Dagnab, he almost fooled me. Went to see that National Chinese Opera foo-faraw—up in Middletown, New York it was. Middletown’s the culture capital of East Nowhere, anyway that’s what us locals like to think. Let me tell you, this here Opera game’s the best Chautauqua tentshow old Sherm ever threw together, no nohows about it. Full of authentic hootin’ and thumpin’. Painful as a hernia. For two whiles there, I thought it was really from Taiwan or whatever that there snazzy program said. But I caught on quick enough. Dang thing’s too slick for them Chinks.
Now Middletown folks is fine folks, don’t get me wrong. They try, lordy yes. The Arts Council, why they’ll go for any old culture stomp you can shove in a Hertz Rent-a-Van. Never has been the same since they built the Thruway; run into all kind of farners on Main Street these days. Come Saddy or Sunny night, the good ladies doll up in long dresses, like they was goin’ to Don Trovatore at the regular Met. They show off a bit in the high school lobby, while alla time their husbands’re makin’ kinda sick faces at each other. Heck, you wouldn’t bring anybody you cared for to the Chinese Opera: They’d think you was a New York City fag or somethin’. Married folk, it’s all right. This year alone our Arts Council’s got hold of the Strasbourg Philharmonic, the Afro-American Ensemble, and the Ballet Folklorico of Mexico. Now some them shows may achully be from where they claim to be, but I wouldn’t trust a one of them. Y’see, Sherm’s an old drinkin’ buddy of mine. I know the yeas and nays, so to speak, of the big C culture hornswoggle.
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