No More Chariots

“Yea, wo be unto the Gentiles except they repent; for it shall come to pass in that day, saith the Father, that I will cut off thy horses out of the midst of thee, and I will destroy thy chariots”

The day will come, when with remorse

The Gentiles will not have a horse,

Nor car nor truck nor taxicab --

They’ll have to walk; now ain’t that drab!

All those who would escape this fate

Must increase love and eschew hate.

The Saints, as well, must learn some things

before they  fly on angel’s wings.

For chariots are not a sign

That you or I are doing fine.

It will not take us anyplace

If  we forget God’s loving face.

Restaurant Review: Lunch at the Provo Senior Citizen's Center

If you are a resident of Provo, Utah, and are sixty years of age or over, you qualify for the Senior Lunch Program at the Senior Center on Freedom Boulevard. It costs three dollars per meal, but it is done strictly on the honor code -- they put out a little wooden box for you to put your money in. I usually give five dollars per week. The building is the back of the Provo Recreation Center. It features classrooms, billiard tables, a quiet lobby with a tropical fish display and  fireplace and vinyl-covered chairs that discourage comfortable naps. There are exclusive exercise rooms and a large social hall with a stage, where lunch is served promptly at noon.

The Senior Center also provides several free health, finance, and legal noontime workshops for Seniors every month. Today it was an eyesight and glaucoma check up, from BYU. I'm happy to say that even though I've had the same pair of glasses for six years now, my prescription does not need to be updated.

The menu today is:
Salisbury steak
mashed potatoes and gravy
carrots
a dinner roll
and a bowl of pears.

It is served cafeteria style.

Everyone thought the pears were apple sauce, and several went back up to the servers to say it tasted funny. That's how they found out it was pears they were eating, not applesauce. Since about half the group is Hispanic, the condiment table features pickled cactus strips, which several elderly Gringo ladies mistook for green beans -- filling their plates full of them and then nearly losing their dentures because of the heat. We also get a small carton of one percent milk, so they were able to cool down.

It's cafeteria food, so what can I say about it? The only way I can actually eat it and enjoy it is to skip breakfast so I'm ravenous by noon -- then it tastes pretty good. Most of the people who eat lunch at the Senior Center are no longer able to do much cooking for themselves, or have completely lost interest in eating at all. The volunteers who staff this lunch program provide one hot meal a day to people who otherwise would probably only ever eat cat food and baloney sandwiches.

I eat there now because I need to save up enough money for a colonoscopy and to get my prostrate taken care of. I figure in six months time I'll have enough money saved up to do so. If I can stand it. I might start nagging my children for money instead. It's never worked in the past but maybe the recent General Conference has turned them into angels . . .

Re: How Uber Uses Psychological Tricks to Push Its Drivers’ Buttons

Notably, the company also announced that it would fix its troubled relationship with drivers, who have complained for years about falling pay and arbitrary treatment.

--from the NYTimes

Come drive for Uber to discern

Just how much coin and joy you earn!

It’s true they used to crucify

Their drivers like old Captain Bligh.

But now they’ve had a change of heart

And they will give you a la carte!

They pay for ev’ry coffee break

And once a year you get a cake.

Drive when you want; not when they say.

Guy Fawkes is a paid holiday!

They will pay for embrocation

If your skin needs titivation.

And if you want to make them laugh

Just ask to see their pension graph.

Polykrikos kofoidii

The Polykrikos kofoidii

Hunting prey is rather sly.

Looking harmless as a loon

It shoots its victim with harpoon

Then tows it off to feast at ease

Somewhere in the seven seas.

I hope it never is my fate

To meet this dinoflagellate --

Though microscopic it might be,

A million could gang up on me!

The One and Only Gatekeeper

"Therefore ye must always pray unto the Father in my name"

All may approach the Throne of God but none the Kingdom gain

Who do not have the name of Jesus Christ in heart and brain.

All the good that’s ever done will find a just reward,

But access to the Father is completely through the Lord.

