the FUTURE. NOISE replaces PUNK. It's RADIO-FREE. It's music w/out a BRA. It's the SPIT CURL on the FOREHEAD of the FUTURE.'
'I'm gonna throw up.'
Next to her COORS LITE was a box w/ a toggle switch. A line ran from the box to the MEN'S ROOM. A contact mike was gum-stuck above the floor-to-ceiling urinal. Just before the band went on, SHELLEY smacked it hard.
'I'll show you noise,' she smirked.
It sounded like the entire bar + MISSION HILL being FLUSHED into the belly of BOSTON.
'I'm calling my 'act' A GIANT SUCKING SOUND,' she laughed.
The place went nuts. A star was born.

SHELLEY WAS ROOTING
around in her basement (a hog to truffles), tipped over her Dad's MERMAN-IN-A-BOX + unearthed a pair of GOGGLES - circa 1939. The tag:
SUBTITLES - beware.
'I don't remember THESE,' she pursed, jamming them on. Her cat (SOFIA DI PUTZI) appeared at the top of the stairs.
'MEOW.'
On the 'screen' Shelley read, in a yellow, chunk-style font:
'I AM NOT FAT! THIS DIET YOU'VE PUT ME ON IS INSANE! I'M JUST A CAT FER CHRIST'S SAKE!'
Shell fell back, crushing the MERMAN to splinters, ran upstairs, burst into the yard + flipped into her 12 yr old neighbor's sandbox.
'I love you Aunt Shelley,' she giggled.
Subtitle:
'YOUR WIG'S ON BACKWARDS, YOUR BREATH SMELLS LIKE OLD LADY + YOU'RE SAD.'
'Oh...yes...I love you too,' wondering: 'What IS this - ANNIE HALL?'
She flicked on the tube. DUBYA was giving a speech.
'I promise to keep weapons of mass destruction out of the hands of The Little Brown Ones,' he garbled.
Subtitle:
'IN THREE DAYS THOSE RE-HABBED WMD'S CHENEY'S PLANTING IN THE ROSE GARDEN OUTSIDE BAGDAD WILL BE IN PLACE + MY RE-ELECTION A NO-BRAINER.'
She reached for the aluminum BAT behind the couch, hurled the goggles to the rug + KILLED them.
'I can't handle that much truth,' she whined.
'MEOW' is just a 4-letter word. So is NOAH.

SHELLEY BOUGHT THREE COWS + A WHITE PIANO.
She worshipped YOKO ONO. Got a pair of over-sized wrap-around DARK GLASSES. Recorded + amplified the sound of herself HICCOUGHING, SNORING, YELPING. Picked a beat-box offa E-BAY + an online pro-tools rip-off.
'Any idiot can do this,' she laughed. 'OUT is IN! It's my turn at the hit bat. I will dance everybody's knockers off w/ squeaks, burps, howls + clips from the POSEIDON ADVENTURE...'
She even got a next door BRINDLE BOXER to FLATULATE into a MINI-DISC, looped it up, put a mike to it on DYKE NIGHT at the MIDWAY + the grlz ROCKD.
'WALKING ON BROWN RICE' - she called it. 'This dance stuff is a CINCH.'
Nobody told her about the X spike in the GIRL SCOUT COOKIE the daughter of FINGERS (the neighborhood dealer) sold her a week ago. To SHELLEY's ears ANYthing sounded like a rave church.

SHELLEY OPTED
for her own private fireworks.
'Patriotism ain't the POPS', she sputtered. 'Patriotism is JIMI HENDRIX wah-wah-ing + feed-backing the STAR SPANGELED BANNER across mud, tie-dye + topless earth mothers!'
Embedded in a decade's worth of an un-defrosted freezer was a 30 yr old tab of MR NATURAL. She hacked it free with an ice-pick. Dropped it. Settled in her 3rd floor Irish Battleship triple decker back porch hammock + cranked 'WOODSTOCK' - the FIRST one.
'I remember when hippie wasn't a dirty word. It was a revolutionary ACT. Now it's all VEGANS + PHISH.'
SHELLEY closed her eyes to an inner planetarium of film clips, personal porn, romance + cartoons. When JIMI clanged out the opening notes of the SSB, she saw (like for the first time in CHINA) the best ooh + ahh display of shooting stars EVER.
She's ready. She's high. She's unabridged. She's ULTIMATE SHELLEY:
THIS SATURDAY
July 12th
OPENING FOR the band that made YOKO ONO main-stream -
the b52s!!!!!

SHELLEY LOCKED HER KEYS
in the GrandAm. Didn't realize it. Gulped a DEVIL DOG, hit a ROCK SHOW, schmoozed, boozed +
3 HOURS later...
went t get the car. Keys dangled from the ignition like a cheap earring. Sixteen zits popped her hair line like a PIXAR projection. She tore off her favorite LARRY BIRD SWEAT BAND + tried to eat it. She SCREAMED. She FARTED.
'Get a grip, girlfriend,' she seethed, eyeballing a coat hanger.
'Un oh...something smells like ASS.'
Wobbling on LOW HEELS to the front of the car she heard a motor running. HER motor.
'FUCK! It's MY car. It's MY fault. It's MY A.D.D. It's MY whole god-damned LIFE!'
Niagara tears.
(Minutes later - wheels on gravel. Headlights. A beep. A friend. A savior. A spare set of keys.)
'Lucky you, SHELL. It's a wonder th' car didn't explode,' he laughed.
SHELLEY patted the dashboard.
'Nice car. Good car. Baaad Shelley. Bad, bad, bad.'

SHELLEY STOOD
- the non-smoker - w/ Andy + Jeila (2 smoking friends/fiends) outside an JP juke joint. Jeila looked at the sky. Andy looked at his feet. Puff. Sigh. Puff. Sigh.
A young black wheelchair dude stumbled off the curb - wheels on sidewalk, pigeon toes on asphalt.
'Kid's annihilated,' Shelley mumbled. The kid vomits on himself.
'What's yr name?' asks Andy.
'Jose.'
"Ah...I'd say lean a bit to the side so ya don’t barf on yrself.'
Guy didn't want advice. He wanted a smoke.
'Be my guest,' says Jeila (high on Mai Tai's...MAI TAI’s?!).
Puff. Puke. Puff. Puke.
'Hey, ah, where do you live? We'll walk ya home.'
'No, man. I'm ok.'
He puked again. Nearly fell over.
'Yr gonna get run down. Crushed by a 10 wheeler. We're takin' you home.'
Took turns. Pushed Jose up a ramp onto his porch against a dark blue house. For the first time in months SHELLEY said little. She felt guilty for feeling warm inside over a good deed she had nothing to do with. She woulda just stood there THINKING about it. Andy broke the ice. Jeila gave him a cig.
'Here's this dude: helpless, proud, skunked on Bicardi + it takes a friend of mine to make a move. I email outrage vs Dubbya, down the Lites + rally the Project. Shame on you, SHELLEY.'
She drove home, lit a candle, cried in the shower.

