Name Dropping in Clown Alley

Working as a circus clown for Ringling Brothers back in the 1970’s, I came in contact with a number of celebrities who visited the show – usually pushed, prodded and/or bribed into coming by the show’s nimble publicity agents. Even though I think most trips down Memory Lane are train wrecks, here is a partial list of the luminaries I met while performing with The Greatest Show on Earth.

• Tony Bennett. The great crooner and his wife came to see the show at Madison Square Garden in New York City. When clown alley heard he was in the audience, we immediately set to work cutting out a gigantic foam rubber heart, which we hurriedly painted a lurid red. During intermission all 26 of us trooped up to Mr. Bennett’s seat to tell him we were returning the heart he had lost in San Francisco. He took the joke well, and one of the clowns approached his wife to say “I understand you’re from my hometown in Ohio – Zanesville!” She looked at him coolly for a minute before replying “That was his last wife.” The publicity staff quickly shooed us all back to our steamer trunks.
• Larry Fine. The beloved “porcupine” of the Three Stooges came to see the show in Los Angeles. He was in a wheelchair, hooked up to a portable oxygen tank. After the show he insisted on coming backstage to shake hands with every single clown. For a young man like me, who was desperately trying to master the art of slapstick, it was like shaking hands with Jehovah.
• Cary Grant. Also in Los Angeles. I was hurrying out a side door to make my entrance for a clown gag and ran into a well-built older man in a black suit. I don’t wear my glasses when performing, so I did not see this road block very clearly. Irritated, I asked him to please move, and he replied politely “Certainly. I’m sorry to be in the way.” There was no mistaking that voice; I turned at once and gazed myopically into the face that launched a thousand heart throbs. “You’re Cary Grant!” I sputtered in complete awe. “Sometimes; when I feel like it” he replied with a real Hollywood twinkle in his eye.
• Art Linkletter. The genial television host was in a bad mood when he was told the evening performance had been delayed by fifteen minutes due to some issues with the Siberian tigers not getting their horse meat on time. He was the guest ringmaster. In the circus, the animals are always fed and watered before any human being – but Linkletter did not grasp that concept. I was standing next to him, so I heard him muttering, apparently NOT in jest, “This is no way to run a circus.”
• Richard J. Daley, perennial Mayor of Chicago. Daly and his Democratic party cohorts bought out the show one evening, and then threw open the doors and let the people of Chicago in for free. He took the microphone away from Harold Ronk, the ringmaster, and hosted the proceedings himself, often stopping the show for a brief political harangue. Being mildly liberal back then, I did not take kindly to his politics, or his raucous personality. When he asked all the clowns to come up and sit in the box seats with him, I quickly rearranged my makeup – putting on a Hitler mustache and combing my hair down in the style of the German dictator. I then goose stepped up to Hizzoner and gave the Nazi salute. He simply shook hands, uttering in his guttural style, “Nice ta meetcha!” and took no more notice of me. After the show, which lasted into the wee hours of the morning, I caught holy Hannah from the performance director, himself a German.

Gimme that ol’ time religion — or not

What do people want in their religion nowadays?
What will keep them coming back to church with eyes ablaze?
Is there any way a pastor can beguile his flock
so away from worship they don't inattentive walk?

Ditch the Ten Commandments, first -- they're very inconvenient.
People want a God of love, one who's very lenient.
Serve the sacramental wine in barrels to the crowd,
til they've raised their voices in a worship hymn quite loud.

Follow all the latest news and fads and trends, to copy;
sticking to the strait and narrow is considered soppy.
Do not mention Hell or any punishment divine;
that will only make the little children want to whine.


Make Deity as mundane as a corndog on a stick;
no more mighty miracles or healing of the sick.
Once you've turned religion into nothing but a sop
the stampede to your church will surely need a traffic cop!  

Blurry Lines: Disability vs. Ability

(Inspired by a story from Karen Feld.)

Each one of us is handicapped by things we cannot change;
it might be anything from mental illness to the mange.
As such it well behooves us to engage the Golden Rule
and never call another rogue or cripple or a fool.
If Donald Trump thinks he's immune from all the slings and arrows
of mortal life he ought to be embalmed with all the pharaohs.
He'll find that calling names wins nothing but the world's contempt,
plus heightened caution for what lurks beneath that hair unkempt

What did they learn from me?

Mosiah 1:8 -- "And many more things did king Benjamin teach his sons, which are not written in this book."

I did not teach my sons to breath, or grow their nails and hair;
I did not teach them how to walk or sit upon a chair.
I wonder now just what they learned from me who's not a king;
who knows so very little to which children ought to cling.
Perhaps when all is sorted out, illusions sacrificed,
 they might all remember that I do believe in Christ. 

Coulrophobia: Fear of Clowns (?)

