The Clown Gets Married

(continued from ‘The Clown Fries an Egg’)

When Tim Holst heard that I was engaged to be married he sent me a wedding present -- a wooden rocking chair. I have often wondered just what he meant by that gift, what it was supposed to symbolize. I never did figure it out. But it was sure nice for rocking our eight children to sleep over the years. Steve Smith sent me a check, as did Chico and Roofus T. Goofus. Swede Johnson sent me a bottle of Geritol -- an archaic blood tonic that was supposed to pep up old men in the bedroom that is still in circulation today as a ‘dietary supplement.’

The last time I saw Amy six months ago, before she moved to Virginia to live with our oldest daughter, she gave a talk in church -- and at one point she looked directly at me to say “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you the stories you needed to hear.”

I understood what she meant very well, but I’m not sure I can explain it to anyone else. When you’ve been married to a person for fifteen years you develop a private language that excludes everyone else, even your children.

Maybe the best way to explain what she meant is to tell some of the stories she was referring to.

Our reception in Williston bordered on farce of the ring gag variety when one of the flower girls became enraged at Amy for attaching cute little bumblebees to the silk flowers we used to decorate the LDS basement hall -- this loony thought it was a desecration of the holy rites of matrimony, so she ran around tearing off the bees and ripping holes in the flowers. I and some of Amy’s brothers finally got her in a half-Nelson and threw her out. And please remember -- there was absolutely NO alcohol served at this LDS reception. Next, the wedding cake that Amy’s mother Alice made began to tilt like the leaning tower of Pisa, finally collapsing on the basement floor before we could shore it up. We still served it -- but just the top portions. And finally the reception photographer, a former boyfriend of Amy’s, deliberately took all the photos out of focus and then made us pay in advance before we saw the album. When we got it I couldn’t help laughing uproariously at the calamitous start to our marriage -- until I realized Amy was quietly sobbing her heart out in a corner. She really thought our marriage was cursed by some wandering and malicious spirit that had settled over us like an invisible vampire -- sucking all the joy and satisfaction out of it. I did my best to cheer her up -- but clowns are no good at cheering up people without their seltzer bottle or trained baby pig.   

The actual marriage took place in the Salt Lake Temple in Salt Lake City.

Amy was a gregarious and vivacious gal, always eager to please and ready to try anything new. When I broached the subject of working as a husband and wife clown team to her she was gung-ho for it. Until, that is, one of her sisters helpfully reminded her of a scripture verse from Section 88 of the Doctrine and Covenants. Verse 121, to be specific:  “Therefore, cease from all your light speeches, from all laughter, from all your lustful desires, from all your pride and light-mindedness, and from all your wicked doings.”

This initially created a huge rift between us, for Amy was of Brigham Young’s persuasion when he declared “The Kingdom of God or nothing!” She suddenly realized that I was a damned soul for wanting to make people laugh, and she would follow me to Perdition if she encouraged me or participated in any kind of professional clowning. The same sister that had initially shown her that pernicious scripture recommended a quick divorce as the best solution. (And my children wonder why I hate their maternal aunts so much . . . )

This particular LDS scripture has been a thorn in the side of LDS comedians for many years. It seems to say cut out the funny business. But taken in context it simply means don’t make fun of sacred things -- or, as Ecclesiastes 3:4 puts it: “A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.”

I came out of this marital crisis with my belief in the sanctity of a good laugh intact, and eventually Amy moderated her views so that she didn’t think I was an automatic customer for asbestos longjohns. But she refused to ever perform with me (although she did consent to be my assistant when I was Ronald McDonald down in Kansas.)

Let me ask all you married clowns and comedians out there: Does your spouse think you’re funny? Oddly enough, this is a question I never asked Amy -- did she think I was any good as a clown? And she never volunteered that information. As the years rolled by she stopped laughing when I was around -- or was it I stopped laughing when she was around? I can still remember her bubbling laugh early in our marriage when something would amuse her -- a passage from a James Herriot book or one of Hawkeye Pierce’s zingers from “MASH.” I loved that sparkling melody of hers And I miss it terribly, even today.

But I am not a clown with a broken heart. Far from it. I’m a comfortable old bachelor who fiddles with words and finds his self-worth outside the conventional bonds of matrimony. Not every fairy tale is meant to end happily ever after. And even when a fairy tales goes sour -- still, it was a fairy tale for all of that. And something to bring wonder into the world.