SHELLEY BRUNCHED AWAY
at a local bistro. Fancy eggs, fancy coffee, fancy schmancy. Figured she could read the NY TIMES SUNDAY MAGAZINE about NUCLEAR PROLIFERATION in PEACE.
But she left her reading glasses at home. No matter how far away she held the Times - yards - it was a blur. She had to - anxiety attack - DO ABSOLUTELY NOTHING awaiting her plateful of VEGATARIAN BENEDICT + PORTUGESE SAUSAGE.
Across from her dark corner sat an exTREMELY good looking person. At a tableful of OTHER PEOPLE + while they laughed + cackled 'handsome' said nothing, surviving w/ a forced smile. SHELLEY sympathized:
'Poor kid. Hates his friends. Shy. Lonely. GORgeous.'
(Her usual take on the Unattainable.)
He caught her staring. She'd tried to be oblique. Pretended to look at the ART on the WALL above his head, but her cat-in-a-litterbox leer gave her away.
'God. He looks like my DAD!’
Darth to Shelley: ‘I AM your father.’
If she could afford it she'd lug her libido to a couch.

SHELLEY DECIDED
that it was not a DOG'S life but a CAT'S that had the perks.
'Dog's are just plain dumb, or overly apologetic. Those imploring EYES. Makes me feel guilty. Cat is where it’s at.'
For an entire week she ate, slept, excreted, scratched, yawned, licked, coughed + stared out the window.
'Without doing anything I feel smart. I can see in the dark. I (sort of) purr. I'm respected, I’m super clean + I'm GORGeous.'
(Cats don't have inferiority problems.)
Freaked out her friends. When she lept off the couch + pounced (full body) on a skittering mouse (a stray sock)...
'It's the Real World, SHELL,' they scolded. 'You look ridiculous chewing on that sock.'

SHELLEY SAT UP IN BED
(shivering w/ sweat) Dreamed she'd been sunbathing w/ ADOLF.
‘Hey ah...Mr Hitler? You gonna need some protection there. Level 30? Cuz yr gonna get burnt bad all over your white white white white blue white skin.'
A.H. made a nasty, bout-t-spit puckery l'l mouth + his eyes screamed - 'I CAN HAVE YOU KILLED!'
Shell bopped him on the head w/ her ANNE FRANK OSCAR. Woke up shaking. Staggered to her desk. Emailed her fan base:
'Next time you have a dream? Keep Hitler out of it. He won’t even talk to you + he’s got a real mad mouth. Shoe polish hair. You wanna be dreamin' bout BILLIE HOLIDAY or Golden Retriever puppies + I ain't no FASCIST!'
After a latte + a CAMBRIDGE CIGARETTE, she connected the HITLER dots t DUBBYA. A no-brainer. (The HOOK LANDING photo-op got her started.)
Her PROJECT is horrified t think the HITLER DREAM could inspire a SONG, but as GERTRUDE knows: Art is art.

SHELLEY’S WICKED into her DIGITAL CAMERA.
Shoots everything. The multitude snaps of CAT (Sofia di Putzi) embarrasses all of us. (Sofi's under the couch. One-flash-to-many crossed her eyes.)
'This is THE BOMB! I'm a visual ahtist after all,' she squinted, hands + knees in the bathroom to 'capture' an oh-so-interesting band-aid twisted painfully on floor tiles.
'ANYthing is art.'
Her exhausted friend's hotmail addresses bloated with undownloadable 1,000 dpi images of POINTY SHOES, backs of SWEATY HEADS, CIGARETTE PILES. They hadn't the heart t stop her.
'Step aside HENRY (HORNENSTEIN). Off the highway NAN (GOLDIN). Eat yr heart out EDDY (STEICHEN). I got EYES, baby! I shoot VERITE! I AM CAMERA!'
Yesterday, focusing on the swimming pool fluctuations of her niece's underwater ballet - SHELLEY flipped, head over heels, into the chlorine. Deep-sixed the CANNON.
'T HELL w/ stills,' she sputtered. 'Next time I shop at BUY CRAZY I’m gettin' meself a MINI CAM. Look out, scenesters - DOCUMENTARY CITY!'
Always thinking big, SHUTTERBUG SHELL hopes t weasel her awrt longside her PROJECT.

SHELLEY PICKED
at anything she could get her hands around. Eating BLIND. Her girlfriend calls.
'I'm crying AND eating', SHELLEY moaned.
'Huh?'
'I miss MOM. I miss the order in my life she provided. I'm a friggin' loose cannon w/ a refrigerator strapped on my face.'
'What are you talking about?!'
'For starters?:
18 FRENCH FRIES (from FRAWNCE), 4 glasses of CRANBERRY n SODA, a cup of caffeinated HOT CHOCOLATE, two gouges of APPLE BROWN BETTY ("winking brown" she calls it), a shovelful of MASHED POTATOES, 2 bowls of TURKEY GUMBO, 1 cup of CLAM CHOWDAH, 4 STEAK TIPS, a lap full of SALTINES, 2 tablespoonfuls of CHILI, 1 slice of day-old BIRTHDAY CAKE, a cold slab of PEPPERONI PIZZA, a mouthful of (squirted in) COOL WHIP, four HUGE gin-saturated OLIVES, a plate of CHICKEN WINGS, a gallon of COKE + 6 fingers of deep fried SHRIMP.'
'Is that all?'
'If I don't watch out I'm gonna turn inta KARL ROVE - improportionately powerful + grotesquely ugly.'
SHELLEY'll lumber onto the TARMAC next weekend.

