Fred Karger

From Glencoe he came with a grudge,

And thinking himself a fine judge.

But Fred’s conclusions

Are mostly delusions;

He cannot come up with a smudge.

Will You Lose Your Job to a Robot?

“Robots Will Take Jobs, but Not as Fast as Some Fear, New Report Says”

Headline from New York Times

Who cares if the robots defeat

Mankind so we take a backseat?

It beats early hours

And a pension that sours;

Let’s loaf and do nothing but tweet!

There is much that is good in this land, and much to love.

"There is much that is good in this land, and much to love."  Spencer W. Kimball 


Much and more to cherish in this land that God has blessed;
mashed up like potatoes with a gravy made of zest.
To feast upon its blessings and to guard its merits well
is a duty all must share who in this land would dwell.
So call it corny to rejoice in how our country works;
O Lord protect us from ourselves, for sometimes we are jerks! 

Of Clown Wigs and Clown Names

"Our clowns are not to be laughed at" frequently intoned Swede Johnson of Ringling Brothers. Besides the obvious crazed satire implied in that statement, there were aspects of professional clowning that were no laughing matter -- such as being able to afford the best professional clown shoes, wigs, and costumes. And coming up with a good clown name.

If you were a hobo clown or character clown it wasn't such a big deal. Your wardrobe came from Goodwill or the Salvation Army. Your own hair usually worked well as a wig. But an auguste clown or a classical whiteface had higher, and more costly, traditional standards to adhere to.

I was fortunate enough to have an accomplished seamstress as my mother. After she got over the initial shock of having a son who wore more makeup than she did each day, she was happy to run me up a pair of parti-colored baggy pants whenever I asked her. I bought polka dot pregnancy blouses by mail order for a song. On me, they looked good.


As a whiteface clown I was willing to spend a month's salary to buy a pair of basic black clown shoes my first year with Ringling. I traced the outlines of both my feet and mailed it, with a money order for two hundred dollars, to a specialty shoe company in Chillicothe Ohio. A month later they arrived; two feet long and padded with horsehair. That one pair lasted me for the next twenty years. There was a cobbler in Venice Florida who specialized in resoling clown shoes, so I would take them to him every winter. And they were the most comfortable shoes I ever had. When I switched over to classical pantomime a few years later down in Mexico I insisted on wearing them instead of the de rigueur ballet slippers, much to the despair of my Paris-trained mime instructor.

But my wig and my clown name proved more difficult problems that first circus season.

All First of Mays were required to come up with a clown name before the show reached Madison Square Garden in April, so the new programs could feature our photos with our clown names. I thought Tim the Clown was just fine. I didn’t want to get stuck with some silly appellation like Boo Boo or Clanky or Duffo. I liked my own first name and thought it would be peachy keen to see it immortalized for the ages in the circus program. But Art Ricker, the publicity director for the Blue Unit, thought otherwise.

“No can do, pal” he said to me while the show was still in Greenville South Carolina. He called everyone ‘pal,’ even the star acts. “You gotta have a cutesy name; direct orders from Mr. Feld.”

I pointed out to him that veteran clowns like Prince Paul and Otto Griebling didn’t have ‘cutesy’ clown names. They were simply called by their first names. I merely wanted the same professional courtesy. Ricker’s eyes narrowed to slits before he answered me:

“They’ve been here thirty years, pal. They’ve earned the right to be called by their own names. What’s your claim to fame?”

He had me there, so I promised to come up with something before we hit the Big Apple.

All of us First of Mays held conclave a few days later at an all-night diner that served biscuits and sausage gravy and little else, to thrash out our new names. Various monikers were floated around: “Cuddles”. “Chucko”. “Binky Boodle”. “Floogle” (this from a guy who was obsessed with Abbott & Costello, and could quote their Floogle Street routine verbatim).

I toyed with my biscuits and gravy, nothing but a sodden clump of mush by now, and told the group I’d rather cut my own throat than go through life with a clown name like “Winky”.

“We gotta be more classy!” I declared.

Guzzling iced tea like fiends, we rededicated ourselves to the task. And finally came up with some fairly whimsical clown names. Roofus T. Goofus. T.J. Tatters. Elmo Smooch.

