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THE FRANKLIN THEATRE IS DECADENT AND DEPRAVED

I just moved to Tennessee. I’ve been living in Boston for the last ten years. I’ve been in New England my whole life. That means I’m saddled with the most objectionable of tasks: meeting new people.

One of the first people I met was Lindsey Vonn’s boyfriend. I’m terrible with names. That’s probably a horrible attribute in a writer. Someone said he plays hockey, so I’ve been frequenting the pick-up games at Centennial Sportsplex. He hasn’t shown. I’m getting the sense that he’s actively resisting my follow-ups. I’m not sure what went wrong.

Just about all my other networking has been accomplished through a Sherman’s March to the Sea of consumer credit destruction throughout downtown Nashville as well as short hit-and-run missions into the Gulch and East Nashville. Reviewing my credit card statements on the first of the month brought on a sense of dread.

Realizing, in actuality, that I compiled those numbers in fifteen (15) days invoked a sense of something akin to Shock & Awe.

I could probably use my refrigerator for storage at this juncture. If I didn’t need ice cubes for my whiskey (why is whiskey more expensive in Tennessee than New Hampshire?!), that appliance could be unplugged altogether.

I went into Design Within Reach in order to splurge on a nice desk chair. I left with an interior decorator on my hands. She’s been emailing me every day with ideas for how to spend my money. She recently escalated to handwritten notes. This lady talks to me more than my Significant Other. The last time I spoke with her, she said “We need art for our space.”

By “We” and “Our” she meant me and her, the interior decorator.

I went into Nordstrom’s last week just to kill some time. I left that establishment with an image consultant. She may be even more efficient at spending my money than the interior decorator [~$1k in under 45 minutes (I was totally just looking!)].

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