I’m sitting in one of the lobbies of the leviathan Gaylord Opryland Hotel watching the toupees go by.
I’m taking the annual dose of punishment required of all who wish to particupate in the Christian media industrial complex–attendance at the National Religious Broadcasters convention.
It’s sort of like that initiation ritual Richard Harris’ character had to endure to be a member of the Indian tribe in “A Man Called Horse.” Only the ordeal happens every year.
Okay. Perhaps I’m being a bit dramatic. You hardly ever get hung up by hooks through your chesty parts at these things.