As the night wore on a clown name was developed for everyone. Except me. The creative juices dried up when my clown character was discussed. The only halfway decent name suggested was “Pinhead,” since that’s what Swede Johnson called me anyways.

I was spared such a fate when the short order cook behind the counter turned up the TV for a wrestling match. The featured contender was announced as Dusty Rhodes.

Voila! Dusty the Clown sounded just right. Short and informal and affectionate. I told it to Art Ricker the next day. He approved.

Would that the clown wig problem could have been resolved as easily!

Back when Nixon infested the White House I had luxurious light brown hair that curled winsomely when I let it grow down to my shoulders. A natural clown wig, I thought. But the veteran clowns were unanimously against it.

“It looks cheap” said Prince Paul.

“It’s not a good fit with your whiteface” counseled Mark Anthony.

And the boss clown, LeVoi Hipps, warned me “Mr. Feld won’t stand for it. All whitefaces have to use a professional clown wig or he’ll throw them off the show!”

A professional clown wig meant either a Zauder wig or a Bob Kelly wig. They were both headquartered in New York City, and used nothing but yak hair for their clown wigs. Yak hair stands up to wear and tear (and custard pies) much better than human hair or synthetic materials. And yak hair only comes from Tibet. So a full wig cost somewhere in the neighborhood of four hundred smackers back in 1971. Today I don’t think you can even get one.

Now I had made myself a solemn vow that come pestilence or pyrotechnics I was going to save twenty-five hundred dollars that first season out of my clown salary. My colleagues and contemporaries, if you ever run across any of them escaped from Arkham Asylum, will gladly testify that I was as close-fisted as they come -- unwilling to spend a dime that was not absolutely necessary to keep body and soul together (unless it was a book from a used book store). I had put out for my clown shoes, but I just couldn’t bring myself to do it for a Zauder wig. My hand became palsied when I held my bankbook and contemplated the damage that would occur should I give in. And yet I risked losing a job I really loved if I didn’t comply.

I tried using a cloth bald wig, as Prince Paul did. But the mass of curly brown hair bunched up under the bald wig gave my head a bizarre lumpy appearance that sent children screaming into their mother’s arms. And I didn’t want to get a crew cut. I bought cheap frowzy wigs from Goodwill and dyed them bright orange, but they kept slipping off my noggin at inopportune times during clown gags, and disintegrated so readily that I had to replace them every few weeks.

I finally settled on the expedient of using oversized felt hats, dyed bright green or red, pulling them down over my head until I could barely see. That got me through the rest of the season without any further disparaging remarks from the senior clowns or management. But it was very uncomfortable and a darn nuisance -- it messed up my clown makeup terribly.

After my LDS mission when I came back to Ringling to repair my fortunes I tried using the hat trick again, but times had changed and Ringling clowns were expected to have well-groomed and brightly colored hairstyles -- no exceptions. So I knuckled under and got myself a 500 dollar Bob Kelly yak hair wig in a fetching straw yellow. I’ve still got it packed away in a freezer bag in my storage closet. It smells faintly of stale popcorn and manure, even after a thousand washings. I guess I could give it to one of the grand kids for next Halloween. Naw . . . one of these days I’ll donate it to the Circus World Museum in Baraboo so they can put it up on display (or more likely file it away under “Health Hazard”).

For an interesting additional take on clown costumes you can read this old NYT story featuring Steve Smith and Frosty Little: http://www.nytimes.com/1985/04/19/style/clowns-on-a-shopping-spree-it-s-hard-to-be-outrageous.html 

Morocco Said to Ban Sale of Burqas, Citing Security Concerns

From the New York Times:  CASABLANCA, Morocco — Morocco has banned the burqa, the full-body veil worn by some conservative Muslim women, according to local media reports.

A lady in old Marrakesh

grew tired of hiding her flesh.

She threw off her burqa

and danced a mazurka -- 

til they made her put on a caleche.

The New Jerusalem

  Until the time shall come when it shall be revealed unto you from on high, when the city of the New Jerusalem shall be prepared, that ye may be gathered in one, that ye may be my people and I will be your God.

