My 100th Post, and Being a Museum Advocate

Happy 100th Post Day to me!!

In my other blog, I never bothered to count my posts, but for some reason I got excited about this one.  So, since it's a VERY blahhh day at work, I wanted to come up with something special, and I did.  It's not my own work, though, so here is a link to the blog where the original post may be found.  I DO have permission from them to post it here.

This is from the Center for the Future of Museums blog, which I just recently discovered.  Even though I've never gotten past the volunteer stage (yet!!) in my museum career, I try to join or follow as many groups, blogs, and other things pertaining to museums as I can.  Hopefully, I will one day actually work in one for money, but in the meantime, I can at least be an advocate for museums in general.

I love this poem, not just because it's funny (actually, it's hilarious), but because it's a true commentary on our society today, and it's not a pretty picture.  I try not to feel smug because I'm a self-styled "technosaurus"; I don't own a cell phone, smart or otherwise, I'm not exactly sure what an "app" is, and I don't need to be connected to the general population of the world through electronic devices every second of my day.  But I don't think I'm succeeding...  ::smug smile::

Anyway, without further ado, I give you:

A Christmas Carol for the Collaborative Economy

Subtitle: (St. Entropy has an app for that…)

 

‘Twas the night before Christmas in the Museum’s big hall,

And all through the building soft echoes did fall.

Not a creature was stirring, from microbe to ‘gator—

Not mice, and not people, not one stray curator.

The museum was peaceful from tail tip to snout,

'Cause most of the staff jobs had been parceled out.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care

By Millennials learning that "real" jobs are rare.

The curators were nestled, as was their sad habit,

But they all were gig workers assigned by TaskRabbit®.

And all of the creatures that had been in the cases

Were leased to retailers and other such places.

[Want a real live (dead) polar bear at your reception?

You can have it, no questions--for cash, no exception.

Deer, 'possums, frogs, each exquisitely posed,

For a nominal fee make great party tableaux.]

I was hunched at my desk with Jingle Bells blaring

Counting receipts for the loot from this "sharing"

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I quaked in my boots, my teeth started to chatter.

Away to the guard booth I flew just to see

What images appeared on the CCTV.

There, decked with a giant pink mustache (quite spiff)

Came a miniature sleigh, arranged via Lyft®.

With a jolly old driver, now drawing so near

I could see that his steeds were from Rent-A-Reindeer.

More rapid than updates his curses now came

As he whistled and shouted out dating app’s names,

“Not Grindr, not Tinder! And please not OKCupid.

I just want this iPhone to quit making me stupid.”

And then, in a twinkling, as I turned around,

Down the chimney Saint Nicholas came with a bound.

His eyes, how they glistened; his hair, what a mess.

I knew in a moment he had the wrong address.

“What’s this?” said Santa, waving our master key.

"This can't be the museum I leased through Airbnb®!

It was supposed to have specimens! Curators! Cases!

Instead it's impoverished, and lacking all graces.

You had dioramas. You had stories to tell.

You had magic and logic and that rare old book smell."

"Oh, well," he said, "Your lesson is learned,

"What was given away was worth more than was earned."

Then he pulled from his bag all the stuff we were missing:

Dinosaurs, preparators, even two interns, kissing.

From the dregs of the sack he fished out our director

(Who long had been absent, leased to a collector).

As the poor woman, dazed, looked around her in awe,

Santa leapt on his sleigh and let loose a guffaw,

And, putting his finger aside of his nose

(Not inside, thank goodness), through the ductwork he rose.

And I heard him exclaim, as he rose through the night,

“Take back what you own, and take care of it right!”

 

 

--Elizabeth Merritt, Sally Shelton, and John Simmons have never been leased out to anyone, though John did attempt to sell Sally once.