Friday, April 13, 2018

Memories of Marshall-University High School in Minneapolis





I was born with the desire to make people laugh. I practiced funny faces in the bathroom mirror when I was three. In kindergarten I used my brother’s pajamas as a clown costume and swiped my mother’s lipstick for greasepaint when we put on a circus for the PTA. By sixth grade I had perfected a sliding pratfall, so when the janitors were mopping the hallways I would blithely stroll past them and then let my legs slip out from under me, land on my rear, and glide several yards into the nearest wall.

In high school I continued to blossom as a buffoon. Marshall-University High School was located at 1313 15th Street Southeast in Minneapolis. It was the smallest high school in the city; the MPS department finally closed it in 1982 for efficiency reasons. I started there in 1964 and graduated in 1970. I did not much enjoy high school, refusing to have a senior photo taken for the yearbook.

The place was infested with bullies and embryonic thugs; the vice principal’s office carried a large collection of cricket bats and steel ping pong paddles that were in constant use on the backsides of nogoodniks. Being a peace-loving coward, with no pugilistic tendencies, I would have been fair game for every ruffian there if I had not started carrying a used nine iron I bought at the Goodwill Store in emulation of Bob Hope. He always had a mashie niblick or some such golf club with him during his monologues. The Marshall-U criminal element was unsure of my prowess with the club, so they left me alone for the most part.

I shared my risible instincts with some of the teachers there -- those that would not box my ears and frogmarch me down to the vice principal’s abattoir. I fondly recall my English teacher Mrs. Goetz, the wife of Peter Michael Goetz who acted at the Guthrie Theater. Pert and petite, she encouraged my literary zaniness, going so far as to allow me to present a scene from my original play “A Day at the Hospital” in class for extra credit. My play was a homage to the Marx Brothers. All that I can recall of that infantile opus now is that at one point Groucho is operating on a patient and calls for sutures. The nurse tells him they have no sutures, to which he waggles his eyebrows and replies “Then suture self!” I wrote the whole thing out in longhand and a merciful providence has insured that it disappeared a long, long time ago.    

Then there was Mr. Chen, the school’s Chinese teacher. Yes, I said Chinese. For reasons that I have yet to discover, the Minneapolis Public School system hired a student at the University of Minnesota, a denizen of Taiwan, to offer classes in Mandarin as an elective course. Since the only other elective was Shop, I took Chinese. Mr. Chen was not so much interested in leading us through the intricacies of calligraphy and proper tones as in denouncing mainland China and its communist hierarchy. It was a small class -- only six of us. I used the time trying out various comic horns and rattles that I acquired from thrift stores or from ads in the back of comic books. Whenever Mr. Chen had his back to us, writing on the blackboard, I would whip out a wooden train whistle or a mini klaxon horn for a quick interruption. Initially irritated and tending to denounce me in a high shrill voice, Mr.Chen eventually became first curious and then charmed with my collection of noise makers. When I presented him with a siren whistle (which I fished out of a box of Cracker Jack) he honored the quid pro quo by giving me an ‘A.’
Another memorable instructor was Lyle Rockler -- a shirttail relative of the furrier L.A. Rockler; my mother stored her red fox fur stole with his company every summer.

Lyle (he insisted we call him Lyle and not Mr. Rockler) taught the theater class and put on the school plays. No Shakespeare or Samuel French farces for him! He preferred contemporary and controversial dramas, such as “Indians”, by Arthur Kopit. He cast me as the Grand Duke of Russia in that play -- where I scored a dazzling comedic coup on opening night by pulling out my belt instead of my sword in act one, letting my pants fall down and bringing down the house as well. Lyle let me keep that bit of business in. God bless him.

During my senior year I collaborated with fellow student Mark Frost, the future co-creator of “Twin Peaks”, on an original play we presented to the entire student body (all two hundred of them.) I should have better recall of such a seminal event in my comedic career, but honestly all I can remember about it is that I choreographed a dance between a ballerina and an atomic bomb to some music by Delibes, and that in the show itself I played one half of a pair of Siamese twins. I do remember the show bombed; the student audience threw pencils, spiral notebooks, and odd wads of bubble gum at us. Although scheduled for three performances, we only gave one. I recently looked at Mark’s website, bymarkfrost, and notice he doesn’t even mention that particular episode in his biography. I wonder why?  