I grew up in the 1950’s, when the great clowns were still alive and stirring in the American psyche; Chaplin gave use his movie tribute to clowns, Limelight; Buster Keaton was still actively pratfalling on live television; the Three Stooges were still cranking out their slapstick sonatas; and professional circus clowns were hilariously abundant, whether at Ringling Brothers or with the many Shrine circuses that crisscrossed the land. As a child I reveled in their unprincipled and undignified shenanigans, and, by a series of fortuitous events, I actually grew up to become a clown with Ringling Brothers Circus, attending their prestigious (if that’s the right word for it!) Clown College in Venice, Florida, in 1971. 
In my professional career as a clown I would occasionally run across a child who was initially frightened by my grotesque makeup and costume, and I learned to approach such children very carefully and respectfully, telling them in a reassuring voice that it was okay to be shy, and asking their permission to come closer to shake their hand. In most cases, after a few minutes of this strategy, the child would allow me to make contact, and I felt proud to have made a new friend for the art of clowning.
After many years in the business I changed careers, leaving my red nose and baggy pants behind. I had been a respected member of a great fraternity of buffoons, and remembered fondly all the laughter and affection I had received from audiences all over the world. 
Imagine my surprise and chagrin, then, when, just a few years ago, I briefly went back to my old trade – only to discover that nearly HALF of the people I interacted with said they were afraid of clowns, and wanted nothing to do with me!
What in the world had happened to change people’s minds, I wondered. I’m still not sure I have a complete answer to that vexing question. But I can make some reasonable surmises.
First of all, I blame the rise in amateur clown organizations across the country. Many circuses today have cut corners by not hiring professional clowns, but instead contacting local clown clubs to provide the comedy. These amateur clowns often have terrible makeups and no training in physical comedy; when they approach the audience for some fun it’s no wonder the children, and maybe the adults, feel threatened, rather than amused! I myself can recall as a child the amateur clowns that infested a local Fourth of July picnic I went to; how they tickled me until I wet myself. Many of them reeked of whisky. No child should ever be subjected to that kind of abusive clowning.
Secondly, I blame the author Stephen King’s book It. The book was published in 1986, and later made into a blockbuster horror film. The book introduces the character of Pennywise the Clown, a shape-shifting monster that preys on children. It is not a pleasant read, nor is it a pleasant movie to watch. 
Since then there have been other “monster” clowns; in fact, if you Google “clown” under ‘images’ you will get mostly gruesome fiends in whiteface, not the funny fellows we all used to chuckle at. One of the most popular costumes this coming Halloween, as it has been for the past fifteen years, is the monster clown outfit, complete with fanged mask and blood-soaked ruffles. 
So, in a broader sense, I guess I’d better blame Hollywood and the whole entertainment industry for promoting and marketing scary clowns for profit. Mere laughter is not enough – now our clowns have to be dangerous as well! I do not think this bodes well for American society. 
In Europe, Africa and Asia the clown is still a traditional figure of fun – allowed license to satirize the foibles and failings of kings and rulers, and of peasants and plebeians. He, or she, is a gentle creature, full of music and whimsy, and children flock to circuses and shows featuring clowns, with complete trust and delight. The way children used to here in the United States.
But America has grown so cynical and sophisticated that we see nothing wrong with taking the innocent zany that gave us so much laughter and pleasure over the years and turning him into an icon of horror, like Dracula or Frankenstein’s Monster. 
A pie in the face to all such demonizers of a great American comedy tradition! 

False Christs

Words of Mormon 1:  "And it came to pass that after there had been false Christs, and their mouths had been shut, and they punished according to their crimes . . ."

Not ev'ryone that says Lord Lord, that claims Messiah-ship
is legally anointed or is actually blue chip. 
Hallowed visage and sweet words, or stern denunciation,
do not guarantee someone is of a godly station.
The devil joys to counterfeit an angel of the light,
to lead astray the faith of men into a grubby night.
 The Lord above knows all his sheep, keeps his flock defended
so ev'ry preying faker is finally up-ended. 
Trod a humble path, my friend, let destiny unfold
not as you desire it, but as from God you're told.
If you are called to do great things, make your election sure
by staying in the shadow of your Savior clean and pure. 

There's nothing more to write

Jarom 1:2 -- "For what could I write more than my fathers have written?"

There's nothing more to write; my life's complete the way it stands,
for I have always followed all the Lord's overt commands.
Ev'ry jot and tittle finished; ev'ry weighty matter closed.
All the business of mortality I have faithfully disposed. 
So why is it I feel as if the Lord still had a stroke
or two to send my way -- is it rebuke . . . or just a joke? 