William McPherson

A writer has died and left nothing behind

A bank would call prudent or gainful or kind.

His deficits mounted; his profits grew thin --

Words have no value, they’re like a cheap gin.

So pass the hat slowly, ye colleagues of old --

And keep your ambitions in sight of your gold.

Mike Pence

The office of VP’s a blank.

It holds neither power nor rank.

Those who possess it

Often assess it

As something like walking the plank.

You Won't Believe What's Happened to These 80's Superstars!

Henry Winkler. Believe it or not, the Fonz is now one of the new Apostles of the Mormon Church. After joining the Faith back in 1989 after a bad pizza delivery, Winkler slowly worked his way up the church hierarchy until he was ordained an Apostle last spring at General Conference.

“I love this church because it’s so family friendly” he said recently to the Salt Lake Tribune. “And I’m all about being family friendly. Besides, they give me a discount on tithing.”

Cyndi Lauper. This vivacious pop music star, whose single “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” became the national anthem of Albania in 2002, is now feeding all the stray cats in Bismarck, North Dakota, on her 12 acre ranchette just outside the city limits. She still sings occassionally -- usually to the hundreds of cats that roam the ranchette and leave an unbelievable stink.

“I gave up on human beings back in the 90’s” she says candidly. “Cats are intelligent and self confident. They will soon be our masters. The smart money’s already investing heavily in Tidy Cats.”

Mr. T. His real name is Herman Aloysius Butterhole, the Third. After walking off the ‘A Team’ set over a contract dispute with Fort Knox, the cranky character actor and part-time jiu jitsu collector abandoned show biz to become a spokesperson for Dirndl Restoration, based in Austria. Today he owns a string of polo ponies and enjoys unstringing them and letting his staff chase them all over the place.

James Finlayson. He was dead by the 1980’s, more’s the pity, but we just like to look at his photo. He worked a lot with Laurel & Hardy. We think that makes him cooler than Cyndi Lauper, Mr. T., and Henry Winkler combined.

Remembering Allen J. Bloom

Allen J. Bloom was always known as Irvin Feld’s right hand man. In the treacherous world of show business and arena booking, where a dog-eat-dog mentality existed, it was highly unusual to find two such men so willingly and inextricably bound together. Feld trusted Bloom completely, and Allen would do anything for Feld without a thought for his own comfort or advancement. Theirs was the kind of working relationship that made cynics shake their heads and wonder about their own wisdom.

Bloom was not seen very much in clown alley. His duties lay elsewhere. And, I believe, so did his inclinations. He didn’t actively dislike the clowns, like Performance Director Charlie Baumann did, but he didn’t love them like his boss Irvin Feld did, either. He was somewhere in between -- tolerating them, I think, as a necessary nuisance.

My one major interaction with Bloom occurred in 1973, when Steve Smith and I were being considered as advance clowns for the Ringling Blue Unit. We were both flown out to Washington D.C. to confer with Mr. Feld about the position. Uncertain how to dress for such a momentous occasion, I wore a three piece dark green suit I had picked up at Eckblad’s Discount Clothing in downtown Minneapolis. The salesman assured me the material was indestructible and would last me for many years to come. On my thin frame it made me look like a willow sapling. Eschewing the regulation necktie, I wore a polka dot bowtie. I invested in a staid grey pair of Hush Puppies.

When we arrived at the office Mr. Feld was busy tying together some loose ends with a team of Frisbee free-throw champions from Argentina. He bade Allen Bloom take us in hand and give us a tour of the town until he was finished.

Bloom took one look at my outfit and said “You look like you could be the town banker in Hooterville!”

Allen Bloom was a connoisseur of fine wine, Cuban cigars, and the best cuisine in the Capital. He knew the toniest nightclubs and was on a first name basis with every Maitre D worth knowing.  But after taking one look at Smith and I he decided we’d be just as happy with hotdogs and a visit to the National Zoo. He even bought me a bright green balloon to go with my suit.

At the Zoo we paused by the monkeys to eat our hotdogs on a park bench, and Allen unbent a bit with us. He told us of the days when he had to babysit Chubby Checkers, who had a tendency to get homesick for New Orleans while on the road -- he missed a particular kind of southern fried chicken they only served in the French Quarter and would blow off shows to drive back down to the Big Easy for it. It was Allen’s job to keep him on tour, even if he had to lock him into his motel room each night and stand guard.

