Still Here

Been on the road for the past few days doing shows in the Chicago area. I drove through snowy desolation on 65 North where the monolithic carcasses of overturned tractor-trailer rigs littered the medians like relics from the Jurassic age. I should have brought a dog sled. My show went very well, but in the obligatory after-show schmoozing with the company bigwigs, I was sure we were all going to wind up in a Chicago prison. Prison is not a good place for a Fop. I'm too delicate and pretty to survive there long. Martha Stewart barely survived the food; I know I would wither in the cultural wasteland; I don't think the other prisoners would accept a tattoo of Monet's Camille Doncieux as a suitable sign of machismo, plus I'm not sure scented creams and oils are allowed in the shower room.

These rakes, many of whom hailed from the wilds of Canada and Wisconsin, assaulted the quiet streets of Arlington Heights propelled by alcohol-fueled exuberance and seeking more of the same. When they found out all the bars closed at 11 PM, I thought violence would be the citizenry's portion and mayhem their lot. I don't consume alcohol, so my judgment was intact, my mind pure, and my wholesome moral qualities untainted by the bellowing profanity and lewd suggestions which issued in an unceasing froth from my business associates. They intimidated the bartender at one club which was in the process of closing into serving them cocktails, and as my companions sunk lower and lower into savagery, I felt as a sweet Lilly flowering on the bottommost floor of Hell. Bystanders were accosted, taxi drivers insulted and made the hapless target of the most vile suggestions. It's said Man is suspended between the heights of heaven and the pits of depravity, and that night I witnessed his utter Fall.

I yearned for the peace and quiet of my piano.

It was an evening of horrors and wonders. I also booked four shows from it. Behold the glamorous world of show business, my readers. Upon my return home, I scrubbed myself in the shower until I was raw, intoning, "It WILL come off--it WILL come off..." Thank goodness for Nivea for Men.