Last night I had this dream where Wallis Simpson (pictured here) was giving me a hot towel shave with a straight razor. She did not shave off my actual chin whiskers, so no Delilah imagery, unless someone more educated than I am on the subject would like to argue the point. I was in an old school green metal and black leather barber's chair, and she sharpened her razor on the leather strap affixed on the right hand side. She leaned in close to do the part of my left jaw where I broke it once (there's kind of a lump in the bone), and she smelled like vodka, fruit juice and expensive perfume.
The chair was in the middle of a giant oaken stage, right in front of a pipe organ. In a huge balcony about thirty feet off of the stage surface, a full orchesta played "Seven Nation Army," PJ Harvey's "To Bring You My Love," and a couple of other things I recognized but could not place. Thanks, brain. Off to one side, presumably waiting for shaves from Mrs. Simpson, was a bench full of people including Eddie Izzard, Volstagg from Marvel Comics, Willie Nelson, Vini Demon, Chuck Norris and the man from this poem by Edward Lear. You might be wondering how I recognized him, but then you are illiterate, which means you are also not offended by what I'm saying or indeed, reading this.
There was a spirited conversation going (folks had to speak up over the orchestra) about why some Christians build very modest meeting houses (not wasting money that could be better spent elsewise, modesty, works over appearances, the relationship between utilitarianism and Calvinism, etc.) and others build grandiose compounds and spires (glorifying God, making a place that the destitute will want to come to, not hiding one's light under a bushel, arrogance, egotism, etc.) that segued into a history of the Vatican and then into stockings and high heels, which I don't know much about.
When she finished, I tipped Mrs.Simpson a golden coin about the size of the palm of my hand (In truth, it looked a bit like the Nobel medals) and sat down on the bench to smoke a cigar and read an issue of Poor Richard's Almanack with all of the pages sealed individually in plastic. The smoke and discussion and overblown music whirled around me, and I woke up.
Oh, and this makes 1402 entries in this thing.
