I’m really too young to have experienced the High Cheese era of mirrored bedroom ceilings, although I did (just once) have the dubious pleasure of encountering one. It was at an aging and astonishingly out-of-the-way resort property where the Nymph and I booked the “King Room” in order to enjoy the en suite jacuzzi, and we found the place (though very comfortable) not to have been renovated since the days of disco.
This does not diminish my amusement at the “travels and stores in a mailing tube” version:
I suspect James Lileks is correct to suggest that only hashish could make that bearable!
The key words: “Mirror-like,” which means not a mirror at all, and “travels in a mailing tube.” So you can bring it along on your first date. This was the 70s, after all: you’d meet someone at the fern bar, go home, get the funky portable mirror out of the back of your van, put it up with double-sided tape, love the one you’re with, and let her check your back for problem moles. Bonus fun points if you were both completely pounded on Moroccan hashish, looking up, and the thing detached and floated down.
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