The story, as they say, had already been written. The predictable unraveling, eventual demise and subsequent iconic theme: Philandering husband gets away with murder. Noble, neglected wife looses it and everything falls apart. So obvious is the outcome, so ingrained is the pattern that you can see it from far away...it has it's own shape, it's own recognizable shade of black. One doesn't even have to know all the details, the sad arc is projected with every misstep. A fable, a nursery rhyme, so cartoon simple are the maneuvers that you can skip in a circle and fall down on cue, knowing Clytemnestra will off herself.

Recognizing all the cues, the ker-splat in your face obvious broadcasting of missteps that lead toward the inevitable are served up by Michelle as deep dish irony. American consumerist obsessive/compulsive knee-jerk reactionary stuff-your-face-with-another-hamburger until you burst mania that's like watching The Shopping Channel's translation of: "How Aggamemnon Fucks Everything", or "Clytemnestra is the Queen of Denial". The out-of-control culture gone mad, grabbing at the either to get a clue, filling up the emptiness with stuff, stuff and more stuff that only serves to further bury. The glamour of easy answers to a problem, the fast-food fix that fills the belly, dulls the senses, becoming addictive, eventually killing us.

From her lofty position as royal, Clytemnestra (and us), can have everything and anything she/we desire with a click of her/our fingers. Filling up the emotional void with a flood of product in place of actual nutrition, real solutions and necessary healing is our story. The story we like to tell ourselves constantly...and the one we forget again and again to remind and retell over and over. The nursery rhyme we live by: Keep it simple. That amazing Hollywood celebrity beauty secret, the Kardashian gold plated finger nail back scratcher is crap. Pay attention. Keep it simple.