SHELLEY DUSTED OFF HER TAPS
+ clicka-clocked around the kitchen in a nightie.
'I'm in a musical,' she chirped. 'GINGER ROGERS never had it so cool.'
Outa breath in minutes, collapsed in an armchair w/ a sweet smile. SOFIA DI POOTZI (her OPERA cat) landed in her lap w/ a shrill but definitive hi C.
'Aw, SOFI honey, yr MAMA's in a song n dance fest. Under the KLEIG LIGHTS. She gonna look BEAUtiful.'
Dark secret:
Shelley loathed CHICAGO. Walked out. Hated the fancy foot editing + over-the-top fakery + non-singing.
'Revive the HOLLYWOOD MUSICAL?! Why?'
Of course that's behind her now as she returns to where she lives - the stage - all finery + MERMAN brass:

SHELLEY WORKED ONE NIGHT ONLY
as a waitress. Standing in for a friend (much like JOAN CRAWFORD's soap opera 'replacement' of her daughter - well, sort of.)
150 screaming CHILDREN fresh from a school play (ROUGE + GLITTER) expressing themselves like a SOUTH PARK nightmare.
'NO .I can't get you another COKE, dearie. You'll have to ask your MOTHER! No, sonny, that's yr 7th ROOT BEER + your FOURTH plate of STEAK FRIES + scrape the MUDD PIE off yr pal's chin BUT NOT WITH A STEAK KNIFE!'
Don't get her wrong, SHELLEY loves kids, but this was over the top. Tripped up carrying in PIZZA #25? HOT CHEEZE all over the floor?
'YA COULDA BURNED THE SHIT OUTA ME! BAD GIRL! BAD, BAD, BAD!'
She'd remembered the flask strapped to her aching thigh. Wiped her mouth on her forearm + glowered.
'It's OK, AUNT SHELL,' she murmured. 'They can't help being...ASSHOLES!'
After counting her ‘tips’ (paTHEtic), she snatched a leftover pitcher of SHIRLEY TEMPLES + threw it at the wall.
(She wasn't asked back.)
'Even SHOW BUSINESS beats this crap,' she fumed.
Keep a lookout at the next show(s) for a barnstorming, be-penciled BEEHIVE bussing your table like a BANSHEE.

SHELLEY CHOSE BRUNCH
(?) as an opportunity to protest the (now endless) war(s).
'They'll all be out in SUVs w/ FLAGS draped all over their ass. I'll show 'em how it's done, FRENCHY-style. Hike up my Chanel NAM mini-skirt w/ th' PEACE SIGNS + my STAY OUTA MY BUSH, BUSH cardboard + hit the hustings.'
She forgot about EASTER SUNDAY. Little kids in party clothes w/ shiney happy parents triggered an avalanche of tears behind her JACKIE O's.
'Awww SHIT,' she sighed.
...an overpowering wave of INNOCENCE NOSTALGIA, Hollywood-style.
'Me n MONROE + a white picket fence.'
'til she remembered the IT'S MORNING IN AMERICA propaganda that elected 'that 2-bit back lot phony.'
She threw in the peace towel + opened a travel agency advertising AXIS OF EVIL tours.
'Ya gotta infiltrate,' she figured. 'It's TROJAN HORSE time.'
(Hopefully she won't be DETAINED before her PROJECT hits the boards:

SHELLEY SCARFED A SKATEBOARD
'Looks tit,' she pursed.
She plucked out a day-glo lime sherbet hip hop ‘blouse’ + headed for cement Heaven. Wound-up - minutes later - at BETH ISRAEL w/ a bruised bra + a lapsed ego.
'How in Hell am I gonna be like 'word' cool if I can't even wiggle my ass thru rush hour? And how the FUCK does that flat banana lift off the ground on mere Nikes, twist, flip + land note perfect at a crosswalk?'
She had the will. She had the ass. She stuck it out. She crashed. She turned over the board (skull n crossbones logo) to her 12 year old nephew.
'Rad, AUNT SHELLEY!' he pretended.
(Painted over it, slapped on a SYSTEM OF A DOWN decal + disappeared into the teen night.)
SHELL dug her little red wagon outa the basement + sat down.
'I miss MY childhood, but we were - admit it SHELL - like soooo GAY.'
Her PROJECT appears - on crutches.

SHELLEY DOWNLOADED A LO-GRADE VERSION OF PRO-TOOLS CALLED SHOVE THIS IN THE SLOT.
'The RECORD SHITNESS is goin' down th' toilet, kids rip kids off online + any idiot can make BEDROOM RECORDINGS w/ a 2-bit microphone, a bit o' da ganja + a sob story. I'm claiming my corner.'
Kicking off her fave pair o' PINK MULES she plunked a coupla dork notes off a RADIO SHACK keyboard + got lost in HERE-n-NOW LAND for 3 sleepless days. Layer upon layer of dog barks, flushings, burned rubber + backbeats jammed the program.
'I'm a GENIUS!' she snorted. 'This is the shit.'
One problem - the flu strangled her vocal chords. Couldn't burp a note. Even tried glomming the CHER CONTROL onto a scratch track, but wound up sounding like a CHIPMONK w/ a cold.
'HELL w/ it,' she shrugged, whipping up a plate of WAFFLES, EGGS, BACON, GRITS, CANADIAN HAM ('FREEDOM HAM'?), COFFEE + sloshing down an AM twelve pack o' COORS LITE.
'It's all about PROCESS. Never hafta leave the crib. Never hafta look hot. Ahm th’ perpetual INVISIBLE SHRINKING ROCK STAR.'
SHELL beams her (miniature) PROJECT.

SHELLEY SENT A PERSONAL PROBE
t FLORIDA. With unblinking eye she checked out the pre-season SOX.
'Not sure about the new 'red', she frowned. 'Too tomato-ey + I miss DAUBACH. Ugly, but spit like a pro.'
Made her wonder about the chewing gum thing.
'Is it the STEROIDS? Crack? Nerves?'
In the end all she really wants is t keep her seat next to the ROSE in the bleachers, t have a savior season + t score a date THEO. He reminded her of MONTY CLIFF.
'DAMN he's hot! Too good-looking t have that much power over the hearts, minds + gloves of New England.'
SHELLEY'll be working her change-up of make-up.

SHELLEY'S ON TIRED KNEES
sickened + sad, praying to an absentee God. She can't handle bloodlust war-as-video-game hard on television. The countdown to War as giddy as a Times Square NY Eve.
Eyes heavenward, weeping -
'Dear SOMEthing. Dear SOMEONE. Dear Force? Please? Take care of' em all. 18 yr old trained-to-kill-be-killed boys + girls. Iraqi Grandmothers w/ starving grandchildren huddled under plastic tarps. The conscience of the red-button cruise missile trigger-boys. They know not...'
She choked. All her marchings + email updates failed. Even as she knew asinine Brooks Brothers BUSH on his frat-boy throne was gonna put the fire out w/ gasoline no matter what.
Her hands shook.
'Show me the silver lining here. Follow the money. Encircle the world w/ those of us who still see shades of gray.'
She fainted in a fever of self-invented SHOCK + AWE. (She'll be reading WHITE TEETH - Zadie Smith - in a beer-stained corner.)

