Back in the late nineties I owned a SID number (12218354) and an address in an Oregon state prison. For part of my biddy prison bid—the old heads said my time was short fore I got there—I worked as an orderly in a mental ward of the Oregon State Hospital. The official duties included sweeping and mopping the halls, changing sheets soiled with feces and/or soaked with urine, and making beds tucked with tight hospital corners. The unofficial duties included learning to at least feign aplomb when residents tossed food trays, tantrumed to the point of restraint, or screeched refusals of their meds.
The loafer maestro—and, if he has anything to say about it, the next big thing in American fashion—takes us along for a ride. And, yeah, there's a Porsche.
My dad had one of those big chairs. Oxblood leatherette, brass-tack trim, an ottoman for the feet and a wingback for the head. A piece a decorator would call masculine. A chair for reading three paragraphs of a book and then immediately napping. A Dad Chair. It was the one thing I wanted from Mom and Dad's place in St. Louis when we cleared it out last Christmas. I found a guy who was moving cross-country and paid him $400 to drive it from St. Louis to L. A.
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