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I’m sorry, what did you just ask me? “What is this place?” Okay, let me answer that question for you, toots. The Spannacher-Wesley Museum is what it is. Is that good enough for you? I know you and your pot-bellied hubby only came in here because it’s halfway between the gallery district and the restaurant district and you just want fifteen minutes of air conditioning, so now that you’re officially inside the publicly funded Spannacher-Wesley Museum, here’s the deal: you’re going to walk around a little, look at some old stuff under glass, and get the gist of both Spannacher and Wesley and their minimal significance to this one-horse town. Then, by God, there’s going to be a quiz, because I am not sitting here beside the tastefully painted oak front door to cure my baldness. Just try to get past me on your way out without being able to cough up a little hard information about Spannacher and Wesley. Your Sunday museum-tour dream of drifting by ninety percent of the exhibits with your sandals making pleasant little creaks on the wooden floor and leaving with an awkward smile for the guy at the desk on your way to Ben and Jerry’s has just been body-slammed, sis. You’re going to learn, by God. You might as well have the names Spannacher and Wesley tattooed on your spindly biceps as soon as you get out of here, they will be that ingrained in you, and don’t be surprised if you can’t get the oil-painted mug of Johnathan Switherford Shea out of your head for the rest of your life either, whoever the hell that is. This is a MUSEUM OF LOCAL HISTORY, it’s not the last few minutes of Two and a Half Men you kill off before something decent comes on, and you will USE IT TO ENRICH YOUR CULTURAL KNOWLEDGE. And guess what? Just in case you slack off or decide you might be able to juke left at the entrance to the Captain John S. Tilden Room and slip out the window in the bathroom, I’ll be shadowing you today since there’s nobody else here to marvel in the richness that was Spannacher, Wesley, and even the esteemed barrister Thorvald D. Meeks, who did something in 1871 involving a letter to some queen. Which queen? Oh, trust me, you’ll know which one before I let you go, you gawking yuppies. Now get cracking. Oh, did I mention that because I don’t care for your attitude, I’ll be whispering the words “Spannacher Wesley Spannacher Wesley Spannacher Wesley” in your ear for the duration of your hellish stay? Did I mention that? Or that I’ll be sending you the security tapes of your visit so you can replay this bountiful experience again and again in soundless black and white for your disinterested grandchildren, the last names of whom I’m sure all share the same first letter—K, right? Is it K? Is there a Kayla involved? Don’t lie to me. DON’T LIE TO ME. Just move. Move! The tour starts with this faded map of Wisconsin on the wall. Ooooh, look at the faded map! Press your noses right up against it. That’s the smell of your afternoon disappearing, sports fans.