SHELLEY KICKED HER SONY TUBE IN THE FACE
w/ a swift DOC MARTIN to the jaw. Axed her radio...
‘CLEAR CHANNEL - what a JOKE!’
Got earplug implants. Burned every magazine + newspaper she could get her mitts on. Wore sunglasses INdoors (LOLITA doing LOU REED). Gave up coffee, butts, e, pot, COCKtails - everything except her beloved COORS LITES.
'Ahm hunkering down,' she hissed. 'Ahm stickin' t email + the WILD WILD WEB. They tells it like it is.'
(She's complaining about the Media - again.)
'There' a new brave new world in etherland + it ain't about chat. Ain't about porn. It's about stitching this sorry-assed planet together withOUT borders. THIS is the New Frontier JACK was talking about. A 'summit in the Azores'...kiss my ASS! I'LL give ya summit t do wit sumpin' MR UNELECTED!'
She tried emailing DICK MORRIS a foto of her foot.
'At least HE had his finger on the pulse.'
SHELLEY triangulates her PROJECT:

SHELLEY STOPPED AT DUNKIN DONUTS
+ ordered a DRUNKACHINO. She thought it perfectly suited to her enraged mood. A SPEEDBALL in a styrofoam cup.
'Just like poor RIVER,' she remembered.
The effect was disastrous. She went SCHITZO. Couldn't make her mind up about anything.
'This is a broad who KNOWS her ass from her elbow...but now it's like I gotta hangover from a POPPER CONVENTION. My heart feels like a sewing machine. My mouth’s all dried up. My brain’s fractured like the SECURITY COUNCIL.'
Girl shot home, yanked DIRTY MAGAZINES out from under the bed, took a deep breath + scotched taped a dozen topless BUNNIES into a DAISY CHAIN...
'Daisy CUTTER is more like it.'
...stole a logo from a wet t-shirt she saw at a PROTEST RALLY:
'BUSH is just another word for C _ _ T.'
Magic markered it across the row of slippery breasts, sealed the envelope w/ DUCT TAPE + mailed it to the WHITE HOUSE .
'Gonna NAIL that STEALTH bitch. Gonna NAIL all three ASSES OF EVIL.'
Suffering from delusions of effectiveness, SHELLEY rallys.

SHELLEY'S HAIR FELL OUT IN CLUMPS
Dyed those follicles into oblivion.
Pulled, twisted, yanked, bleached, scalped. Broke all the mirrors in her apartment. Glued on a TINA TURNER wig + a silver MINI DRESS to match.
'They asked me t MC the OSCARS + I look like some over-the-hill DRAG QUEEN,' she sobbed.
What it was, she remembered - after watching the GRAMMYS - was that SEX comes ahead of TALENT in show business.
'Usta be, in my day?, TITS did the job. TITS + ASS. Now they take it...well...MUCH further. DOWN THERE is up to HERE,' she points. 'SEERious WAX JOBS. I ain't cut out for this shit.'
SHELL'll pull up for her PROJECT gig in a limping 3rd World LIMO w/ a crack-addled (ie young) driver. She may not get out.

SHELLEY DROVE HER NASH RAMBLER
into a fog bank. 2-foot visibility. She pulled off the road + fired up a joint. Imagined she was afloat in a living RENOIR. One arm (up to her elbow) in FRITOS, a nipper of BRANDY in a tight fist, radio tuned t NPR - Sunday night salsa.
'Thank God I'm alone,' she said out loud, shimmying to cha cha.
'I'd rant em t death w/ endless ganja drivel. Devour their refrigerator. Lie on the floor goo-gooing their dog. Think EVERYTHING I said was funny - just before convincing myself that they hated my ASS!'

SHELLEY’s FREEZING HER KNOCKERS OFF.
She shook the coffee out of her cup. She punched the wrong info into the computer + wound up watching HOURS of porn (between splayed fingers). She's wearing ugly OUTdoor down jackets INdoors.
'My cat's TEETH are chattering. My insulation fat doesn't lard me into warmth under the covers. My hands constrict into CLAWS on the keypad. My smile is a grimace.'
Thank God her PROJECT's gonna be HOT HOT HOT.

SHELLEY'S HIDING OUT IN MOVIE THEATERS
Lost in celluloid. Cranked up her depressive side with FAR FROM HEAVEN, THE HOURS + THE QUIET AMERICAN. Bloated her gut with popcorn at TWO TOWERS (dismayed by EVIL'S vertical smile). Rented SERPICO for a self-righteous fix + wrapped herself around BOWLING FOR COLUMBINE to get a grip on other ARTISTS OF GIRTH + their take on the political landscape. Nothing worked.
'I'm no further from being pissed off about the DRUMBEAT of WAR than I am sorrowful about the DRUMBEAT of the NEGLECTED.'
She took a DRUM CIRCLE POD (pickle barrel street musicians) to see ADAPTATION.
'They talked thru the whole movie until MERYL snorted the green powder.'
A CHANNEL 5 microphone was shoved in her face outside the FENWAY THEATER:
'Ms WINTERS. Why are you taking derelicts to the movies?'
'They deserve a laugh. Besides THEY are US. We artists ain't nothin' but 2-bit hookers to most people. A scratch ticket to cash in or cash out. DUBBYA thinks it's all about my-way-or-the-highway. Dead wrong. Do for others, that's the only fight out of the paper bag.'
In any event she will be OUTA CONTROL INDIGNANT.

SHELLEY WAS TRYING ON GAS MASKS
in preparation for an unscheduled/underappreciated visit to the WHITE HOUSE.
'Why the gas mask? I'll tell ya. Whenever I dare watch anything as painful as the STATE OF THE UNION, the faux person at the podium, his facial expression? seems to say like...something near his nose...DIED,' she commented. 'Therefore if I'm gonna make my very own (unbiased) STATE OF THE SCREWDYOUN I'd best be ready for the cesspool leaking outa ARI FLEISCHER's you know what.'
The ever appalled SHELLEY will create her own (cover-up) perfume (AU DE SHELLOIRE).

