A young man who lived down in Moab

A young man who lived down in Moab
considered the whole state was so drab,
that he grew quite pale
at all that was stale,
and now sits around just to grow flab. 

A vagabond and panhandler

Alma 8:19 -- And as he entered the city he was an hungered, and he said to a man: Will ye give to an humble servant of God something to eat?

A vagabond and panhandler is what I am today,
seeking to recover all the light that's gone astray.
But do I hunger for what's right, not gravy in a bowl?
Can I discover blessings that will always make me whole?
Alas, my hungers wander from the righteous to profane;
my resolve still wavers like a fickle weather vane.
Bread and honey feed me, Lord, and cunning milk dispense,
so of this catchy world I can at last make blessed sense! 

When bankers are sent off to school

When bankers are sent off to school,
there's only one paramount rule;
keep money inside
and only provide
enough for a small molecule.  

Chapter 1. Cousin Doris' Old-Fashioned Root Beer

"It ain't the truth, but it's close enough."  Swede Johnson.
                                           *******************************

Every family has them; distant, or not so distant, cousins that seem to spring up occasionally like mildew under the carpet.

Our family had Cousin Doris. She intruded on my childhood like a case of recurring measles.

She lived over in Northeast Minneapolis, or, as the denizens of the area itself called it, 'Nordeast'. She had an apartment on Central Avenue directly above a Latvian delicatessen. She worked at the Polovny Cabinet Works -- makers of fine coffins since 1898. Her job, as I understood it, was to steam clean the red velvet interiors of the expensive coffins about once a month, and to distribute moth balls where they might be needed.

She was dumpy and her drab dresses always reeked of rancid garlic. She was the only member of the Torkildson clan to ever have a snub nose -- everyone else sported beaks of varying lengths and sharpness. Her moon face was permanently wreathed in a buck-toothed smile reminiscent of Mortimer Snerd.

The reason we disliked her so much was because she always insisted on being HELPFUL.

My mother had her over for Sunday dinner once every two months, and Cousin Doris was so grateful for this bit of kindness that she always looked for ways and means to help our family out -- with resulting calamities that shook our belief in a just God.

One particular summer Sunday when she graced our table she decided that we should have a batch of good, old-fashioned root beer -- the kind her mother used to make back in South Dakota.
She claimed the ingredients were cheap and handy, and the process was easy enough so that a blind simpleton could put up a dozen bottles in under an hour.

My mother tried to explain that at the moment we were plumb out of blind simpletons -- there were none to be had at any price -- but Cousin Doris was not to be put off.

The very next day she brought over all the equipment and ingredients and set to work, while my mother retired to the back yard with a brown bottle of something she told me was 'stress medicine', but which smelled awfully like my dad's breath when he came home late on a Saturday night.
Amazingly enough, Cousin Doris was true to her word, and the bottles were filled and capped within an hour. She then washed up and cleaned the kitchen to a spotless glare.

The bottles were lined up along the basement steps to 'work' for a week or two.

"Don't mind if they gurgle a bit at night" she told us cheerfully as she left. "That's just the yeast workin'."

The yeast turned out to have nuclear properties.

A few nights later the whole Torkildson household was rudely thrown out of their beds by a series of gushing explosions that emanated from the basement steps.

You guessed it; every single bottle of Cousin Doris' root beer had detonated like a sugary land mine.

And yours truly was deputized to clean up the bubbling mess toot suite by parents who obviously relished crushing a young boy's dreams of undisturbed repose.

Two months later, like clockwork, my mother had Cousin Doris over for Sunday dinner. As we sat down to pot roast, potato rolls, three-bean salad, and corn harvested straight from a Green Giant can, she asked brightly how we liked the home-made root beer.

"You'll never find anything like it in a store!" she exclaimed as we collectively scowled at her.

"It was explosive" my dad said shortly, as he jabbed the pot roast viciously with his fork.

"It does have a tang, don't it?" Doris replied. "Myself, I think there's a bit of alcohol formed."

That would explain the quasi-hangover I had the next morning, after inhaling the fumes while cleaning up the basement steps.

Nothing more was said about the volatile root beer as the dinner proceeded in sullen silence.

Afterwards, as Cousin Doris helped my mother with the dishes in the kitchen I could hear her telling my mother that pickling fish was a cinch, if the fish were fresh-caught. And since little Timmy liked going fishing all the time, she would be happy to help my mother put up a big crock of pickled crappie or sunfish . . .

At this point I sped out the front door as if my keister were ablaze.

Mostly because I didn't like to hear my mother swear.

The Perfect Woman

"My beloved brethren, may I remind you, if there were a perfect woman, do you really think she would be that interested in you?"  Dieter F. Uchtdorf. 

Marriage is a blessed state, but perfect it is not.

Sometimes it will blow real cold, and sometimes very hot.

Like a team of oxen yoked together throughout life,

the man must pull as much (or more) as his faithful wife.

No superheroes ever tied the knot, is what I think;

Each couple must work very hard to keep things half in sync.