So do not think a substitute will pass you through the gate;

No proxy has the Father named to take His Son’s mandate.

The Clown and the Sabbath

It is a cruel twist of fate that when I go down in the circus history books, if I go down in them at all, it will be because of my titanic battle with Michu, the World’s Smallest Man, and not because I am the only Ringling clown to ever negotiate a contract with Irvin Feld that gave me the absolute right to have every Sunday off from work.

I grew up in a time and a place where Sunday was purposely different from any other day of the week. There was a strong element of self-righteous piety, not to mention smugness and hypocrisy, in the Scandinavian/German neighborhoods of Minneapolis sixty years ago. It had little to do with religion but much to do with goofing off. Businesses, shops, markets, and factories were all closed on Sunday -- but the theaters, restaurants, and saloons were wide open and did a roaring business. As a child and teenager I devoted every Sunday that I could to fishing. The Mississippi was just a few blocks from my house and Como Lake was within easy bicycling distance. My childhood religion consisted of worshipping a bamboo pole and a coffee can full of nightcrawlers.

When I left home to join Ringling Brothers I simultaneously left my mother’s Catholic faith for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The Mormons. And one of the main tenets is proper Sabbath Day observance. The Lord told Joseph Smith:  “For verily this is a day appointed unto you to rest from your labors, and to pay thy devotions unto the Most High.”

As a First of May, of course, I worked every Sunday. Business was always good on Sundays -- parents enjoyed taking their children to see the elephants and clowns after church services. But I was troubled about breaking the Sabbath day and not keeping it holy. When I shared my feelings of guilt with my great pal and LDS exemplar Tim Holst he explained his pragmatic view about it.

“Look, Tork” he said. “Some people have to work on Sundays -- like policemen, firemen, doctors and nurses, and bus drivers. The Lord doesn’t condemn them for it. We gotta work on Sundays, too. It’s part of the job. And we always try to get to Sacrament Meeting before the show whenever we can, right? I think the Lord is alright with our efforts.”

But I remained unconvinced. I was uneasy with applying the greasepaint when I should have been knotting a necktie for church services. So I wasn’t exactly heartbroken when I left the show after the next season to go study pantomime down in Mexico. We never had class on Sundays, of course, so I could take the Tres Estrellas bus into Morelia for church each week. And even though the entire service was in Spanish, which I did not understand, I felt more at peace with my own beliefs.

Then came the call from Washington DC, from the Ringling office. Would I be interested in teaming up with Steve Smith to work as advance clown for the Blue Unit?

A week later Smith and I were seated in Irvin Feld’s dim private office. Because his eyesight was damaged by high blood pressure, he kept the blinds down and used special French-manufactured light bulbs inside green lampshades. The dignified murk reminded me of a gypsy mitt joint I had once entered in Greenwich Village.

After a few pleasantries, Mr. Feld got down to brass tacks. We were expected to be ready to start traveling ahead of the show in three weeks. Our salary and benefits were set out in standard boilerplate language in the contract. All we needed to do was sign on the dotted line. Smith eagerly reached for the pen proffered by Mr. Feld and scribbled away. When he handed me the pen I gulped several times as if trying to swallow my Adam’s apple, and finally spoke up in a timid squeak. I had made up my mind to negotiate.

“Um, would it be okay if something were added about me not working on Sundays?” I asked in a whisper.

Smith ground his heel into the toes of my right foot to indicate surprise and mild displeasure at my sudden and unexpected diffidence. His eyes rolled up into his head as he suppressed a groan of frustration. I was going to queer the deal!

“You want Sundays off? Why?” asked Feld.

“Um, because it’s Sunday and I, um, don’t want to break it like it says in the Bible, too” I explained with perfect lucidity.

Mr. Feld shrugged. He handed the contract back to Allen Bloom, who had been looming silently in the background.

“Here, Allen. Take this back and add something about Torkildson having Sundays off so we can get this thing signed. You two boys wait out in the lobby and Allen will have it back in a minute. Good luck.”