SHELLEY BEGAN TO WORRY - was she HOMOPHOBIC?
It all began last week when DUBBYA's 'GAY PLAGUE' nomineee for the committee to oversee AIDS funding got the heave.
- Thousands of write-ins OUTED his odious PHOBIA(s).
'God,' she fretted. 'I was, I'm sure of it, atTRACTted to MONROE when we lived together. Leaned out the kitchen window, gawked at her phenomenal bod, dropped dishes. Then there was that diSASter - THE BALCONY - when they dressed me up like a hardcore DYKE. My IMAGE went down the SHITTER. Meanwhile MONTY was my pal. GEORGE CUKOR + CARY GRANT? I mean how can a FAG HAG be a HOMOPHOBE? If I AM a HOMOPHOBE wouldn’t I hafta fear the LESBIAN in me trying to get out?'
She pursed her lips, yanked on a LEATHER HALTER TOP + lurched over to DYKE NIGHT in her FORD pick up.
'I gotta get to the bottom of this. I've never been PC but I loathe prejudice in any dress.'
SHELL'll inevitably out her confused self.

SHELLEY CAN'T WATCH THE PLAYOFFS
She's still too way into TOM (BRADY). 'HE's not watching. So I'M not EIther.' she harrumphed. She went overboard + bought a paperboy hat just like Tom's. 'He's so...DOWN T EARTH,' she sighed. ‘So much the gentleman compared to all those dumb jocks. Anyhow, I'm a NEW ENGLAND girl + my HERO is Mr BRADY + his incredible BUNCH,' she blushed.
4 QUAALUDES into the SUPERBOWL (she'll watch rented DVDs of SOUTH PARK instead) she dialed Tom's UNLISTED NUMBER.
'Tom? Just leavin’ ya a message...(she burped a COORS LITE bubble)...Nobody + I mean NOBODY can take last season away from you OR the PATS OR yr fans...fondlingly yrs - a FEMALE FAN.’

SHELLEY TOOK UP BELLY DANCING
- a New Year's RESOLUTION. She reasoned that if she had a BELLY instead of a GUT she could make progress in the date department.
'But you've been married THREE TIMES,' said her friend. 'I mean is 'dating' really you?'
SHELL pouted. 'In these frilly veils nobody'll know that my landscape is riddled with X's. That I've slept myself into romantic oblivion. That I get oven 'em as fast as I find 'em. Look, I still want it. I'm still on the lookout. I rattle the cage. I believe that some fool'll carve the earth out from under my feet + carry me into a HOLLYWOOD sunset.'
A tear fell on her tambourine with a 'pling'.
Her's was the LOVE RESOLUTION. (An acapella group from DETROIT she figured.)
A resolute SHELL will cry her eyes out in the VILLAGE.

SHELLEY GOT THE CRUISE SHIP
bug. Kicked New Year's Eve off in a MISS PIGGY mask at an ART PARTY in DUDLEY SQ. Said 'moi' a lot + got away with shooting digital voyeur pix of the glamorous + the underaged. (Nobody knew who she was.) After 6 COORS LITES + a few gross gulps of BUBBLY she ‘felt funny'.
'God...tomorrow...WOOLLY...I PROmised MINEHAN...WHAT AM I GONNA DO?!'
She said she'd help HIS LOFTINESS fancify the console for the annual NY's DAY fondu-o-rama. Trying to field a (pink?) crepe paper ribbon atop the tuck away drum loft she came close to blowing her cookies all over the catered food table.
She left early.
'My joints ache, I’m pissing outa my ass, I have NO ENERGY, I can't eat, my KIDNEYS hurt. If this is the first day of the rest of my year,' she moaned, 'I’m gonna start over.'
It's called the NORFOLK VIRUS. (She looked it up.) The next best thing to MONTEZUMA's REVENGE.

SHELLEY SERIOUSLY CONSIDERS a FACE LIFT.
The ol' HOLLYWOOD 'nip n tuck'. Til she went to DC where she noticed that all the geezers still get work. 'Let gravity do it's thing,' she decided. 'Skip the black n blue. Skip the puffy. Be your sorry-assed SELF.'
'Til she checked her compact.
'I look like friggin’ STROM THURMUND,' she gasped. 'They'll think I'm some TRENT LOTT bigot!'
She dialed up JACKIE O's lifter (chez Paree) bonked the women in front of her (including LADY LOTT) with a bottle o' bubbly + sat for a quickie. (Now she looks like TRUMAN CAPOTE on acid.)

SHELLEY McSCROOGE EMAILED HER NEPHEW
'Hey kid, guess what?! AUNT SHELLEY's yr present this Christmas!'
She felt awful. No DVD player. No newsprint-wrapped presents to tear open. Just silent AUNT SHELL alone by the tree, crying into a BIG MOUTH COORS w/ nothing for anybody. She blames the TAX CUT which of course doesn't cut bait with her nephew.
'I have something for YOU, AUNT SHELL,' he smiles.
A picture of him n her side-by-side at the SCIENCE MUSEUM the day that alcoholic usher tried to be of help '...and do God knows what to the kid,' she remembered. 'Least I had to presence of mind to...'
(Memories of noble deeds don't do much for her during the Sorry Season.)
'Hate the holidays period,' she bah humbugged.
Hey. Sing the ol' girl outa her funk w/ a HAPPY SONG on THE LOWER EAST SIDE.

SHELLEY TWISTED HERSELF INTO A FAT FUNK
on T-Day. She wanted to hang with her family in Manhattan + pump air into parade balloons. She wanted to rot on the couch w/ her cat + watch the PARTRIOTS kick butt in Detroit. She did NOT want to drive thru a VIDEO GAME blizzard, or creep along the parking lot that NPR promised MASS PIKE would be. She considered the FUNG WAH but pictured herself next to a deodorant challenged never-shut-up thigh pressuring late night letch. What she DID do was take a taxi to PLYMOUTH ROCK, smoke a spliff + 'get with' the vibe of the BLUNDERBUSS. She saw BOWLING FOR COLUMBINE + went to a safe house in JAMAICA PLAIN for a rock n roll THANKSGIVING that invited stay-at-home orphans. SERious food. SERious booze. SERious world.
35 lbs of TURKEY LARD later SHELL gets hiked onto the stage in a cherry-picker ('Like JFK,' she beams).

SHELLEY GRABBED THE WRONG FACE SAUCE.
Ok. It was late. The lights were off. She had to feel around for the jar. Vita-E cream to keep her bags at bay. Every night. Night after night - the unbroken ritual.
'Eewww,' she noticed. 'Something smells funny. Real perfumy.'
She slathered stuff all over her face + suddenly noticed a severe tightening up. Like a training bra on a 'big girl'. She switched on the light.
'Shit. Used the friggin' d:fi hair gel on my friggin' FACE!'
Her smile went tight. Slipped into her mules + fumed into the bathroom to peel it off.
'The shit ass POWER BOTTOM BEAUTY PARLOUR sold me a bill o' crap! Friggin’ jars all feel the same.'
She hurled d:fi like a rocket into her bedroom wall. SMACK! Big dent. (Big arm.)

