Are we expected to justify — tell me, to whom? They’re here because B’s tongue’s finally finished licking its rounds, has only just returned to the city, to be unveiled tonight and enshrined, on permanent exhibition and in its original, restored reliquary of I promise, it’s gold, housed under a lone spotlight, in a furthest gallery yet to be opened…beyond the doors, which are huge, castiron monstrosities, like mouths, as if the breasts to a giant’s coat, Gog, Magog, Goliath, the noted developer Barry Silberfels depicted towering over his wife nèe Phyllis Stein and their twin kinder Stephen and Steven — the doors, stylized with carvings, imaged commandments, their symbolism obscure only to the blind or the braindead, don’t do this, do do this, Thou shalts and not and please, just don’t ask: in a wild wind they’re flung open to the street, the collection aired to the darkness, the stairs that lead up then into the marbling heart, to the flight of guests arriving at yet another destination never their final — ascension, verticality, that’s called mobility, babe; past the staircase’s landing, halving the flights, guarded by two templar lions chained tightly to rails, their paws splayed without claw, they’re rolling twinned globes, being ridden by agents, barebacked undercover as angels twirling swords on temporary fire…past them, fleeing from the flash and the ask, they’re still pouring in: curators and docents and amateur experts, the critics with their papers and pens in their defamation suits, slurry ties, arm-in-arm money-lenders with their lent, philanthropists two-by-two, alongside their beneficiaries even betterdressed, beaming, these schemers and scammers charitably deducting their rentals tonight; more guests billed as either surprise or special or both, personalities you might know from, remember or recognize, roast and toastmasters extraordinaire — this place, it must be making a fortune; they’ll museum the world three times over with what they’re taking in: fivethousand shekels per plate’s being charged, endowments gathering interest forever, sponsorship’s accumulative assurance ad æterna, the Paradise that is the Curator’s Circle, the Purgatory of Sustaining Membership slander, whatever you want to be, we’ll go ahead and give it a name; amazing, tomorrow they’ll be turning donors away. Menschs flood the lobby, make coatcheck, strip rubbers, lose umbrellas then locust the cashbar, ordering vodka with Jaffa OJ for their wives headed straight to the restrooms to face fresheningup: primp and preen with powder the puffs of their noses, redlabel mashke with Coke (O/U, by now even K’s good enough) for themselves. Free Palestein! with every large cup of coffee! A Mazel Tov orgy, boutonnières poking bosoms, the glint and stick of starredflag lapelpins, handshakes, onehanded, twohanded, hugs turning to kiss one for each cheek, two for them both then the lips; let me admire you twirls, looking the new wife or girlfriend onceover, up and down, check the gums, turn around now, bend at the waist; some are talking standing talking then moving to mingle, sidestep network, drop and hint, while others’ve already taken their placecarded seats at tables placed around the periphery then further in toward the stumbleworn inner stairs; their hands in their laps they’re waiting for what, some sort of honorable mention, another award, a keynote unlocking, the idea, justification, the reason, excuse: save it for later; first’s the gala, then the appeal; they riffle their programs — and only then, the unveiling…the Tongue.
