Friday, March 11, 2016

The Nudist


The nudist poses little threat to morals or devotion;
they spend most of their private time applying lots of lotion.
They congregate on beaches like a flock of penguins hunting
for a bit of herring, without using any bunting.
The sun is cruel upon their skins, and leaves 'em looking like
a withered pippin or perhaps five miles of bad turnpike.
If you would be a nudist you must heed this one command;
be careful how you place yourself upon the burning sand!

Thursday, March 10, 2016

Am I remembered with contempt . . . ?


Jacob 4:3 -- "Now in this thing we do rejoice; and we labor diligently to engraven these words upon plates, hoping that our beloved brethren and our children will receive them with thankful hearts, and look upon them that they may learn with joy and not with sorrow, neither with contempt, concerning their first parents."

Am I remembered with contempt by those who are my seed?
Do they perhaps from my own DNA wish to secede?
I felt the same at times about my own progenitors;
that they were founts of ignorance, and irritating bores. 
I'm doing all the best I can, as did my parents too.
I only hope my kids will learn to take a kindly view! 

Wednesday, March 9, 2016

Clellan Card, alias Axel Torgeson!


My role model as a tyke growing up in Minneapolis always was, and will always be, Clellan Card, in his role as Axel Torgeson on his TV kiddie show, Axel and His Dog.

In his role as Scandihoovian paterfamilias to a mangy crew of a dog and a cat (plus, later on, the totally normal, and thus totally irrational, Carmen the Nurse), Axel was a jolly hooligan when it came to mangling the English language. The way he could draw out and provide startling innuendo to his word for a cat -- "pyoo-see-gat"  tickled me as a kid, and now, as I think back on it as a so-called sophisticated adult, causes me to grin salaciously.
Africa was pronounced "Ah-FREEK-ka".
Other TV kiddie show hosts were silly, but in a serious sort of way -- with some kind of subliminal message included, like be kind to animals or don't be a litter bug. Axel went way beyond silly to a Zone were Rod Serling would have pushed a custard pie into a space alien's face and then dropped his slacks as he did the hootchie-kootchie . . .
Like many another great clown, Axel's character ranged just this side of madness; he inhabited his own world and followed his own agenda, while introducing limited animation cartoons and going to commercials. For me, the fascination was always to wonder when he would finally break out and demolish the fourth wall completely --  running down his audience on a slice of anthropomorphic lutefisk.
Even as a sullen, world-weary teenager, too lazy and self-centered to take out the garbage or shovel the walk, I couldn't help surreptitiously watching Axel crack wise with senile puns and nonsensical yarns that made a shaggy dog story look like a Chihuahua.
He made non-comformity look as innocent, and easy, as a baby grabbing its own toes.
For creating such good-hearted goofiness for so many years, he's my hero!

Have you tried Spezi!

What other people drink in their own countries, I don't care.
But when it comes to soda here they'd better be aware
that we don't cotton to no furrin' stuff like that there Spezi --
prob'ly something cooked up by a crummy crpto-Nezi.
We do not want hibiscus juice or any of that Pschitt
that outlanders consider to be some colossal hit.
Give me Coke or 7-up or even northern Moxie
(though I think it tastes like turpentine mixed with epoxy).
We invented soda water back when drinks were drinks;
anything you import we will just pour down our sinks!

Who Gave Me License to Condemn


Jacob 3:5 -- "Behold, the Lamanites your brethren, whom ye hate because of their filthiness and the cursing which hath come upon their skins, are more righteous than you . . . "

Who gave me license to condemn another's life and mind?
Who made me judge of color, hygiene, manner unrefined?
Why should I anger at divergent attitudes to life?
Why should I care if someone plays the tuba, not the fife?
Those who are 'peculiar', who do not my mindset please
may very well be angels I must worship on my knees . . . 

Tuesday, March 8, 2016

Stiff Necks and High Heads


Jacob 2:13 -- " . . . stiff necks and high heads . . . "

Stiff necks and high heads are symptoms of disease;
a virus that prevents us from collapsing on our knees,
confessing our unsteady ways and lack of high resolve
to constant care of others though some ache it may involve.

The Great Physician has prescribed my daily medication
to loose my neck and bring my head down to its right location:
A broken heart and chastened soul will do more for my health
than Dr. Phil or Oprah or Suze Orman's road to wealth. 

Sunday, March 6, 2016

On Seeing Her Again

I dreamed I was immune till I saw her sitting there;
remission was revoked and my wound is still laid bare.
This stigmata will endure while the vault of heaven stands
and the lonely heart can shrivel on the sterile loveless sands.

Comes the kingdom of the Lord


Jacob 1:6 -- And we also had many revelations, and the spirit of much prophecy; wherefore, we knew of Christ and his kingdom, which should come.

Comes the kingdom of the Lord and all his rule obey;
the ignorant but honest hearts rejoice in that bright day.
Fulfilled the ancient covenants; veracity revealed.
No longer can the devil's pawns keep Gospel light concealed!

Fall upon your knees, O man, whoever you might be,
to drink the healing waters of the King from Galilee.
A kingdom peaceable and mild shall spread o'er all terrain;
no blood will spill, but only tears because there is no pain.

The Saints who humbly bow their heads and keep a prayer within
have known this kingdom long before it sweeps away all sin.
They welcome it as no surprise, but as their home assured;
where love and kindness are the only currents ever stirred. 