SHELLEY CHEATS AT GOLF
because she has to. In the rough, losing balls, missing putts. A fifth of Jack in her golf bag. Her caddy's a crack addict + doesn't have a clue. The cheating works because she never plays with anybody else. Well, maybe once on the VINEYARD with BUBBA back when hanging with the PRES was a good time. He was so busy talking, he never noticed the fudge. Her score card was pencil smeared, unreadable, all lies. 'GOLFGATE' she laughed to herself.
'Nice shot, Bill.'
'Ain't so bad yourself, SHELL.'
'Ah, WJC,' she thought, coming out of her daydream in front of the PGA tube: 'Gotta say I miss ya. Gotta say...'
A nostalgic SHELLEY appears @

SHELLEY BOUGHT A SHOTGUN
+ hunkered down in a dark dumpster. Night vision goggles, CHE GUEVERA drag, war paint.
'4 outa 7 nights they come, those #$%^ers' she hissed. 'STADIUM TOWING my ass. Shark trucks. Crazed by the whiff of wrong-side-of-the-street blood lust. 60, 70 mph down STORROW to collect pelts. Scalped my DUSTER too many times t count. HUNDREDS of dollars shit-shoveled out to those motherf#$%s. I even feel sorry for those poor NORTHEASTERN schmucks, too BUD-dumb t read signs. Trapped like lobsters in pot night after night!'
Tik, tik. KerBLAM!
SHELLEY MARTINEZ took out 4 tires + 2 trucks in one night. Spray painted 'K's' on the lid of her bunker.
Rock out on the WINTERS revolution @

SHELLEY TAKES AN IMAGINARY VACATION
on a NYQUIL, THERMA-FLU, ROBITUSSIN dirigible.
'Coulda gone generic, but opted for the high priced spread.'
She fortified herself w/ blankets, pillows, BVDs, eye coverlettes + one confused cat. Shut off the phone, unplugged the MiniMac + drifted into CVS oblivion.
'Needed a break,' she sighed. (No one was listening).
The political landscape, stock market morph, desperation of the bar scene ('Hi there. I'm pathetic. How about a date?'), had her reaching for the snuff box. Could the SHELLEY ACCOUNT bounce a check to pretty hotels, boring museums, expensive white sand, date-a-dope cruises? (She'd cut her cards with scissors three years back.)
'Nothing like appreciating the cosmic drift on a good gulp of cold medicine. Those dudes really know how to spike a capful of feel good cherry syrup.'
With low lids + lesbian flip flops she motors out to mid-Mass.

SHELLEY'S SAYS IT'S OVER IF YOU WANT IT.
Bumper stickers, buttons + slogans that is. Her reaction to the INVADE IRAQ OR ELSE hysteria has moved beyond protest.
'Scary times,' she pouts. 'I need a TANK to stand in front of. A courtroom to occupy. This is not some JOHN WAYNE mug o' beer, fellas. Let me say it again: THIS IS NOT A MOVIE. PEOPLE WILL DIE! "With 'em r agin 'em" equals D for DUMBYA. Go ahead ASSCROFT, make my day. SPY on me, I dare you. Wire my ass. Intercept my spam. Read my garbage. You guys are whacked. The USA I used to believe in is flushing down the Congressional shitter. From the economy to unaffordable housing to unteacheable classrooms single handedly you are fuc...mmm MMMMph...'
Duct tape cuts her off. The straight jacket takes her out. We don't know where she is. How long she'll be there. Her project has rushed out a flotilla of inner tubes to Guantanamo. A sign: GOOD LUCK, SHELL. WE LOVE YOU...was located on a Florida beach covered with seaweed + seagull hieroglyphs.
Without or without their fearless leader, THE SHELLEY WINTERS PROJECT soldiers on.

SHELLEY'S ALL WORKED UP OVER THE RED SOX.
She likes GRADY LITTLE. (The antidepressants help.)
'Give the dude a break. We got enough screws-ups in this dog-eared town. Sack him? It's Shakespearean. Fuck that. I'LL deliver the God damn message -
The season was an hysterical pregnancy. The SOX went UP, then POOF, DOWN. Shit happens -
The prescription -
Get the BULLPEN a Gynecologist. Get Little managers he trusts. Add a coupla kick-ass starters. Hang onto DEREK, JOHNNY, PEDRO, NOMAR, MANNY, TIM, SHEA, BRIAN + we're in the playoffs next season. No shit. Bet my OSCARS on it.'
Meanwhile she’s paid the VELVET MAFIA to hunt down the BAMBINO and kill him softly with scarves + dildos.
While she camps outside FENWAY whoring for season tickets...her PROJECT plays outdoors.

SHELLEY FELL. IN HER WALK-IN CLOSET. LOOKING FOR A MUMU.
Her big toe caught on a Mule. She flipped over - a beer in one fist. A triple decker BLT in the other. A slice of pizza in her mouth. ''@#$%&&*!,' she cawed, 'It's that friggin' KID A cd! Everytime I put that damn record on bad shit happens. It's so...nervous.' She twisted her ankle. Swelled it up like a tick. A dangling mushy blob at the end of a leg. Would have been funny if it didn't hurt like a bastard. 8 Advils, 3 shots of Jack + a back of ice ('Works for lesbian softball teams') later, she drifted into a coma in front of the PATRIOTS game. Dreamed an overweight MARGOT FONTAINE landed like a hippo on point, crushing her little bones to bits. She woke up screaming.
She will be carried in on a litter to her outdoor appearance.

SHELLEY LOVES PETE.
Andre's ok, but SHELL's a Sampras girl from the git go. 'He was SO CUTE when he won that first open. 19 years old. Oh my GOd! Hell, he's dull. He's weird. Ain't talkative. Is developing a spot up top. Who give a shit? He shreds 2 rackets a game with a 133 mph serve + wins the war of wits more than other any guy in the history of tennis. And he's a gentleman on the court. In the old Hollywood sense. Like CLARK GABLE. No grandstanding. No asinine comments. Weeps openly when he's moved. Ya gotta love the dude. Hey, he never tried to front a silly rock band - like you know who. I bet my pointy bra on this guy to take it all. If he does, NOBODY'll come close to FOURTEEN GRAND SLAMS in a career. Ever.'
Pete can grand slam SHELLEY any day of the week. Of course she'll leave her fuzzy balls at home when her PROJECT slams a dunk this FRIDAY.