He told us about his boyhood dream of wanting to see the world before he settled into a dead end job like his father. He signed on to work aboard a tramp steamer that was leaving New York for Africa’s Gold Coast when he was 16, but his mother cried so hard when he told her that he gave it up and instead got a part-time job sweeping floors at a drugstore -- which was owned and operated by Irvin Feld and his brother Izzy. One night a desperate customer came into the store for something to ease his headache. The pharmacist had stepped out for a minute and the other clerks were busy, so Bloom politely listened to the customer’s symptoms and then ‘prescribed’ a bottle of Algonquin Indian Elixir --  which the Felds sold in the summer at county fairs around the DC area. Not only that, but he persuaded the man to spruce up his appearance by purchasing a pearl-handled hair brush, a large tin of mustache wax, and a large bottle of Vegetal cologne. When Irvin heard about this sales coup, as Bloom made sure he would, he was so impressed that he immediately brought Bloom in on promoting their new record store. And the rest, said Bloom as he finished his hotdog and lit up a Montecristo, is history.

When the monkeys began losing their appeal we wandered back to the circus office. Bloom had made Smith and I feel like we had hit all the high spots in DC and were now accredited bon vivants. He had that kind of magic when dealing with people, from clowns to lion tamers to newspaper reporters. He gave people the feeling they were important. That, I think, was the secret to his success as Mr. Feld’s right hand man -- anything Feld wanted promoted, from Paul Anka to Ringling Brothers, Bloom would promote with zest and good fellowship. And with the best bottle of of Veuve Clicquot available.

Could the Most Flavorful Supermarket Tomatoes Actually Come in Jars? Hell No!

(Brought to you by the Compost Soup Company)

It’s easy to think that the most flavorful tomatoes should be found down your local produce aisle. But remember, all that runs red when beaten with a stick is not tomatoes!

Those fresh tomatoes you surreptitiously squeeze down at the local market are picked when they are as green as a child’s boogers. Then, horror of horrors, they are unnaturally ripened using a mysterious ethylene gas that comes from the endangered Fubar peedle pod, only to be found on a coral atoll near the Brooklyn Bridge. What does this mean for you, the hungry, hungry hippo? It means mealy-mouthed tomatoes that will cut you dead at the next Sons of Sicily meeting you attend.

Compost senior chef Max Schmutz says they only use hand-crushed tomatoes, or those stomped on by mellow Florentine feet. So if you get a few brown toenails in your sauce, tough luck.

Only the ripest tomatoes go into Compost Farmer’s Market Tomato Sauce. In fact, they’re so ripe they drip mold and fungus and beetle dung and other organic scrimshaw.

The tomatoes you get at the market are pink. The ones that go into our sauce are a vibrant red, a firehouse red, and red light district red -- so red they burn your retinas irreparably. Again, tough luck.

Bob Limburger is a fourth generation hobo who uses our tomato sauce exclusively to rid himself of bedbugs and lice every Ash Wednesday. He says that only the ripest and reddest and sexiest tomatoes will do -- and that means Compost Tomato Sauce. Or kerosene -- it’s all the same to him, the old bum.

We could go on. But you get the picture. Short sentences with punchy grammar.

So the next time you’re thinking of making your family a nourishing and authentic tomato dish, reach for the car keys and go to a restaurant. We can’t be bothered with keeping up the pretence of flavorful tomatoes and all that crap.

Shakespeare said “Ripeness is all.” But tomatoes hadn’t been invented yet, so he was probably referring to gooseberries or mead. But if we put a picture of him right here you’ll believe anything we tell you, won’t you? You fools . . .

The 12 Foods You Must Not Eat

Rubber bands. Their ingestion leads to slingshotosis. So stop sprinkling them on your granola!

Dish soap. We all love it on our pancakes, but studies show that most brands contain magic imps that carry away all the grease they find -- this can have serious consequences for your grease glands.

Grapefruit. We have no idea what’s wrong with grapefruit, but it’s on every no-no list on the internet, so who are we to go against  the grain?

Kleenex. It’s made from ground glass, you know. Plus they never get the flavors right.

Rolex oyster watches. Only in the months that have an ‘R’ in them.

Duct tape. When it sticks to your ribs -- it sticks to your ribs!

French cooking. It’s nothing but wine, butter, and snails -- you’re better off chugging a can of Pennzoil.

Windex. We know the pretty blue color is tempting, but it’s made from the distilled blood of the endangered Windex bird of Madagascar. There are only a dozen left in the entire world. Be a tree hugger for once, okay?