 

Saturday, March 5, 2016

Lee Marx Remembers Irvin Feld . . .


I worked with Lee Marx one enchanted season, when he, I, Wayne Sidley (as boss clown) and a young man with the improbable name of Walter Sokolowski, made up the clown alley for the Tarzan Zerbini Shrine Circus.
Lee was the son of famous Vaudeville clown Carl Marx, and took over his act and makeup.
We traveled extensively in western Canada that year; it was cold and wet, and the hockey arenas we played in stank to high heaven of stale beer and cigarette smoke, not to mention the pungent aftershocks of abandoned wool socks underneath the bleachers.
Still, with Lee around, it proved instructive.
This was over 30 years ago, so I can't vouch for how things in Alberta and British Columbia are now, but back then it seemed every town we played featured a buffet restaurant run by a Chinese family -- along the lines of "Wang Foo's All You Can Eat Buffet!"
The buffet inevitably consisted of a big bowl of bananas and apples, turning a nice mushy brown; cold cuts that could have been used to patch pneumatic tires; slices of cheese of an indeterminate lineage; rolls so crusty they made a Marine drill instructor look like a sissy; french fries that thought they were prunes; soggy translucent lettuce with ancient sliced carrots, tired red cabbage shreds, hard boiled eggs that were laid by constipated hens, spotted tomato slices, all masquerading as a salad bar; plus steaming gallons of egg drop soup (those restaurateurs sure could make one egg go a long way); and deadly little cream puffs that you thought you could eat a dozen of in one sitting -- which then came back to haunt you right after the evening show.
Lee made no bones about the fact that he intended to spend not a nickle of his salary that season, but to send it all home to his second wife so they could fix up their split level -- he showed us all photographs of the place with such guileless pride that we didn't have the heart to kid him about it.
This meant he employed a 'Harpo' trench coat whenever he went into one of these infamous buffets. He'd eat one apple, then surreptitiously slide one into a capacious coat pocket, and then do the same with everything offered on the menu -- even the cream puffs! He'd walk out of the place smelling like an overripe delicatessen; but he now had his dinner and breakfast taken care of.
Lee had also mastered the art of nursing a beer. He not only nursed it -- he gave it CPR and a blood transfusion! He could sit in a Canadian bar nursing one glass of Molson for several hours, hoovering up all the peanuts and pretzels the bartender cared to leave within reach.
On occasion, when the local Buffet looked too gruesome for even my cast iron stomach, I would join Lee in whatever tavern he was inhabiting before the matinee so I could order a hamburger and poutine (french fries covered in cheese and gravy). It was then I heard his accolades (usually aimed at disinterested bartenders who had finally caught on and were hiding the peanuts and pretzels): "Lemme tell you -- that Irvin Feld; he LOVED the clowns! He was good to all of 'em, all of the time!"
I'd ask him: "Lee, did you work for Mr. Feld?"
His reply never varied: "Nope. Never." And then he'd fall silent, relentlessly ministering to the last few remaining bubbles of foam in his glass.
This really began to intrigue me -- why was he determined to praise old man Feld to complete strangers? So finally, after hearing his little speech given to the back of a panicky bartender who was hastily thrusting a jar of depleted pickled eggs into the fridge, I offered to buy him a second beer if he would just tell my why he thought so much of Irvin Feld.
He agreed, then suspiciously eyed the fresh glass of brew in front of him; tasting it and making a face.
"Gotta wait for it to warm up a little" he explained. "I'm not used to it being so cold."
Lee was an excellent juggler, but with words he tended to get a bit mixed up and repetitive -- so I'll just give the gist of his story.
Back in the 1960's Lee and his first wife were driving through Ohio when they were involved in a terrible car accident. Lee's wife was killed and he himself suffered a number of severe and life-threatening injuries. His recovery was very slow and doubtful. He wasn't certain if he wanted to go on living, now that his wife was gone and the hospital bills were piling up.
One day a basket of fruit arrived, with a note inside reading "I knew your father well; hope this helps." It was signed "Irvin Feld".
Lee saw it as a very nice gesture -- a basket of fruit for someone he really didn't know. But when he was released from the hospital a few weeks later he found out what the note really meant. Feld had paid off Lee's entire hospital bill . . .
Lee told me not to repeat the story to anyone with the circus. Thirty-some years later, I'm still honoring his wishes to keep Mr. Feld's philanthropy inconspicuous.
After all, none of YOU have anything to do with the circus -- do you?
 

Friday, March 4, 2016

I comprehend so little


2 Nephi 32:4 -- Wherefore, now after I have spoken these words, if ye cannot understand them it will be because ye ask not, neither do ye knock; wherefore, ye are not brought into the light, but must perish in the dark.

I understand so little, comprehension but a spark;
O Pantokrator leave me not alone inside my dark!
Destroy my pride and dignity, remove me from the throng
of iron-hearted sages and shrill sirens with their song!
Bless me with a questing mind, a soul that knocks not once
but never ceases tapping -- knowing I am but a dunce!
Thy light is knowledge kindled deep within my breast alert:
Come understanding, quickly, or I stagnate to my hurt!
Have mercy on my ignorance, my blinded groping stance --
even to the pricking of my wits with Thy keen lance.
When the earth is flooded with the knowledge of Thy splendor,
please find me still a novice -- not a puffed-up smug pretender!