Doctrine & Covenants. Section 42:9

A refuge for the godly, where the devil must retreat,

is the New Jerusalem, so solemn and so sweet.

I long to see its towers gleam amidst the acid reign

of charlatan and tyrant and all others who cause pain.

Where Christ is welcomed and revered with words that never cloy,

in pure Adamic language that will bring a ceaseless joy! 

Folding chairs and the decline of Western Civilization

Have you noticed that Western Civilization is rapidly running out of steam? I can tell you why in just two words:

FOLDING CHAIRS.

The Western world has come to depend too much on folding chairs, and the results are going to be catastrophic. You may call me an armchair Cassandra, so to speak, but mark my words...

1. Folding chairs promote inequality. The world is rapidly dividing into those who set them up and then sit in them, as opposed to those who luxuriate in Adirondacks, bean bags, club chairs, deckchairs, Morris chairs, La-Z-Boys, wing chairs, and that most decadent of all fundament holders – the chaise longue! The proletariats are not going to stand for sitting in folding chairs much longer. They will rise and snatch Windsor chairs and much more away from the privileged few – and it’s not going to be a pretty sight. The bourgeoisie are just going to have to tuffet out.
2. How many fingers have been pinched off, or nearly so, by these perfidious folding chairs? Down through the ages men and women have had to struggle along, missing a bit of pinky or index finger, or nursing a black and blue digit. You think they are going to put up with that for much longer? Not likely.
3. Folding chairs are a conspiracy fobbed off on the general public by a syndicate of chiropractors. After two hours of sitting in one even vertebrae made of cast iron becomes as twisted as a pretzel. Wooden or metal, they cause jumpy legs, knock knees, sloping shoulders, and a host of other malformations that are extremely debilitating. You can’t think straight while sitting in one. If Einstein had sat in one for two hours, we wouldn’t have the Theory of Relativity today---instead we’d have something along the lines of Gelett Burgess’ "I never saw a purple cow.."
4. Folding chairs encourage regimentation, the kind that totalitarian governments drool over. Have you ever seen a thousand folding chairs lined up neatly in rows? It gets to you. It could make a Mussolini out of Santa Claus!
5. The metal ones chill the fundament, leaving the body sluggish, the metabolism barely moving. In males they discourage procreation. In females they encourage gum chewing and gum snapping – both so abominable that even if the male had not gotten the grippe from sitting in a folding chair all day he would still not feel like becoming romantic. There goes the birth rate!

We must rid our land of these pestiferous chairs immediately! You can’t sleep in them, rock back and forth in them, or look for spare change – so what earthly good are they? They never biodegrade. I, for one, do not want to know what they are planning during all those long hours spent cooped up in a dank, dark closet.

I say we herd them all together, take ‘em out to sea, and dump ‘em into the Mariana Trench.

British Royalty

For ratings to soar on TV

Just show off some Brit royalty.

Get Henry the Eighth,

That fat noble wraith;

Or Vicky and Albert at tea.

Never shortened is thy arm

For I am God, and mine arm is not shortened; and I will show miracles, signs, and wonders, unto all those who believe on my name.
Doctrine & Covenants. Section 35:8 

Name of Power, Name of Light;
Name of All the Stars at Night.
Never shortened is thy arm;
always shielding me from harm.
Signs and wonders come from thee
to the faithful who can see
miracles in storm and peace,
then testify of thy increase. 

Movie Review: Cecil B. DeMille's "The Greatest Show on Earth"

If ever there was a guardian angel for the Ringling clowns it was George Schellenberger. A retired mail carrier with a bungalow in Venice Florida, George put his considerable carpentering and handyman skills to work to help construct sturdy clown props for both the Blue Unit and the Red Unit back in the 1970’s. He did it on the cuff; he just enjoyed the company of professional funsters.

He brought meatloaf sandwiches, hard boiled eggs, and bags of oranges to the arena during rehearsals to feed impecunious clowns, such as myself. And each season he bailed a few of the more roistering jesters out of jail, at his own expense.

He was a good egg.