SHELLEY MEDITATES ON THE INEQUITY OF IT ALL.
'My @#$!%^GOUGELORD upped my @#$&^*!! RENT 400 BUCKS!!! Straw that broke my bank, dude. And I like where I live. I do not want to move. I can't AFFORD to move. I can't afford to STAY.'
SHELLEY stared out the window. In the street: Collegeville, USA moving in + paying a whore's ransom.
'Lookit. (as if to an unseen camera) I ain't no Poor Me broad. Never have been. A self starter, that's me. So how did this happen? How did just getting by in the LAND o' LINCOLN, become such a shit bag money trap? It’s SO DEPRESSING. To pay my bills + keep this ol' body afloat: I gotta borrow money. Every friggin' month. Like a documentary filmmaker screwing her ass w/ credit cards + I am NOT in some imaginary INDULGENT ARTIST minority who thinks the world owes her a living. A WAR in IRAQ!? My ass! Go ahead. Just do it. Cut affordable housing, lower taxes on the rich + flush the economy down the SHITTER?! Smart thinking, DUBDUB. Smart fucking thinking.'
She flew outa the house in an open bathrobe, a bottle of JACK + a lit joint. 'I'm gonna pay a visit to the MAD RUSSIAN + make psychic contact with ELEANOR ROOSEVELT!'
Of course she'll leave her rant at home when the PROJECT bowls a strike a week from FRIDAY.

SHELLEY SAT DOWN HARD.
'The logic of it. Hmm. Great idea: Stop forest fires? Simple. Cut down the forests. A + B equals FUCKED AGAIN! This guy's got the brain power of an athletic cup - size 'pathetic'. I burned my bra in the 60's. Didn't stop 'lift + separate' from taking over the friggin planet. Didn't stop bozos from staring at my saggy boobs. (Must confess - I liked having a perky pair. LIZ TAYLOR's in PLACE IN THE SUN? Coulda knifed yr eyes out with that architecture.
Hey, I'm off the subject. (This ganja is STRONG SHIT!) My point? Did I have a point? Oh yeah. The politics of 'sell it today, forget it tomorrow.' I LIKED (sings) ‘...not stopping thinking about tomorrrrrow...’ Hell, I liked BUBBA. At least he knew how t' kiss. I hate a President who can't deliver a big sloppy kish. (Boy do I miss Jack...but that's another story.) Dude, this weed ROCKS! ..

SHELLEY NEVER HAS TOOTHPICKS WHEN SHE NEEDS 'EM.
This is a major problem. Time is not on her side. Neither are her teeth. After dinner, she goes berserk: 'I look like a dog chewing gum,' she fumes. 'These stringy particles get stuck like miniature tampons in turmoil. My Hollywood smile looks like a friggin' garbage disposal. I pull a muscle in my tongue. My breath smells like ASS! My chin turns into a prune on crack.'
Toothpicks:
If she doesn't have one, she uses a fork. She looks like an inSANE person extracting a tooth. At 'brunch' she jammed so many toothpicks into her mouth she resembled an aging punkette gone mad with mouth piercings. A minor conflagration transmorgrifies into an international incident. 'My teeth are the Saddam Husseins of my body,' she pouted. 'They turn me into a Bushywooshy Republican fire-at-anything, if-in-doubt-start-a-phony-war hawk freak. I'm nuking my choppers into a parking lot.'
Meanwhile her PROJECT(ile) hits the boards in their own backyard.

SHELLEY HACKED HER WAY INTO HER 'MEDICAL RECORDS'.
This BIG BROTHER shit is gonna turn me into a PROFESSIONAL ALCOHOLIC. Since when is my blood pressure DUBYA's business? If I got my ass lifted + my bags done it ain't anything ANYbody needs to know. The whole concept of the KENNEBUNKPORT WASPIA sniffing around my PRIVATES is inSANE. I know when a WITCH is being hunted. I survived the McCARTHY hearings. + you can bet that friggin’ TIPSTER stunt is one step shy of the CRUCIBLE. Look. I love this country, Big Time. I love BASEBALL. But I'm dusting off my KEEP BUSH OUTA MY BUSH bumper sticker + slapping it on my FANNY PACK.'

SHELLEY FORCED HER SELF INTO A VICIOUSLY TIGHT
YELLOW JERSEY + rode an old red SCHWINN under the ARC DE TRIUMPH. She was able to hold one arm up in faux victoire - the Schwinn wobbling dangerously whenever she let go of the handlebars. Meanwhile the numbers + sponsors on the jersey made her seasick, rolling about on her undulating 'shape' like turbulence. 'I don't get it,' she said. 'I been on the friggin' SPAGETTI DIET for days, riding my bike around the TOUR DE PARIS + I'm as big as a barn. LANCE(alot) can eat a god-damn buffalo + stay skinny as a dart.' (Her FANNYPACK was crammed with TOOTSIE ROLLS + CHOCOLATE TRUFFLES.) 'Maybe I should be trying this under the ARC de WASHINGTON SQUARE. FAT'S OK IN THE USA!'

SHELLEY WANTS TO THROW HER WEIGHT BEHIND SHANNON O'BRIEN.
'She's a broad ain't she? She reasons quietly + doesn't give an inch.'
(Secretly she also likes MR REICH.
'Any guy with a NAPOLEAN COMPLEX is going places, I figure.)'
So what to do? She's been following SHANNON around with a curling iron, hair spray + a blower.
'We gotta get back to the JACKIE BOUFFANT n PINK LIPSTICK thing. Works miracles, baby. Political miracles. This SOCCER MOM look is total trash.'
She also mailed a can of HAIR REPLACEMENT SPRAY to the REICH CAMPAIGN.
'When ya look down on somebody ya wanna see HAIR.'
All about appearance, that SHELL.(And the ACLU.)

W/ BIG BUDGET EXPENDITURES GOING TO THE MILITARY, SHELLEY
(what would IKE think?) typed 'rear guard' into a search engine + got her mind blown. 'That's the LAST thing I need,' she snorted. 'Big bucks spent in that department. I've always been a forward march kinda girl.'
She was explaining this to a checkout chick at STAR MARKET. In line to pay for a year's supply of SCOTT TOILET PAPER. 'Were at WAR!' she shouted. 'Ya gotta be ready! Rear guard, my ASS!'
The poor girl blinked in dismay. What was this old broad talking about? SHELL flicked a PROJECT gig-flyer onto the cash register.
'In case you run out,' she explained.
The flyer had JOHN LENNON's face on it.