The Chili Pepper

My mother kept Tabasco Sauce upon the kitchen table;
one bottle lasted 20 years (the stuff is very stable).
But when into the wide, wide world I sent my taste buds straying,
with peppers hot and sweet and strange they started bravely playing.
I ate 'em smoked and dried and canned, or straight off verdant vine;
I masticated Capsicum long pickled in hard brine. 
Their Scoville units held no meaning to my sated palate;
I added them to ev'rything as if they were mere shallot.
But fascination with these plants soon turned to an addiction,
and I could never be with others without causing friction.
My wife said that an ancho in her gravy was abuse;
and for Scottish bonnets my dear kiddies had no use.
My co-workers complained about the stench around my desk,
which reeked, they said, of something very jalapeno-esque.
Bereft of home, and jobless, to the gutter I soon crashed,
where I lived on nothing but serranos crudely mashed.
I managed, after years of woe, to spurn the chili's power
by turning to craft vinegars -- which are so very sour!
So nowadays I revel in Balsamic or Red Wine.
(Some Apple Cider from the Braggs goes very well with swine.)

Even Moonshine Is Going Upscale With Funky Flavors and Tasting Sessions

(Inspired by an article in the Wall Street Journal)

Ah yes, my little chickadee, a sip of this ambrosia
will turn your stomach inside out; your tonsils will not knows ya . . .
Made with finest corn and water from organic swamps,
it'll give you heebie jeebies and the screaming whomps.
 If you don't need your eye sight, then a glass or two won't hurt;
if your brain pan needs a shine then drink it in a spurt!
We offer many flavors to intrigue the bacchanalian;
our Old Rope extract turns the fiercest Muslim Episcopalian!
It puts the hair back on your chest, especially for wimin;
men will find a solid quart will give their guts a trimmin'.
Ah yes, my little kumquat, pour as much out as you please --
but do not spill it outdoors since it kills off all the trees!

Spikeawopski: Remembering Terry Parsons.

The first time I met Terry Parsons in the Ringling clown alley, he gave me a lopsided grin and said “Call me Spikeawopski!”

But I’ll just call him Spike in this, a memorandum of my friendship with this Appalachian Till Eulenspiegel.

He liked to project an aura of the tough guy who went his own way, impervious to flattery and threats alike. He sneered openly at my LDS faith, but often had me over for his wife Danuta’s ambrosial pickle soup. In fact, it was his very disdain for any and all organized religions that led to our first clown gag together.

Spike had constructed a life-size female foam rubber dummy, which clown alley nicknamed Ruby. She had yellow yarn hair and a ditzy smile stenciled onto her canvas face. She was the butt of many a crude and lascivious joke, naturally enough; when I expressed my disgust about this lewd behavior to Spike he immediately became Ruby’s super-zealous protector, beating off would-be ravishers with his trombone – which had a boxing glove attached to the slide end and could deliver a near knockout blow. Spike jokingly suggested I start preaching sermons to her to get her to mend her evil ways; I, in turn, suggested we do a gag together, wherein Spike is devilishly trying to tempt Ruby off the strait and narrow path and then I show up as an angel to beat the crap out of him.

That was how clown gags were born and bred on the Blue Unit back in the mid-70’s!

Spike made me a pair of foam rubber wings and I rustled up a high school graduation robe from a thrift store and made myself a halo out of tin foil and a coat hanger. Then we launched the gag on the track, disregarding whatever hoary old gag we had been assigned by the boss clown.

Through trial and error we found out that what the audience wanted more than anything else was to see me knock the stuffing, not only out of Spike, but also out of Ruby. So I obliged, with an oversized foam rubber hammer, a bucket of water, a shotgun that fired blanks, and, finally, picking up poor Ruby and tossing her bodily into the audience. With hysterical shrieks of laughter the crowd would pass her around like a mosh pit before tossing her back to Spike and I. The blow-off had Spike becoming extremely contrite, begging my forgiveness, and then slinking off in shame – at which point, finding myself alone with this alluring creature, I, an angel, began making passes at her. Enter Spike, who did a big take, and then chased me off while I hung on to Ruby with an unrepentant grin pasted on my angelic features.

This was not a circus classic, by any means – but it stirred the wrath of most of the older and traditional clowns in the alley, which suited both Spike and I just fine.

“What the hell is that all about?” Mark Anthony, the famous tramp clown, asked me several times.

“You two are #%&**&# meshuganah, you know that?” Prince Paul told us severely.

When the boss clown told us we had to go back to our original gags, we blithely ignored him. This led to Charlie Baumann, the fearsome Performance Director, becoming involved.

“I vill watch dis ting und decide vat to do” he told us, with a glare that suggested he would welcome the opportunity to send us both to a clown concentration camp.

With Baumann impassively staring at us, we pulled out all the stops, and not only threw Ruby into the audience but also hooked her up to a handy Spanish Web rope and hauled her to the top of the arena.

By the end of our performance Baumann could barely keep a straight face, going several shades past beet red in his efforts to suppress an unbecoming grin.

We never heard any more about it.