Why am I even bothering with this damn dissertation? I want it to be over. My advisor’s constantly growling at me. “You made two whole typos in only 125 pages of text,” he thunders. “Don’t you proofread? The word ‘reflections’ is not spelled with an ‘X.’”

“And you haven’t included anything at all in the 21st Century chapter about Britney Spears. The committee and the readers will want to know what’s happening to her. You need to find out why she’s carrying on as she has been.”

Peeking through weary eyes, I wonder if I had heard him correctly. Tripping into lucidity, I realize that I have. When not harping on the most infinitesimal of mistakes, he always gives me one more thing to do. Lord knows I don’t want to open up a whole new can of worms if I don’t have to. But, of course, I have to.

On the way downstairs, I think about how time really does fly. It seems like only yesterday that Spears pranced around in her seductive Catholic school uniform, tantalizing a generation of young men with sexual promiscuity, and then keeping them at arm’s length like some cruel virgin. And now, here I am, trying to locate the jaded primadona.

I finally exit the campus. Standing kitty-corner from the Empire State building, I hear some foul language hurled at my direction, it’s pitch high and grating like a rake uncensored scraping the pavement. Typically, when I hear this kind of invective, I lash out blindly, hurling back my own acerbic thoughts, usually with attitude. But something tells me I might regret spewing invectives unless I can find the right snark.

My reserve pays off, for I recognize the venom spewer as Lt. Charles, a notorious fatty, with whom I share a covert history. I must have saved his keister a dozen times, but for some reason he still loves to harass me. Usually, I don’t say “Boo” to him, but this time I go over to say “Hi.” When I offer to shake his hand, he slips on the cuffs. “Let’s take a walk to the station,” he smirks.

“What’s the charge?” I ask. He doesn't respond, so I ask again. “You know, from my point of view—“

“I don’t give a rat’s patoot if your view’s from the back row, or if your view’s from the silent majority. Keep walkin’.”

When we get to the station, he shoves me into a holding cell next to Richard, a guy wearing a rooster outfit. That wouldn’t be so bad if the station’s Muzak system weren't broken. It's playing “The Theme from M*A*S*H” by Johnny Mandel, over and over again. By my count, the song repeats twenty-two times without incident. But on the twenty-third Mandlation, chicken Dick can't take it anymore. His screaming becomes the focus of everyone’s attention, mostly because it offers welcome relief from the song.

Charles hustles over to quiet him down, allowing me a chance to ask him one more time why he arrested me.

“I don’t know,” he replies. “What was you doin' when I busted you?”

“Looking for Britney Spears,” I answer. All that gets me is a raised eyebrow, so I explain, “My advisor wants me to find out why she’s been shaving her head, snorting cocaine—“

“What?” he roars. “Cocaine? Jesus H. Christ! Why didn’t you say so?”

He immediate lets me out. The Lieutenant happens to be a big Britney fan, and he wants me to stop her self-destructive behavior, even if I had to search every hill and dale to find her. “If she thinks she’s gonna pull an Anna Nicole on me, she can think again,” he declares. “It ain’t happenin’ on my watch.”

The detective takes me into his office where a buxom redhead waits impatiently at his desk. “X, meet the Mrs.,” he says by way of introduction. “Prana, this is X.”

I exchange pleasantries with the bad Lieutenant’s wife as we all take a seat to discuss the problem. He agrees to allow me the use of the department's top dog, a canine specially trained to track the scent of drug-addled celebrities, and slips me a Benjamin to forget the false arrest. With our business concluded, Lt. Charles rises. The hausfrau also rises. I say goodbye and leave.

Instead of taking me to the diva, the pooch leads me to a store that sells chicory and snacks. Actually, I've been to that store many times, enjoying the fragrance of the pretty blue flowers while enjoying a cup of tea and pondering the musings of David Amulet, or a catching up on a few ramblings from PDX Biker. Sometimes you can find me there dishing the dirt with my friends Roger, Rebecca, and Ray (or Rae--it's hard to tell Ray’s sex).