The hurdles and the landmines multiply as time goes by --

and marriages that make it still contain some hue and cry.

So don't look for perfection in your ever-lovin' spouse,

and remember romance never built a sturdy house!  

Sweet, Sweet Sunday

Sunday is a point of rest within the weary week,
wherein we ought to cease to fret or think or even speak.
Turn off your phone; unplug your tab; and shun the DVD.
Let the peaceful murmurs of the universe just be.
No need to hike vast mountains or trudge through dank forest break;
rest upon a simple chair and all your cares forsake.
Ease your mind to pleasant corners where sweet zephyrs blow;
release the tensions and the stress, and blissful peace follow.
And if you're blessed with children, then this lotus you may pluck --

Forget about the quiet, pal, because you're out of luck!  

In Chevy Chase Village

In Chevy Chase Village you can't
play the kazoo or say "aunt".
No swing sets allowed,
or Elwood P. Dowd;
and what would they think of Rembrandt? 

The Nonpareil Peter Pitofsky

I first met Peter Pitofsky on my honeymoon.

Amy and I had a cozy little hotel room in Salt Lake City and were looking for something to wile away a few hours in the afternoon, when I noticed Ringling Brothers was in town at the Salt Palace.

"I used to work there, y'know" I bragged to my new bride.

"Oh goody -- let's go!" she enthused.

So we went.

During the first track gag I saw Terry Parsons point directly at me while telling Peter something.

Apparently a legend had grown up, fostered by Parsons, that I had been some kind of madcap whirling dervish in clown alley -- a force so disruptive and uncontrollable that even the fearsome Charlie Baumann could not keep me in line.

Peter had developed a crush on me.

And so each time Peter came by our section of seats he made a mad dash up to Amy and I to slobber me with kisses.

I took it all in stride; my bride did not know what to make of it.

During Finale Peter made one last frenzied appearance by my side, and I invited him to come out and eat with us after the show.

We met him backstage and took him to a Big Boy restaurant, where he proceeded to eat a hamburger while sticking french fries up his nose. Then he began following the waitresses around to see if any were named 'Madge'. Recognizing a true idiot savant, I did nothing to restrain his shenanigans.

When we got back to our hotel room hours later, Amy asked me "Are all your old circus friends as insane as Peter?"

"No, my dear" I replied. "And they are not as funny, either."

Well, the years snuck by; we had some kids, we bought a house; and then I had the chance to work as a clown at Disneyland in California. I would be gone for four months, but the money was too good to turn down.

And, wonderful to relate, my roommate while I was there was none other than Peter Pitofsky.

No pets were allowed in our apartment, but Peter brought along a disreputable feline he affectionately called 'Jack the Cat'. It was fat and immobile, and it looked at me as if I were a mouse too inconsequential to chase.

Peter did not spend every night in our shared bedroom; he had many professional and romantic pursuits that kept him away until the wee hours of morn. But when he was there at bedtime he discovered I snored like a buzz saw. So he would throw things at me while I was asleep, to interrupt my guttural fizzing. Usually he would throw Jack the Cat. Sometimes he threw a pillow. Once he threw a bagel, with cream cheese.

When performing at Disneyland, there was no telling what Peter might do. He had no standard act -- just a grab bag of schtick and a mind so beyond the pale of human reason that his improvisations defy orderly description.

My act, which never varied, was playing my musical saw (which I can't play anymore due to arthritis, dammit). Peter and I were in the same venue on Main Street, under a candy-stripped gazebo, with a small band to accompany us. Jaded union musicians, who had seen it all, they soon settled into a bored routine of musical bridges for my act; their faces registering an aggressive indifference. But when Peter meandered onstage those same musicians perked right up, becoming bright-eyed and bushy-tailed -- because they never knew what Peter would do during his ten minute time slot. It might be great; it might be painfully silly; it might fall flat -- but whatever he did, it was completely original and absurd.

My fondest memory of those days was the time Peter wanted to leave early so he could go into Los Angeles for an audition. Without consulting anyone or anything outside of his own febrile imagination, he began striding through the Park saying "We will be closing in ten minutes -- please find the nearest exit!"

The befuddled gate attendants couldn't figure out why hundreds of patrons, who had just got there, were suddenly leaving. When informed of Peter's impromptu kiboshing ceremony, the Disney management, to say the least, had kittens.

I don't know what they said or did to Peter, but he was still there the next day. Unrepentant and larger than a dozen lives.

And still throwing Jack the Cat at me each night.

Limerick

When weight you would like to slough off,
your metabolic rate starts to scoff;
whether paleo or parve,
you simply must starve.
and eventually you're back at the trough. 

Recruiting for the Ward Choir

Awake ye sluggards and ye sloths who will not raise your voice
and come unto Ward Choir where your spirit will rejoice!
No matter what your vocal range, no matter how you bleat;
we welcome you with open arms to come and take a seat!
We sing the songs of Zion and we hope the angels hear
our warbles and our tremolos and high notes without fear!
No training is required and no voice is too awry;
the only thing that matters is you really want to try!