Reel Suite: LiLo / Chalupas / Seamus

Timeline, Lynwood Detention Facility.
 
4:00 pm.  The Conditions:  A punishing 74 degrees, partly cloudy, slight breeze out of the northwest.  No sunblock.  The atmosphere:  Tense.  My mission:  Get Lindsay Lohan released early so she can fulfill her contractual obligation to Manka Bros. Films.
 
Corey Feldman and his wife (Chrissy?  Crysta?  I wanna say Clarice...) can't take any more, they hightail it.  Britney crying guy is hauled away by paramedics with severe dehydration.  TMZ cameramen are hairy, stinky and talk funny.  One of them glares at me for 3 solid minutes, then flicks his skinny cigarette at me.
 
6:00 pm.  Old timey Mets "sign guy" stands on a bench, holds up sign reading, "Way To Go!"  NBC's Fernell Chapman gets into shoving match with Fox 11's Tony Valdez.  Gloria Allred mills about, asking if anyone has seen Dina Lohan.  My co-worker, the radiant Tomoko (she smells so good, too) arrives out of breath with the latest from Lindsay's judge.  Turns out, Lohan will serve a truncated sentence due to jail overcrowding, but may have to go straight to rehab.  This is the worst news ever!  Paco, one of the guys dressed as The Mean Girls, overhears our conversation and runs away crying, angrily assaulting a garbage can.  Tomoko produces some piping hot Chalupas from her backpack, thrusting them in my face.  But I refuse.  My hunger strike starts now.  I vow to only consume water until she is released.  Only Bling H2O.  This I will do for my studio, as long as they pay for it.
 
6:15 pm.  I consume Chalupa.  Just to tied me over.  Let the hunger strike begin!
 
9:00 pm.  Word spreads that Irish recording sensation Seamus is mere blocks away.  The crowd gets even larger.  Helicopters appear overhead.  A VW Microbus comes to a sputtering halt in front of the facility, door opens and out spills a "little person", followed by long-haired roadies, musicians, and three scantily clad women. 

Seamus finally emerges, sporting Lindsay's "wardrobe malfunction" blouse, to show his solidarity.  The crowd wildly applauds, Seamus thrusts his fists into the air...
 
9:12 pm.  After pressing the flesh, Seamus notices me waving to him, he approaches and envelops me in an inappropriately tight embrace.  "Yer doin God's work, my son," he says.  Sniffing me, he remarks, "Chalupa?"  Yes, I say.  He lowers his glasses, looks me right in the eye: "We'll have no more of dat den..." 

He smiles, strokes my face and darts away, the throng in tow.
 
9:15 pm.  Despite increased police presence, Seamus stands on the front steps of the jailhouse, his band surrounding him, lamplight illuminating his side-boobage.  He sings the following song:
 
Don'tcha mess wit da Lohan, she's a firey soul,
Her time in solitary is sure to have taken its toll,
When at last she emerges from dat dark dank cold pit
Why as sure as I'm sexy she'll be pitchin a fit.
 
So unchain da lassie
Dis is our plea
Or all night we'll shout nasty and on your doorstep we'll pee,
She needs to see her family
And guest star on "Glee"
And fulfill her obligation to make our movie...
 
In defiance, Seamus then rips the blouse off his body, hurls it at a cop, flips off the crowd and races to his van.  As it rumbles away, the crowd is left on its hands and knees, stunned, enlightened, reborn.
 
These are my people.  I'm with them no matter what.  As long as the Bling holds out.

Kurt Barnet