Sixty four years ago I was born with the desire to make people laugh, and I’ve been pretty lucky to have spent most of my adult life as a professional circus clown. The sound of a belly laugh is meat and drink to me. Now that osteoarthritis and hyperparathyroidism have slowed me down, I’m angling for the chuckle with my pen, instead of my pratfalls. In the past six years I’ve sent hundreds of humorous poems to journalists via email, commenting wryly on their various stories. Has it paid off? Well, you be the judge. I recently wrote a poem about a bookstore article by the New York Times reporter David Streitfeld, as follows:

The book stores where I lulled away
My youthful angst from day to day
Are gone like gravy from my plate --
All licked away by cyber fate.


Where half price tomes once beckoned me,
With dull remainders almost free,
And clerks with glasses read on stools,
There’s now a Zales with chintzy jewels.

Ecommerce, you’re a villain sure --
Closing bookeries demure.
Without book havens made of bricks
I’ll just stay home and watch Netflix.


Mr. Streitfeld instantly replied to my email thus:

“you might have a future writing ransom notes.”

What comic needs anymore encouragement than that?  

Thursday, April 12, 2018

My New Profile on Facebook





HEY FACEBOOK:
Since you  keep track of everything I post and don’t actually delete anything I pull off of you, and since all my personal data that your damn algorithms have collected is available for the right price to any busybody who wants it, here is my new profile:

Handsome, vigorous thirty-something metrosexual with impeccable taste in clothes, food, wine, and companions. I own most of Silicon Valley. Bill Gates mows my lawn. I have so much money in the bank they let me use it for toilet paper. I invented Bitcoin. Tom Hanks wants my autograph. I look like that guy in the Dos Equis Beer commercials. I am moving the entire population of Kiribati Island to South Dakota, which I have leased for 99 years. My breath smells like bubblegum. I produce movies in which women beat the crap out of men. And Angelina Jolie is my biological godmother.




The Swamp



As a boy I ran in a mob whenever I roamed farther than a few blocks from home.
Not a cohesive gang or pack, mind you -- but a random gathering of neighborhood
boys who had drifted together by chance on a summer afternoon, and then by consensus
decided to go on an illicit adventure. An adventure our parents would not have approved
of if we had asked them. The idea was we would alibi each other when the inevitable
third-degree took place at home that night; a plan that always fell apart when some
sniveling quisling ratted us out for the price of an extra piece of lemon meringue pie
(OKAY -- so it was me, alright? Can I help it if my mom made an exquisite
lemon meringue pie?)


Forbidden places to explore included the gutted bottle factory across the tracks down
on Elm Street Southeast; several derelict warehouses off of 15th Avenue Southeast down
by Van Cleve Park; the trashy ramshackle and partially abandoned row houses on Nicollet
Island in the middle of the Mississippi; and, most exotic of all, ‘The Swamp.’


If you walked due east on Fairmont Avenue Southeast to the top of the slight hill it ran up,
you could survey a fetching vista that included grain silos, rusted abandoned railroad tracks,
graveled washboard roads, stands of pin oak, and boggy water meadows filled with cattails
stretching endlessly off to the east. This is what we called The Swamp. A wonderful
terra incognita that our parents warned us was full of desperate fugitives, bushmasters,
fetid storm drains, sluggish channels of raw sewage, and foul heaps of discarded junk --
a veritable Land of Mordor.


One golden summer day in the year 1961 a mob consisting of myself, Wayne Matsuura,
Butchy Hogley, Randy Mikelson, Don Lockwood, Junior Kryjava (who had six toes on his
left foot), and one or two other hangers-on, drifted down Fairmont towards The Swamp.
Our intent was to find an appropriate patch of drainage ditch for a cattail fight. It was
blazing hot, so we stopped along the way at a pipe in the side of an elevated, disused
railroad siding that dripped cold spring water to refresh ourselves (we hoped it was
spring water -- there was a tin cup on a chain next to it) before continuing on towards
the water meadows.There was no such thing as individual water bottles back then;
and keeping hydrated was a concept as foreign to us as Brinkmanship. Occasionally
a Burlington Northern Railroad truck came hurtling down the washboard road, raising
a veil of reddish brown haze, but otherwise we had the entire landscape to ourselves,
as if in a Twilight Zone episode where everybody else on earth has vanished. Mourning
doves made their curious sobs in the pin oaks, but otherwise it was a silent world we
wandered through.


The milkweed pods were bursting open, and we debated, for the umpteenth time,
whether or not milkweed sap had been used to make rubber tires during World War Two.
Junior swore up and down that it was true and that his dad still had a set of milkweed sap
tires in his garage. Wayne and Randy were frankly unconvinced. Me, I just gathered up the
milkweed seeds and fluff to stuff in my pockets, with the vague notion of making myself a
milkweed pillow when I got home.