He stood up and shook our hands -- and that is how I cannily negotiated the only circus contract to ever contain language about Sabbath Day observance.  I wish I still had that contract -- I would donate it to the Smithsonian. (I could use the tax write-off.)

I confess that I did not remain very humble about my unique contract. When circus promoter Art Ricker would ask Smith and I to do a live Sunday TV talk show I simply pulled out my contract and waved it rudely in his face.

“Says here I don’t hafta do it, Art!” I would crow. Lucky for me, Smith was a good sport about the whole thing. He went and did them himself.

In the LDS cosmos where I have lived for the past 45 years, and in which I still continue to live, this story should have a neat wrap up -- one where my obedience to the commandments of God, such as keeping the Sabbath Day holy and going on an LDS mission for two years to Thailand and getting married in the Salt Lake Temple, allow me to keep my standards intact until I reach a hallowed and peaceful old age. But, instead, it turns out that contract was just a fluke. A one-time expedient that would never be repeated again. When I returned from my LDS mission and needed a job desperately, Mr. Feld was glad to hire me back -- but not as advance clown. I worked on the show for a regular clown’s salary, and I had to work Sundays like everyone else in clown alley. And I never got Sundays off again when I went to work for other circuses, either. And I was always glad to get the work, believe you me. I had a large family to support for much of that time.

But now that I’m retired living on a modest fixed income, and not in very good health, every day is a Sabbath Day -- a day of enforced idleness, if you will, and quiet contemplation. And even though there is no neat ending to this narrative, there is this one thing I’ve learned over the years about Sunday -- real Sabbath Day worship comes from the heart and not from outward forms and actions and restrictions. It took me a long time to learn that simple and basic bit of Christian doctrine.      

Bill O'Reilly

O’Reilly gets sued by the gals

For nonsensical rationales.

He is misconstrued

And called awful crude

For wanting to be their best pals.

He Will Return

“We testify that He will someday return to earth.”  

(Testimony of the First Presidency and the Quorum of the Twelve. January 1, 2000)

The day will come when Christ returns,

And ev’ryone his mercy learns.

The stillness of the grave will crack.

The hopeless will receive hope back.

The miser will find gold a bore;

He’ll spread it as a happy chore.

Oppressors all will drop their whip.

Their victims will not vengeance grip.

Without exception we’ll detect

The Lord sees us, not our defect.

And children once again we’ll be

Now at his feet eternally.

Restaurant Review: The Deli at Smith's

Who knew supermarkets were going to turn into delicatessens? They all have pharmacies and takeout sushi, and on the East Coast they now serve drinks at an in-house bar for the weary housewife who needs a snort or two. So I thought I’d take me a look at the deli over at Smith’s on Freedom Boulevard in Provo. It’s catty-corner to the Rec Center, so when I got hungry this morning after my swim I got out my camera and notebook to record the experience for posterior . . . . er, posterity.

Drat! I got there too early -- there was no hot food ready yet, just sherbet and cold salads. I thought they had bacon and egg biscuits and such like, but they don’t. The fried chicken starts coming out around ten.

But not to worry -- when it comes to food we Torkildsons are zealous improvisers. I bought a bollito for 44 cents -- and I can tell you their bollitos are scrumptious. Brown and crisp on the outside, white and yielding on the inside -- they remind me of my days as a pantomime student back in Patzcuaro, Mexico. I bought 2 cans of Jumex pineapple coconut juice for a dollar. And a can of Cliff Side Sardines in soybean oil for a dollar-nineteen. Then I sat me down in their dinky deli section and feasted.

It is a utilitarian ambiance, I can tell you that. Meant for functionality, and nothing more. Anyone who lingers over their cafe au lait here is probably homeless. But I gotta hand it to them, they are well-stocked. They have plenty of plastic knives, forks, and spoons. Their packet selection is outstanding, featuring Tabasco sauce, mayo, taco sauce, mustard, ketchup, and tartar sauce (which is spelled on the bin label “Tar Tar.”) There is an abundance of non-dairy creamer and sugar packets. And something called ‘Equal.’ Salt and pepper packets (half of which are always empty, as if the manufacturer were playing a practical joke.) The paper towels and thick and brown. And there is a jumbo jug of hand sanitizer within easy reach.

