A recent letter from a reader in -apolis reminded me of a story with absolutely no point and thus perfect for a blog. In the spring of 19--, on tour with Famous Lutheran College Choir, we sang at the cathedral in Indianapolis. I was in the midst of a deep depression, having just begun the process of coming out (sorry to be such a cliche) and had just been put on an early anti-depressant—Pamelor—that had me absolutely lethargic and gaining about four pounds a day. During the concert I felt faint and had to sit out the second half.
After the concert we were assigned to our host homes, and my group was taken to the home of a single gentleman who had decorated his stately domicile (complete with turret) in Early Edwardian Bordello. I had never seen anything like it. Beyond the velvet and the tassles and glass figurines, he had a player piano, or two, in every. single. room. This guy was livin' the good life. I remember feeling slightly repulsed at his taste, fascinated by his absolute comfort with his surroundings, and a little charmed by his eccentricity.
The next morning, emboldened by what I had experienced, I used some styling mousse from the gentleman's bathroom and parted my hair on the opposite side. My new 'do was the talk of the tour bus.
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I wouldn't say I'm a reader. I just come to look at the purty pictures.
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