Of course he built his clown props out of quality wood and thick metal. His prop blunderbusses, which used only blanks, were made with high grade bronze and lead. His slapsticks, hinged paddles that fired a black powder squib when making contact with clown derrieres, were constructed of scrap mahogany. They all weighed a ton and if one fell on you during a clown gag a broken leg was the least of your worries. Lugging them in and out of the prop box insured a hernia. While fulsome in our appreciation to him at the start of each season, we couldn’t wait until his cumbersome props started to fall apart. Then we would shed crocodile tears while shoving them into a corner and go back to the flimsy balsa wood and cardboard props we’d surreptitiously packed alongside George’s behemoth contraptions.

Another of George’s stellar qualities was his love of sharing old movies with the clowns during rehearsals. In the evening he’d set up his projector with a screen in the weedy arena parking lot to give us the hearty slapstick goulash of Mack Sennett’s ‘Tillie’s Punctured Romance’ or the rowdy Marx Brothers in ‘At the Circus’. And he saved the best for last; the night before the show left on tour he would exhibit Cecil B. DeMille’s deathless classic, ‘The Greatest Show on Earth’.

The first time I viewed this epic paean to ‘Big Bertha’ (as Ringling was affectionately called by veteran performers) way back in 1971 I choked up several times as the valiant circus crew battled blow downs and train wrecks and cornball acting to keep the show on the road. This was my life now, I thought to myself -- all the stoic heroism of Charlton Heston; the wide-eyed bravura of Betty Hutton; and the surong sexuality of Dorothy Lamour. I would become part of the myth, part of the very fabric of American life. To a green kid, who’d never been farther from home than Duluth before, this epiphany reduced me to a gurgling emotional pulp there amidst the creeping Charlie and beggarweed of the parking lot. But I was not alone; I noticed several of the other First of Mays also grizzling silently as well.  

The next day the train pulled out for our first stop in Tampa; while I was using the bathroom at the end of the car someone broke into my roomette and stole my cassette player and the Timex self-winding watch my parents had given me. And so my first season under the Big Top began . . .

Forty-six years later, retired in Provo Utah to be near most of my kids, I bought ‘The Greatest Show on Earth’ DVD on Amazon to show to my grandkids on a sleety winter’s evening. To set the proper mood I purchased a big bag of orange colored banana flavored marshmallow circus peanuts and individual boxes of Barnum’s Animals for each of the little ones. Pink lemonade was on tap, along with all the microwave popcorn they could handle (which turned out to be just over a short ton).

I had filled their affectionate and porous heads with a wealth of detail and jargon about my tanbark adventures in the past; now I wanted to show them the real deal -- the real Ringling Brothers, not the campy Broadway fluff the show had degenerated into when it played the Salt Palace in recent years.

Sadly, my build up of the movie could not be sustained in their young and insubstantial minds. Ten minutes into the film, just about the time Charlton Heston is telling the circus management that the show will play every city, large and small, for a full season, instead of the half season suggested by those mealy-mouthed pen pushers, the grand kids’ attention began to waver until  they soon drifted away. They would come back briefly whenever I screamed “Hey, I worked with that guy!”, and they indulgently watched the famous circus train wreck that was the highlight of the film -- saying afterwards it was okay, but kinda phony-looking (it was all done with miniatures; there was no such thing as computer imaging and blue screens back in 1952).

But I’m not sorry I made the attempt. Unless you’re the Apostle Paul it’s hard to share an epiphany with others; all you can really say is “This means a great deal to me”, and leave it at that.

Cecil B. DeMille’s movie is something everyone should watch at least once, fortified with lots of popcorn and pink lemonade. Because it shows not what the circus used to really be like, but because it shows what people used to think the circus was really like -- a bombastic amalgamation of glamor and grit that brought out the sugar-crazed child in everyone. No one, except DeMille, ever took the circus very seriously; but back in those Kodachrome days it was considered part of the American landscape like the Grand Canyon or Mount Rushmore. Not to see it, or smell it, or taste the cotton candy, was to miss out on a basic, if slightly trivial, right inherent to every citizen in their pursuit of happiness.

And life becomes a little more second-class when we decide to stop believing in that particular kind of hoopla today.