Why?

It is free or was until it went from Junior League to hoity-toity in Winter 1983 and began charging $2; walking into it is walking inside a cavern of death, a deaf-mute, a brain that is grey because it is ancient and sits on a shelf in an unlighted by unopened closet.

We go down the stairs, no, you never go downstairs, it's boring, it's the basement stuff, the boring stuff: the foundation upon which the museum was founded, the Speeds' private collection of stupid midwestern portraits of themselves as stupid midwestern geeks happening to be rich as shit because I will bite the head off of every chicken I see.

In the Indian Room, in glass cases, all the Indian stuff is shed snakeskins and dried up beetle bodies to me, don't touch me, I stand in front of the full costumes and the umber leathery thing that is the surprise when you unwrap a mummy will breathe the musk of decay on my neck and a paroxysm relayed up my back muscles when it plays with my shoulder, no way, that's not for me, didn't I just say no reason to go downstairs? Only take a quick glance-in-passing into the Ancient Rooms, the two that weren't consciously built to look and feel like the mausoleums that they do, the great big oriental vase that is so old it shouldn't be displayed by setting it on the floor right where you can clamber inside for a good mug, the pair of sarcophagi that make the room stink like stone.

Up the stairs we go, we'll stop off at the water fountain at the head for a nice long cool drink.

We will not go over and dawdle in front of the climate-controlled box, peer through the glare and the reflection of yourself and the old person intently beside you who know great art when he sees it in a box, contemplate the subtleties of the museum's pride and joyful pièce de résistance, pastiche de Rembrandt, a bonerfide masterpiece the sole acquisition of which, $2,000,000 worth of flawless mediocrity, announcing to the city the somewhat startled and startling cry of, "Yes, by God, we are a real museum. We will construct a modern wing that will be modern architecturally in contrast and compliment to the museum's old-museum building, an abstract cock jutting out hard-on into the future from the torso of one of those old Greek statues you so often see, the ones that are always missing some if not all of the rest of their parts; it will mushroom a comfortable theater with stage on the far end like a cockhead, and pulsating and throbbing with the vitality of life the shaft will house the Modern Art, two to three dozen pieces of it, some of the most important names. Your brow furrows skeptically, 'Degas?' you query. The answer: 'Of course Degas!'"

The museum pauses while the audience is awave with titters, isolated clap-clapping from a couple of guys who like a good yuck as much as the next guy.

"Okay. Now . . . who're your favorite bunch of painters?"

"THE IMPRESSIONISTS!!"

"That's right! Now, for a $20 donation in your name, tell me which one is your absolute favorite."

"vangoghcezannegauginderaindummyhe'safauvedegasalreadyusedhiminthatjokerenoirbernardbonnardrembrandtidiothe'stheoldmasterthenhowaboutthecrazyonewhocutoffhisearwhat'shisnameohjesuswhathewasn'tapainterdowegettoincludetheamericanimpressionistswhybotherpissarromanetmonetformymoneymonetmonetMONET!!"

"YEEAA!! Don't you see the Monet, it's right there, in the corner there, that really is a Monet, honest--that's because you can't get a hold of any of the really pretty ones anymore, we sent our man up to the Art Institute of Chicago and he bought it real cheap out front on the sidewalk from a guy who worked there and'd ripped it off from some broom closet. Now for the next one I want to see a show of hands, just one hand per person, no double voting: how many of you folks out there like the Expressionists?"

"YEA!!" a hand waves for every person in the audience.

"Not the Impressionists now, but the Expressionists. They may sound sort of alike, but they're a whole different kettle of fish."

Half the hands remain while the rest of the audience rumbles, "Boo boo, trick question no fair, boo boo."

The museum waits patiently for the ruckus to subside, patronizingly because it is bigger than the audience, it sucks and grows increasingly larger-than-life.

"What man's name starts with a K and ends up sounding like a Russian soda pop?"

"KOKOSCHKA!!"

Museum bloats with success and new-found confidence, "A guy walks into a bar. Sits down. Guy on the stool next to him turns and says, 'Hi, my name's Pablo Picasso.' First guy says, 'So? So what? Big deal, what does that mean?' 'It means I'm so fucking famous I've finally found something to do with that warehouse full of old sketchpads!'"

"HAR HAR HAR HAR!!"

"But of course you don't like the Brancusi, but go ahead: feel it, isn't it just like a bowling ball?"

"A BOWLING BALL! AH HAHAHAHAHAHA--SNORT--HA HA HA!!"

"Hey! What about that incredibly huge one by some contemporary guy whose name you can't remember, yea, the posterior shot of a woman in lavender panties, BIKINI PANTIES!"

"OOUUUWWW, OW OW OOUUWWWW!! it's sinful."

"To assuage all you older women out there who think it's sinful, that it'll make teenage boys run into the restroom and masturbate, run home and deflower your daughters tonight when they're out babysitting, go out and rape the first woman they see, your own paperboy bursting in and putting it to you when he comes to collect the money, as if he doesn't already, as if you don't like it: even your husbands will stand there, they'll all look and think they're getting erections, they'll think about her and what she has underneath that silk painty tarpaulin, they think about how big she would be, and then they think about how even if they body-fucked her she'd still say, 'Oh? Is that all? But you're so tiny, you fill me up like a chopstick.'"

Everyone is quiet. We walk to the front door, the old people standing around the gift shop there regard us suspiciously, hateful glares since we are young and hence to blame for the giant purple butt and us guys have bulges in front of us and the moment we spin through the revolving door us guys and you girls are going to pull down our pants and fornicate like cats right there on the portico. But it's drizzling outside and we get our umbrellas from the holder and the old people've had just about enough, they'll summon the guard who is even older than them because now those young people are stealing umbrellas. We spin out unapprehended and finally get to light up a cigarette while the old people point out the window and snarl to each other--look, look, isn't it shameful, it's a sin I tell you, those young people just standing there right out front smoking that marijuana.

I WILL SPROUT AN EVEN NEWER WING DESIGNED BY SOMEBODY FAMOUS AND GIVE BIRTH TO A RESTAURANT WITH A FRENCH NAME THAT MEANS MUSEUM CAFETERIA WITH CLOTH NAPKINS FANCY-FOLDED ON THE TABLES.

The old ladies: oh really? we are very pleased to hear that, wouldn't that be so nice? that'd be very nice indeed, how thoughtful of you.