BRIDGET EVERETT in SHE-SHELLS of SUMMERTIME SHELLEBRATION
It’s that fourth-of-July, red-white-and-blue summertime feel, probably the 1960s. Upstate New York. I’m performing in a waterski show, She-shells of Summertime Shellebration, with the legendary, local poster girl, Bridget Everett.
There is nothing sexier than waterskiing with Bridget Everett.
Bridget encapsulates liquid sunshine, she is the embodiment of a waterskiing cocktail of French vermouth and pineapple juice running down your chin. Nectarous and smooth, saccharine and thrilling.
Bridget skis in a lively blue and cream tropical swimsuit, large conch shells protruding from her bosom, the sash around her waist picked up in the breeze of the wake behind her, her blonde locks wafting like bedsheets. Because I am not Bridget, I am in beige, with a boring mollusk made of styrofoam bonneting my head. I look like a weird humanoid hybrid meant to diminish in her haze.
On the water, her flesh becomes a buoyant prism in the waterski globe of my dream, an American portrait of juvenescence in a mist of crystalline summer lake water. Her waterskis are glittering sheaths gliding over the water as if she were weightless. Her conch shells bounce lightly like bobbing heads.
Bridget’s cheeky, coy laugh dances on the water, turning the mist into sunshine stars. Her smile begs men and gods to not forget her. She has everyone’s eye. She has everyone’s heart.
That’s why she made this year’s poster.
