Defiling America’s Most Beloved Landmarks
January 29th, 2008Dan Barry, whose book of NYC human interest stories makes for great poop reading, wrote a piece yesterday about rascals breaking into Robert Frost’s farmhouse and throwing a pretty destructive party. The damage: “Gobs of phlegm spat upon hanging artwork. Vomit, urine, beer everywhere.” They also broke a chair and used it as kindling. I guess that’s what you can expect when you trust Vermonters with landmarks.
This reminded me of An Arsonist’s Guide to Writers’ Homes in New England, a funny book I started but put down for no reason. It’s about what happens to a dude after he burns down the Emily Dickinson house in Amherst, Mass., but that’s neither here nor there.
The high school kids, who added insult to injury by drinking Busch Light, must’ve missed the commemorative plaque embedded into a boulder in the front yard. Or maybe they knew the house’s significance and wanted to show the world how much they hate “Nothing Gold Can Stay”—especially the boner responsible for the phlegm.
Considering the fact I’d never heard of this place, I can’t be too bothered by the news. But why the Frost farmhouse and not the Joyce Carol Oates wigwam? Or the James Patterson underwater pleasuredome? Or even the Nathanial Hawthorne lean-to? These are all better choices.
Don’t tell the police in New Canaan, Conn., but I’m going to throw a phlegm-filled shindig at the Philip Johnson compound if the advanced reservation line for tours doesn’t ease up a bit. How can they expect me to make plans for August 2009 when I can’t even stick to a regular weekly pooping schedule?