Pickled wombat feet. Australians are inordinately fond of this delicacy, and you don’t want to turn out like THEM do you?

Grass clippings. Unless it’s going to rain and you like to sniff your own butt.

Dilithium crystals. These don’t really exist, so if you find yourself munching on a bag of them it’s time to go see Dr. Phil.

Bic pens. They give you constipation -- otherwise known as Writer’s Block.

The Short Tempered Chef Woks up Some Beef & Lettuce Stir Fry

I’ve been watching too many episodes of Samurai Gourmet on Netflix. I’ve become wok-obsessed. Those guys on the show cook everything from scrambled eggs to tuna fish sandwiches in their darn woks, and it all comes out looking scrumptious. Plus it only takes them twenty seconds or so to make a full course meal in one fell swoop. So I’ve turned my back on my faithful fry pan and gone whoring after asian ambiance with a big clunky wok I borrowed from my daughter Sarah about a year ago -- and if she thinks she’s ever getting it back, she can kiss my sashimi.

I wanted something simple but elegant -- messing around with half a dozen pots and pans to prepare my meals is not something I relish. It makes me REALLY short tempered, cuz of the clean up. I’m so lazy that my idea of housecleaning is to flush the toilet once a week.

I’m going to wok up some butter lettuce, red bell pepper, half a can of diced tomatoes I’ve got huddling in the fridge, and beef in a bottled Szechuan sauce -- the ingredients list red chili peppers second, so this stuff could be liquid dynamite. I’ll have to take it easy the first time so I don’t blow the roof of my mouth off. But I want to be able to TASTE the darn meal and break out into a minor sweat by the time I’m done. That, to me, is the only way to enjoy a meal -- with body tingling, short of breath, and exhausted by the end of it all. Kinda like sex used to be . . .

Well, kiddies, it turned out pretty darn good. A little soupy, because of the canned tomatoes, but that’s fine -- I’ll finish off the rest of it tonight as a soup with some toast. It was just spicy enough to tickle the back of my neck and bring a light sheen of sweat to my wrinkled brow. For dessert I had half a grapefruit and a stale donut that I microwaved for 15 seconds -- good as new. I washed it all down with a bottle of chocolate milk. How come they can't make a powdered mix that turns regular milk into the kind of chocolate milk you buy in the dairy case? Oh well. In the words of that famous sleuth/gourmand Nero Wolfe, the whole shebang was “Satisfactory.”

North Korea Hosts Bank Robbers

When hackers associated with North Korea tried to break into Polish banks late last year they left a trail of information about their apparent intentions to steal money from more than 100 organizations around the world, according to security researchers.
from the NYTimes.

In North Korea robbing banks

By internet is given thanks.

Their leaders say that overseas

Financial funds are a disease.

So hackers steeped in fresh kimchi

Are acting patriotically.

And when your debit card goes dark

You ought to blame some guy named Park.

"Tell Another Clown Story, Grandpa!"

Sunday dinner at my daughter’s house up in Orem was wonderful. There was a crisp kale and cabbage salad with citrus dressing; warm cornbread in a huge iron skillet baked by another one of my daughters; and all the slow cooker short ribs a man could ever want -- I went back so many times that the pile of bones I left behind reminded me of an elephant’s graveyard from a Tarzan movie. After the feast my special easy chair was pulled into the sunlight in the living room and the grandkids drifted over to stand or sit by me -- they wanted to hear another clown story. And I was glad, very glad, to oblige.

Because, you see, their parents, my children, didn’t get to hear very many clown stories when they were growing up. Things went badly for my wife and I, both financially and romantically, until the day that Amy packed the kids in the van and drove off to her sister’s farm -- never to return. I went back on the road, and then moved to Thailand, and the kids and I became strangers to each other for nearly twenty years before we started to reconcile. So all the tall tales and quirky anecdotes I had about Swede Johnson and Prince Paul and Irvin Feld festered inside of me like pathogens. There was no one to tell them to -- my Thai girlfriends, for the most part, didn’t want to hear about the circus. They just wanted to go to the karaoke bar or the beach. Thank god for a few good friends who tolerated my yarning from time to time -- without that release valve I would have spun out of control to some lunatic fringe until I was lost to the solar system.

But this fine Sabbath day as I sat in my comfortable chair, wiping barbeque sauce off my hands with a bandana, all I had to do was ask “Well, you twerps, what clown story do you want me to tell you today?” And the grandkids jumped in without pause, asking for their favorite adventures all at the same time:

“Tell us about the dynamite box!”

