Eric: I’ve just returned from vacation. Bear with me while I get back into the zone and try to frame a Sphinxter joke.
Our recumbent He-opatra can say it ain’t so until frogs fall from the sky, but this bed is a shrine, a big gay altar to a young Egyptian dragqueen. Pharaoh Fawcett-Majors, I’m guessing.
As such, being plagued by decorative restraint is a curse easily broken. Bring on the oil lamps, I say. Dust off the gauzy linen sheets. Don’t scrimp on the slyly pornographic hieroglyphs and jokey cartouche. Paint a big red smear on the door. Flaunt your big black Annubis and don’t be afraid to stick out your asp.
Even though it isn’t quite enough for this space, that amazing technicolor bedspread brings only one thought back to my mind — I love Andrew Lloyd Weber. I hope someone sets his work to music someday.
And I would never say it isn’t so.