SHELLEY CASHED IN HER 401K + BOUGHT STOCK
(in herself.) 'BOWIE did it,' she figured. 'Those ENROD dorks became PRESIDENT selectors. They hadta be doin' somethin' right. A MAJOR PLAYER c'est MOI. GREED is my CREED (not the band). Champagne, South Beach, dresses cut down to my ASSCRACK. SHELLEY CARPETBAGGER WINTERS. I'll work up a cloth-coat REPUBLICAN smile + help kick the economy into the toilet.'
(Ever the patriot she'll hit the hustings come August.)

SHELLEY DUCT TAPED HER MOUTH SHUT
to avoid commenting on AMERICAN PIE 2. She was ashamed of herself for even wanting to see it, but had heard about a certain scene involving a trumpet. It made her laugh so hard she farted, but was brought back to earth last Friday when she watched the TED WILLIAMS In Memorium at Fenway.
'That POPS CAT in the white tux, standing all alone in left field playing taps is like THE COOLEST THING EVER.'
When AP2 was returned to BLOCKBUSTER there was a CHERRY BOMB inside the case. Half a block away it blew up.
'I'm a purest,' she explained to an invisible interviewer. 'FUCK HOLLOW-WOOD + their crappy scatological teenybopper horse shit.'
She also returned her lifetime membership to the FARTQUEEN SOCIETY OF SOUTH BEACH.

SHELLEY, HIDDEN BEHIND HER FAVE JACKIE ONASSIS SUNGLASSES, SNUCK IN TO SEE MINORITY REPORT...
because, as you know, until the end of this month, she travels incognito ie: n'existe pas. Thing is she'd asked SPIELBERG if she could play the old science lady who kisses TOM on the MOUTH. Big surprise: she didn't get the part. Ever vengeful, she strapped 18 CELL PHONES onto her torso, in her bra, etc etc + all lumped up, took a seat in the theater. With the film underway, she had her 'staff' (of one) call at 5 minute intervals. They threw to throw her out + she went ballistic:
'Screw SPIELBERG!' she cawed. 'Screw him + the RUBBER SHARK he rode in on!'
ie: No gigs to report as yet.

SHELLEY CONTINUES HIBERNATING...
Her motor mute, she scribbled a note on a napkin with a golf pencil.

SHELLEY CRACKED OPEN THE NEW LEONARD COHEN CD
+ immediately signed up for a ZEN retreat. She’s worried about the food. The hard-as-a-brick bread. The predatory sexual mind games of the MASTER she's heard so much about on NPR. Whatever, the plan is to shut herself up + off - literally + verbally - for a fortnight. Give her spamees a break. She promises to return in an aborted LOTUS position at the end of the month with SPARKLERS in her bra.

SHELLEY NEEDED MONEY.
She'd read-up in the NEW YORK TIMES (beFORE the new guide lines for home security were set) that you could make about 60/100 G's growing indoor marijuana on a plot the size of the bottom of a phone booth.
'Sure, honey, I inHALED,' she recalled, 'but I never got off. At least I don't reMEMber getting off. I do remember gouging tablespoonfuls of chunk-style peanut butter + marshmallow fluff out of the jar.'
When the new budds n seeds arrived from Amsterdam, she toked up.
'Have t see what Im getting into.'
She 'woke up' ten days later in the upper branches of a willow tree chanting 'om' + carving all the positions of the Kama Sutra into the soft bark. Looking up at her from the ground were three male nurses with a syringe, a dangling straight jacket + the odious x-Gov from Pennsylvania.
'Just say YES, asshole!' she om'ed.
Poor SHELL. She's 'under indefinite observation' in a holding cell in a suburb somewhere outside Baltimore. All she can think about is a mother lode of peanut butter + marshmallow fluff.

SHELLEY DOZED OFF WITH HER NOSE IN A BOOK OF BLAKE PO-EMS.
+ woke up in a RANTING RAGE (again): 'I try + I try + I TRY + still this shit puts my brain to bed. I don't get it. I can't even pronounced the WORD 'poetry' without feeling like I popped a soaper. 'Puhtree?' 'Peowetwee?' 'A Poe-em'? A lotta pretentious CRAP! I did give FROST a shot after JACK's Inaugural - '...the little horse must think it queer...' 'n shit. But then I thought about it. A homo horse? WHATHEFUCK!? I was better off with a cable clicker than working up a brain fart over some loose-screwed manic depressive who puts words down in 'shapes' like that RAMBO dude PATTI SMITH's always going off about. Ok. I like writers as PEOPLE. They're interesting + dark + they drink a lot. But hey, I ain't after food for the soul, I'm in it for the soul FOOD.

SHELLEY'S BEEN TRYING TO USE THE FORCE.
Something basic like turning on the lights in her apartment. She stuck a shaky hand into the dark, intoned: 'Luke, I AM your muthuh...', tripped over a wastebasket + crashed into the refrigerator.
'Maybe it's my lack of headphone hair,' she thought. 'Or my love scenes. The schmoochy dialogues I have with myself aren't cheesy enough.'
'SHELLEY,' she tried. 'I can't love you because...I miss my cat too much.'
'I undastahnd, brave heart,' she answered herself. 'I once had a Jedi cat long, long ago + fah away.'
'If we could but keep our pussies a secret...?'
'Then our love would be... weird.'
'No. No it won't, my SHELL. It would just be... pafuckin-THEtic!'
She busted a gut laughing at herself + the lights flashed on.
'Shit,' she figured, 'I don't need The Friggin' Force. I just need bad material.
Missing her Light Sabre...

SHELLEY'S THINKING STOCK AS IN 'SHELLEYSTOCK'
'Summer's a comin' + if they can have a friggin' WIGSTOCK + a dykefest like LEZBOPALOOZA and a WHATEVERTHEFUCKSTOCK they can have a stinkin' SHELLEYSTOCK fer Christ's sake! I can see it. Like no bullshit. No rapes. No mud. Plenty of PORTAPOTTIES. No sing outa yr balls DIRGE ROCK only whip smart rock n pop for hi-IQ boys n girls. Wet BOXER SHORT contests instead o' that sexist GIRLY WET T-SHIRT cock-tease crap. Replacing MOSH PITS: CHESS TABLES + BRUNCH. Mimosa BRUNCH instead o' pi