Thursday, July 14, 2016

Kevin Sieff Wants Out

I have compiled a list of around 75 professional journalists who enjoy my limericks. But sometimes one of them will ask to be removed from my email list.

Kevin Sieff of the Washington Post is one such reporter who no longer wishes to receive any more limericks.  The reason? I'll quote his email to me verbatim:

Hi man, I’m really sorry, but can you take me off this list? I’m running for cover in south sudan and emails are flooding in. sorry.

Kevin Sieff
Africa Bureau Chief
The Washington Post
Twitter: @ksieff

Naturally, I immediately took him off my list.
But I can't help wondering what kind of assignment he's on, running for cover and feeling threatened by emails.
Journalism is dangerous work sometimes, ain't it?



Wednesday, July 13, 2016

The Ordeal of Andre Saraiva (from Louis Sahagun)

An artless impulse moved Andre to scribble on a rock.
For that he has been vilified and made an awful gawk.
No one knew his folly, not until this little lamb
Posted it for all to view upon his Instagram.
Haled into court of law, Saraiva glumly stood accused
of raping Nature in the Raw and leaving it all bruised.
He paid a modest fine and left, defiant and unbowed;
Ignoring taunts and insults from the hiker’s roiling crowd.
But finally his conscience, or what passes for one now,
Made him change his heart and mind and brassy Gallic brow.
“Graffiti  should be sprayed on man-made items” he decreed.
“I’ll never raise my brush against another stone or weed!”


Tuesday, July 12, 2016

Eating my way through Iowa

You never have to punch a clock when indigestion calls;
You can find it day or night, in drought or when snow falls.
Each Kum & Go has greasy trays of food your mother taught
You never to indulge in to avoid the tummy rot.
At Casey’s there are donuts from the days of Watergate;
And wieners that the Civil War most certainly predate.
And Kwik Trip offers pizza slices baked until they’re like
Asbestos curtains or perhaps an iron railroad spike.
The land is bursting with abundant poultry, beef, and corn;
Yet Iowans  consume fried nuggets like it was free porn.
No one takes the time to cook, to marinate and stew;
They all run out to purchase schlock that tastes like Elmer’s glue.
It will not be our politics or wars that bring us down –

Our end will come from eating at the Git-N-Go downtown.

Saturday, July 9, 2016

Frank Capra's reporters


Frank Capra's reporters were swell;
their stories were writ just to sell
a newspaper sheet
out on the loud street;
they grabbed you right by the lapel!
(So coatless, today's clientele . . . ) 

Singing Lawyers

There once was a lawyer who sang;
he thought it would give quite a bang
to clients who needed
to be guilty pleaded.
And billed like he was k.d. Lang. 

Friday, July 8, 2016

Bankers and Mortgages

Bankers and mortgages go
together like icebergs and snow.
The rates they supply
are their apple pie,
promoting a one-way cash flow.

When income in households declines

When income in households declines
the voters become porcupines;
they want no smooth talk,
but something to shock
those lazy sedate dollar signs.

Break Out the Goo Goo Glasses -- A Clown's Vocabulary

When I joined Ringling Brothers Circus in 1971 as a clown I learned a wonderful new lexicon of slapstick jargon.

One of the first terms I acquired was "blow-off". The ending of a clown gag. Was it tight, was it loose, or did it have too much spaghetti? (Too confusing.)

To pull a funny face was to do a "take 'em".

A "track gag" was a traveling piece of whimsy paraded around the entire arena, such as a midget dressed as a baby in a self-propelled perambulator, smoking an outsize cigar.

The accoutrements of clowning included goo goo glasses, the squirt, devil dust, old slop, and cream puffs. The veteran clowns kept most of these items handy during the show, in case there was an unexpected break in the performance; then the clowns would be whistled out to "play the accordion"; that is, stretch out a gag for as long or as short as needed to allow the next act to get into the ring.

When that happened the boss clown would issue crisp commands:

"Break out the goo goo glasses!" (Horn rim spectacles that spit out water to imitate tears.)

"Get yourself a squirt!" (A turkey baster filled with water -- always a handy tool in slapstick improvisation.)

"Pack some devil dust in the chicken!" (This referred to a specially treated flour that could be sprayed over a match flame to create a geyser of fire, but at a relatively low temperature; issuing from the mouth of a rubber chicken, it never failed to send audiences into a panic.)

"Get that old slop whipped up quick!" (Old slop was derived from Old Spice shaving soap bars, which were grated into a barrel of water and then whipped into a fragrant froth used for pie throwing and any other contingency that demanded a sturdy goo.)

"Gimme a dozen cream puffs!" (Black gunpowder squibs wrapped in duct tape; when attached to an electrical wire and then touched to a battery terminal, they made a terrific noise and towering clouds of smoke; their one drawback was that constant use left professional clowns hard of hearing.)

Or our marching orders might be to start a balloon chase. A vendor planted in the audience with a string of balloons would be hectored by the clowns and then his balloons stolen from him -- precipitating a wild chase up and down the aisles and around the track and rings, with one clown handing off the balloons to another clown like Olympic torch bearers until the last luckless clown trips and falls onto the balloons -- exploding them all.
.
To "take a buster" meant any kind of a pratfall. By the end of each season my wrists would be constantly sore and almost twice their regular size from breaking innumerable falls with my hands. And that is how the inimitable Buster Keaton got his stage name; from the amazing scope and versatility of his pratfalls.

There were long shirts and fright wigs and fart whistles -- a medley of words that kept the business of clowning so enchanting to me and so mystifying to the "townies" for over forty years.

Today though,, my hands have lost their cunning from arthritis and my knees are unreliable, so all I can do is sit down with my grand kids, and say, with a Mack Sennett twinkle in my eye:  "Did I ever tell you about the skeleton chase?"  





Thursday, July 7, 2016

Fetchin' Gretchen

There once was a journo named Gretchen,
and powerful men found her fetchin'. 
Her virtue she guarded
till she was discarded --
or is this a case of truth stretchin'?  

Gretchen Carlson and Fox

Headline from the Washington Post:


Gretchen Carlson is the latest female journalist to allege harassment at Fox News


Apparently working at Fox,

a lady had best watch her socks.

Those high-powered chiefs

will take off their briefs

and wrestle her down with headlocks.