Rah rah rah! said the placard in front of the unassuming building two doors down from a home town hardware store. In this particular edifice, it is said, are contained vaults filled with recordings, sheet music, &, perhaps inevitably, pom poms of every conceivable fluff & color.
The docents have all gone home or retired. There are no cheers emanating from the Museum Of The American Fight Song. Not even the junkies who stand sadly by the giant dumpster know when last it was opened to the public. It is not easy, says one, to cop in such a place.
Across the street is a bar, The Fartknocker, not the most popular place in town. The clientele is virtually nonexistent. To discover it is actually named after someone - Elvis Thibauld Fartknocker the Third - Third! - turns more people away than you might expect. Mr. Fartknocker explains the museum's dilemma:
"They are another victim of the Islamo-Zionist-Feminazi plan to take over our popular sports," he says.
Three New York Times reporters were suspended without pay for not vetting Mr. Fartknocker who, it turns out, is a really awful person & a big smelly racist no matter what his lawyers say we can or cannot say. Racist! Racist! Racists suck!
But did racism do in the Museum Of The American Fight Song? Or was it, as a drunken plumber suggested at the bar, a series of frozen pipes unrepaired after last year's terrible winter?
We may never know. Calls to the museum were unreturned. No one answered the door. The posted hours were not honored. They wouldn't accept a friend request on Facebook. We stayed outside the building for two whole days but no one came in or out. The light over the "exit" sign burned out & no one replaced it.
To be continued?
No comments:
Post a Comment