Shy to the point of disappearing in an unreconstructed squeak, little Michele is also, in the street parlance of our day, something “fierce.” Hair blonde as beer, a feisty blue-eyed five foot nothin’, little Michele, once you are within the circuit of her active care and attention, comes on as strong as a rap star. More than a few have suggested I start shoutin’ out “L’il Michele” and flashing a gang sign when I tell her tall tales. She has something of Paul Bunyan’s broad shoulders in her lack of compromise, her embittered bravery and willingness to out-face the rules of “Life, so-called.” And something in her, too, as whimsical and saddish as any Blue Ox quietly scraping an itch on the side of the Pecos. She’s the unquestioned queen of another realm, a place of endless wealth and sex, whose passport is stamped in feminine giggles and a toss of her hair. But woe unto the trespasser, the pusher of gates, the brash bandito who lays no homage at the queen’s pale feet! Then the countenance of a Sphinx looks down, carved by blood-sweat and seen in terror-dreams since the before-times, an unforgiving myth whose riddle may make Death your next meal. And no help from those high eyes lost in profound shadows of her own thoughts! No mercy, no mincing giggle or long-prepared appeal to a less-than-celestial court will avail. Those justices, those mysteries are her own book, written with exact clarity in a dainty executioner’s hand–the day-glo notebook doodled with daisies.