“The time you locked Michu in his trunk!”

“The washing machine where you came out as a devil!”

“The elephants, the elephants, the elephants -- tell me about the elephants!”

“That one where the old clown crashed the clown car into the big pole!”

I held up my hand to command their silence. They stopped hopping around like monkeys on pogo sticks and sprawled on the floor to hear the first story. Their parents looked on with indulgent smiles, and the little babies, too young to know that a good story was coming, crawled between them looking for neglected pieces of cake.

“Have I told you about the pygmy hippopotamus on the Carson and Barnes show?” I asked quietly.

“No!” they shouted back. “Whatsa pick-me hippomatapuss?” One of the babies crawls up to my leg and yanks on my trousers, indicating a desire to nestle on my lap. I pick her up, smooth her silky hair, and lay her across my ample spare tire.

“Well” I begin, “on Carson and Barnes they had this pygmy hippopotamus -- it was the size of a German shephard. Most hippos, y’know, get so big and blubbery that when they walk on the ground it trembles like there’s an earthquake. But not these tiny ones -- they come from deep inside the Congo and are so shy that when the natives sneak up on them and shout ‘Boo!’ the poor creatures fall over in a dead faint and are captured and sent off to a zoo or a circus . . . “

One of the boys interrupts: “What kinda sound does a hippopotamus make?”

This might stump a regular old grandpa, but not me -- I’ve seen too many National Geographic specials. I open my mouth as wide as I can and bring forth a deep bellow that leaves my larynx hors de combat. The boy nods his head in satisfaction -- that sounds reasonable to him.

“So anyway, on Carson and Barnes they have this tradition that when it’s your birthday they grab you and throw you in the pygmy hippo’s tank!”

Another interruption, this time from a grand daughter who demands to know didn’t I get any birthday cake first? I assure her that not only did I get cake on my birthday, but also cotton candy flavored ice cream and a frozen dill pickle on a stick. This last item produces groans and energetic gagging from all quarters. The infant on my lap senses that something disagreeable has been mentioned and decides to slide off before a fist fight breaks out.

At this point four-year-old Lance loudly proclaims that he wants some of that cotton-flavored ice cream and goes in search of his mother for a big bowl of it. His howls of frustration at being told there is none available are clearly audible in the next county.

I continue my tale. “Well sir, I was bound and determined that they’d never catch ME to throw in that dirty old tub with the pygmy hippo -- so I hid in one of the porta-potties until it was show time.”

Several hands are raised -- the grandkids are beginning to show me some proper respect at last.

“Yes, what is it?”

They want to know what a porty potty is. When I explain it’s design and function they are openly skeptical. Grandpa is obviously pulling their leg -- there is no such thing. I smugly let them appeal to their parents for support, only to be brought up short by the corroboration that yes, Virginia, there is a porta potty.

“Now, if you hooligans will let me finish my story . . .”

And I go on to detail the fiendish machinations practiced on my natal day to lure me close enough to the pygmy hippo’s cage to be given an unsavory bath -- and how I outwitted every stratagem until the evening show was over and tear down had begun. Then I described the elephants working under the glare of kerosene lamps to pull down the king poles and butt the rolled up canvas onto the tent truck. The best part, I tell them, is that the candy butchers give away all the extra hot dogs and unsold popcorn during tear down, and I could eat so much of it for free that it came out my ears. The grandkids are clearly envious of my culinary bonanza. They become restless and discontented until their parents wisely avoid a mutiny by handing out generous portions of cheddar Goldfish crackers with glasses of milk.

As the sun begins to set on this glorious day I regale them with stories of Tim Holst riding a camel into the ocean at Long Beach, where it tossed him into the briny deep and returned to the circus lot without him. And how I dressed up as a giant chicken to lay Styrofoam eggs around the track. And the time Larry Fine of the Three Stooges came to visit clown alley and shook all of our hands. He was in a wheelchair, on oxygen, but he gave us each a big smile and thumbs up.

Heads are drooping and the infants are whining for their mother’s breasts by the time I wind up the last tale. It’s time to go home.

“Pack up the dukey boxes and keep your grouch bag near!” I call as my children and their children depart. My oldest son Adam gives me a quizzical look at the front door and asks “How much of that was true, dad?”

I tell him what the old Ringling clown Swede Johnson used to tell me:  “It ain’t the truth, but it’s close enough.”