We finally reached a tall stand of cattails and immediately waded into the muck to snap
the stalks off and whomp each other senseless with the cattail heads. This was
a cattail fight. When we finished, we were covered in slight bruises and our hair
and clothes were embedded with cattail fur. Just then Randy spotted a painted turtle
scuttling for cover and made a dive for it. He held up his prize, announcing he was
taking it home as a pet. Overwhelmed with a Clyde Beatty bring-em-back-alive
determination to do the same, the rest of us wallowed deeper into the gumbo
to find turtles and salamanders in gratifying abundance.
Walking back home with our captives, we looked like a Swamp Thing convention.


There was no use in equivocating when we got home; even our simpleton brains
realized we couldn’t deny the reeking and slimy evidence we trailed into the presence
of our despairing mothers. But we had pet turtles now! That made the tongue lashing
and scrubbing down just about worth it.


In my case, I had snagged a particularly robust specimen; about the size of a
dinner plate. Now I needed somewhere to keep it. My mother was unreasonably
against me putting it in the bathtub. It’s not like we NEEDED to take baths,
I tried to point out to her. The garden hose would be just as effective, and quicker
too. But she remained obdurate. So I took Turtle-saurus (as I had named him)
out to the garage for a look-see. And there, like the Holy Grail, stood my dad’s shiny
new aluminum Hamms beer cooler. Just waiting to be turned into an aquatic homeland.


I used the garden hose to fill it, threw in some grass clippings and a few bricks
from old Mrs. Henderson’s crumbling outdoor barbeque -- and Turtle-saurus
now had his own watery domain. Of course, I had no idea what to feed him.
I thought maybe the grass clippings would do. But it was a moot point.
When dad got home that evening he had a bag of ice and a paper sack full
of bottled beer for his cooler.

I will not detail the ugly scene that followed when he discovered
his cooler had been hijacked by a member of the Testudines family.
Suffice it to say that Turtle-saurus was remanded back into the wild by
a grim-faced man claiming to be my father -- who at the time appeared
to think children, especially small boys, should each be impaled on a Pixy Stix
and left to rot in the August sun.

Wednesday, April 11, 2018

Tuesday, April 10, 2018

Letter from my LDS Missionary Daughter in San Clemente, California





Hello everyone!! 
The subject of this email must seem very un-missionary-like so I apologize, I must be picking up some of the surfer lingo they use here in California...Also, there is a picture of my tan lines that I have included at the end just for proof that they really are rad. 

Anyway, on to more important and spiritual things! This week has been interesting because it was spring break, so it seemed like everyone and their dog just up and left to Palm Springs, Asia, Italy, Peru, you name it. It was so silent in our area, it was a little creepy... My companion thought it was nice to have some silence for once, though haha. But we did find people to talk to, for sure! And I've been learning more and more about the importance of opening your mouth and talking to everyone. It's still been a challenge for me to get past the "hello, how are you?" stage and onto "We're missionaries for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints...." Sometimes you quite literally have to follow people if you want them to keep listening to what you have to say. It's frustrating sometimes, because I know how important the message we have is and people already have preconceived notions about us. It's tough sometimes. But most of the time people are really nice, and sometimes people DO say yes! But we have a responsibility to open our mouths and give everyone the chance to hear what the restored gospel can bring to their lives: more happiness, more peace, more blessings. MORE. So I try not to let fear or discouragement stop me from giving people what they don't know they really want and need. I'm so grateful for the knowledge that I have that families are eternal, that we have a living prophet on the earth today, and that the Book of Mormon is the word of God and can help us with almost any question or challenge that we have. I know that when each of us truly desires to know something and we ask the right person (God), we'll get an answer. It might not be in the way we expect, but it will come in God's time. 
I love you all so very much! Have an awesome week, and keep being the amazing children of God you are!

Love, 
Sister Torkildson

https://www.facebook.com/daisy.torkildson/videos/10211435677195615/


Monday, April 9, 2018

white line in the sky





white line in the sky
pine needles have a green smell
the air tastes absurd



Sacrifices




“. . . the sacrifices our loved ones make for us
refresh us like cool water in the middle of the desert.”
Taylor G. Godoy


I’m selfish and lazy and prone
To leave other people alone.
I do not serve others,
My sisters and brothers,
And don’t even answer the phone.

But then someone did me a turn
So gracious it made my heart burn.
Now I am tenacious
To be more sagacious

And selfishness try to unlearn!

Sunday, April 8, 2018

the wind changes course





the wind changes course;
and our flag changes with it;
it didn't used to


a blushing cascade




a blushing cascade
so enhances the sunlight
that raw wind retreats


it will come to this




it has come to this
when the languid blossoms fall
I will still keep faith