I may come by again some day just for the bollitos. If I do, I’ll bring a couple of hard boiled eggs and some cheese so I can snack as cheaply as possible -- although I think I’ll still get two cans of Jumex for a dollar. That’s a pretty good deal.

Smith's has an inconspicuous stand by the produce section, where they offer a free piece of fruit to kids. I may just come in each morning a snag a free banana or apple for my breakfast, and forget about the bollito. On my Social Security, it's not easy to keep the wolf from the door.

Matt Margucci, Circus Music Composer.

It takes a rare combination of pluck, inspiration, and borderline insanity to write music for the circus. Pluck, because compensation from show owners is often slow and hesitant. Inspiration, because show tunes cannot be done by chromatic rote. And borderline insanity because only a madman would attempt to give musical wings to an aerialist or torture the trombones for a clownish melody. Such a one is my old friend, Matt Margucci.

Matt and I worked together on the Culpepper and Merriweather Circus back in 2008 and 2009. I began the 2008 season as one of the clowns, but the owner, Trey Key, soon decided that I had more promise working directly with the show sponsors -- so he made me the Publicity Director. That was a step up for me -- the money was better, and I got to work directly with Matt on promoting his original musical compositions.

Capturing the spirit of each individual act was a challenge that Matt relished. He created elegant waltzes for the Spanish Web girls. Rollicking scherzos for the clowns. And bombastic marches for the elephants and big cats. All without falling into cliched muzak. When I asked him how he did it, he just shrugged his shoulders and said: "I don't write the tunes, they write me. I get most of them in the back of my head while practicing my trumpet."

Although an accomplished pianist, Matt's first love is his Getzen trumpet. With Culpepper and Merriweather Matt often spent the early morning, after the tent was up, sitting on the bleachers and practicing on his horn, hour after hour. As melodies and musical bridges came to him, he would try them out on his trumpet. When his embouchure was just about ready to collapse he'd quit and come find me so we could go get some breakfast.

Matt and I share a belief that the only decent breakfasts left in America are made in hole in the wall cafes in small town America. That's where the hash browns are hashiest and the scrambled eggs are scrambliest. No yogurt-infused granola or fancy-schmancy acai berry compote on matzoh for us! We sought out the biggest, baddest waffles in the county and the thickest, meatiest sausage gravy over biscuits available -- and not the IHOP franchise pablum, either. We went straight to those weary old fry cooks whose feet hurt and whose aprons are not spotless, the ones that operate a storefront greasy spoon on a potholed main road in a dilapidated town in the Rust Belt or the Deep South. They knew how to serve up a breakfast that not only stuck to your ribs but invited the in-laws to come stay a while as well. Matt was an inveterate drinker of black coffee, while I couldn't get enough chocolate milk -- as long as it was ice cold. There is nothing that spoils my morning reverie quicker than mildly chilled chocolate milk. If it doesn't have penguins swimming in it, I don't want it.

The culmination of Matt's musical contributions to the circus came in 2009, when he released his one and only CD -- Big Top Afternoon. He was hoping it would be a bestseller, but it didn't quite live up to Matt's admittedly extravagant expectations. This really disappointed Matt, along with the fact that several shows had basically stiffed him in the matter of payment for his original circus compositions. So Matt retired from composing circus music to concentrate on his career as a therapeutic pianist in nursing homes in California. He also worked as an accomplished sideman with live bands at Native American casinos across the Southwest. And I left the country to go teach English in Thailand. We've exchanged a few letters and phone calls since then, but since Matt doesn't do social media I can't really say I've kept in touch with him.

So I guess this is my way of saying "Hi ya, Matt. How are things in Burbank?"