With nothing better to do, I go in to look around. I see no one at the counter, and only a single patron, a man dressed in royal blue robes and a crown. “Hello" I call in the direction of the counter, hoping someone in the backroom can hear me. After a look around and a couple of shout outs, I hear an almighty “Heidi!” from behind. Turning around, I see the bright magenta hair and glasses of my old friend Jeannie.

“Girl!” I cry, “I haven’t seen you since Spencer’s blast. How’ve you been?”

“Other than my guts turning to liquid every other Tuesday, I’m fine,” she replies, taking her position behind the counter. “Can I get you some coffee? A bottle of Sunny Delight, perhaps?”

“No thanks. Say, what’s with the guy in the robes?”

“He’s the ruler of Viv, a small European country I’d never heard of before. So, what brings you by?”

“I’m trying to track Britney Spears,” I explain. “But this damn dog led me here.”

“You know, da gal you should be talking to is—

“Kira?”

“No, not Kira. She’s Wyrd. I’m talking about Rebecca. She knows Britney.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, and if you see her, tell her to come pick up her chest.”

“Her chest?”

“Yeah,” says Jeannie, pointing to a trunk in the back next to the Viviene king. “It’s taking up too much space.”

I notice that the dog has gone over to the chest. Scratching at it with his claws, he manages to raise the lid a little, letting me know that it's unlocked. I go over to open Becca’s bitchin’ box, and find what appears to be a journal of some kind. Before I can read it, however, a tall woman dressed in white spandex, mask and cape swoops in from nowhere to snatch it out of my hand.

Thinking quickly, Jeannie takes a roll of tinfoil that she normally uses to wrap buttered rolls and bagels. She swiftly wraps it around the stranger, who's soon covered from head to toe, and thus immobilized. I take the journal, and find, to my surprise, that it isn’t the foilwoman’s diary. It's Britney’s. On the front page, the diva has written a schedule for the week:

3/29/07: Check into rehab. Check out.
3/30/07: Check into rehab. Check out.
3/31/07: Check into rehab. Check out. Hanging with Paris later. Remember undies.
4/1/07: Cruise to Caribbean….

I now know where I can find Spears. Trusting the dog to Jeannie’s capable care, I take a cab to the piers on W. 47th Street. I had read in the paper earlier that a new ocean liner, the Lady of Luxury, was set to sail on her maiden’s voyage from Dock-T. Unfortunately, the cab gets stuck in traffic. By the time I arrive, the Lady Lux has already sailed off into the foam.

Dejected, I return to the chicory and snack place to retrieve the dog. My old friend, psychic pagan Suki Hoshi, walks in ahead of me. By some strange coincidence, the song “Hit Me Baby One More Time” blares on the stereo. Tired of all things Britney, I ask Jeannie to turn it off.

“Oh my,” says Suki, “are we into the melody censorship?”

“I just wish I could find some music to grow old to,” I sigh, before giving her the sordid details of that lost day.

She stares at me for a while, and I wonder what thoughts she might be masking behind blue eyes. “Here,” she says, handing me the day’s newspaper. “Read this.”

“’The worst of the lot,’” I read. “’You are shrewd in business and cannot be trusted. You shall achieve the pinnacle of success because of your lack of ethics. You are the perfect son-of-a bitch. Most people of your sign are murdered.’”

“You’re reading someone else’s horoscope,” snips the psychic. “That’s Scorpio. Read Aquarius.”

“’Yield to your own psychic ability, and you will find the answers to what’s been puzzling you.”

And then it all made sense. The coarse, belligerent behavior, the head shaving, the tattoos. Why didn’t I see this earlier? Britney Spears has been channeling the spirit of the recently deceased Popeye the Sailor.

Figure 1. Britney Spears during recent spinach intoxication incident.

[]

Figure 2. Popeye receiving news of his impending death from his doctor.



I rush back to my advisor’s office to tell him what I had found. He simply shakes his head and laughs. “I don’t want this.”

“Huh?”

“Tell me,” he says, “What’s the date?”

“April 1st,” I groan, the twenty-five watt bulb finally lighting over my head. “This was all a joke, right?”

“Right.”

“My,” I growl. “Aren’t we being funny!!!”