Politics in Clown Alley

Prince Paul insisted on the latest New York Times being delivered to his trunk in clown alley, whether we were in Passaic New Jersey or Albuquerque New Mexico. He kept abreast of current events that way, and was known to suddenly burst into verbal flame over stories that exposed the venality of public officials or described the tumults of our overseas pawns.

Throughout the season a television set was brought into the alley from time to time to monitor world-shaking events. But either the reception was no good or the news became so controversial and absorbing that we began missing our cues for the production numbers. When that happened the formidable Charlie Baumann would silently stalk into the alley, unplug the boob tube, then carry it out under his arm, never to be seen again. His suite on the train must have been chock-a-block with Zeniths.

Murray Horowitz, otherwise known as Raccoon Face, loved to argue politics with anyone willing to engage him in debate, but he had no takers in clown alley. As Charlie Chaplin is alleged to have said, “The only competition I have as a clown is Congress.” So Racoon Face had to buttonhole hapless showgirls or complaisant horse groomers to exercise his jaws.

I personally had no politics when I joined clown alley nearly a half century ago. Both my parents voted the straight Farmer-Labor ticket back in Minnesota, and my dad had once gone out on a sympathy strike for the miners up on the Iron Range (although, being a bartender, my mother said he just wanted an excuse to drink more beer and play more pinochle with his cronies.) Of course, I was a union man myself, having had to join AGVA when I signed up as a clown. When the show hit Madison Square Garden our already flimsy paychecks were further decimated by an increase in union dues. Chris Bricker, who sported a jaunty straw boater and had a sort of barber pole whirl on his rubber nose, was our union rep; he hadn’t heard anything about it. I got so het up about the whole thing that I found the New York address for AGVA and went down to their next member meeting. Some of the other First of Mays came along for moral support. The veteran clowns all said it was a waste of time. Penny Singleton, who played Blondie in the movies for 20 years, was President of AGVA at that time. When she asked if there was any new business I gave a sharp dry cough and stood up.

She glanced at me blankly, obviously not recognizing who I was or where I came from in the least.

“Yes?” she said neutrally.

I had not prepared anything, so blurted out:

“How come we gotta pay more dues when we don’t get anything in return -- not even a newsletter!”

“Oh, you must be one of that Ringling crowd. The raise is to cover the rising cost of your health insurance. You people are in a very dangerous line of work.”

‘Ringling crowd?’ Well, that stuck in my craw. If I was going to be gouged by these people, I at least wanted enough respect from them to be called a performer, not part of a crowd.

“How do you know that?” I asked shrilly, my recently completed adolescence sneaking back up on me as my voice broke in indignation. “Have you ever been to the circus? I tell ya what, you come down to the Garden and I’ll get you a free pass as my guest!”

This raised a mild guffaw, and Ms. Singleton had the grace not to have me thrown out on my ear. She said my protest would be noted in the minutes of the meeting. But she never did come down to the see the show, nobody from AGVA ever came down to the see the show, and Baumann told us if we didn’t agree to the increased deduction we’d be fired. Ringling was a closed shop. So my politics got a jumpstart after that; I became virulently anti-union in the best GOP tradition.

But there’s just something about working as a buffoon that short circuits the ability to take politics too seriously for very long. Today, like Prince Paul, I have spent the morning perusing the New York Times, then decided to write a poem. I never know what I think about a subject until I write some verses about it. So, for better or worse, here goes:

The town of Turdley stood amongst a fertile river valley;

It counted schools and stores and shops almost without tally.

The citizens were decent sorts, of many diff’rent stripes;

Some went to the synagogue and some played on bagpipes.

Others liked to swim and ski, or look for geode stones;

A very few just lay around, gazing at Dow Jones.

Tho jobs were scarce and pensions failed, the people carried on.

Although they sorta kinda thought there was some hidden con.

And then one day their congressman appeared as if by magic,

And what the town experienced turned out to be quite tragic.

Milford Squiffins Bunting, known to one and all as “Squiff,”

Had been in Congress since the time of ancient hieroglyph.

Wise in all the ways a politician plays the game,

He had amassed a fortune and a slightly frowzy name.

He thought the people loved him, since they always put him in.

(Ignoring that by marriage he was ev’rybody’s kin.)

He thought a town hall meeting would let people see him shine,

He set it at the high school, with its floors of polished pine.

But like a broken spillway at a dam with too much rain

The crowd poured in all turbulent, bent on causing pain.

Just as Squiff got started someone threw their cell at him.

Another gave a Bronx cheer that was heard throughout the gym.

“I’ve come explaining health care” he began most cautiously,

But that just made the crowd begin to moan most nauseously.

“Environmental hazards will no longer plague your days!”

He tried a diff’rent topic to tamp down the coming blaze.

“Fraud!” the maddened hundreds cried, and echo answered ‘Fraud!”

And Bunting starting praying to his great GOP god.

“We do not have connections with the Russians” Bunting yelled,

But as one man the crowd arose and said such sham just smelled.

They pelted him with Tums and they asked what would a wall

Do to bring back jobs to town down at the local mall.

They got a rail to ride him, and some tar and feathers too.

They’d send him back to lobbyists who with the laws did screw!

Before they could enact this crime (though some would call it just)

A SWAT team from the CIA through the high school wall did bust.

They shot down all the ‘terrorists’ to save old Squiffy’s hide,

Then put him on a copter for a safe protected ride.

(And if you ask the CIA it all will be denied.)

There’s no one left in Turdley and the town has gone to seed.

Plastic bags move round like ghosts, in which cockroaches breed.

And Milford Squiffins Bunting just keeps rolling right along

Like a ripe and thoughtless parasitic scuppernong.