rocketing into life
from roots that never give up;
I must live like that
Saturday, April 21, 2018
My Career in Radio
Come, my little wombats, and I shall lead you down the primrose path of my faltering memory once again -- concerning my footling career in radio. We shall make merry over my redundant indiscretions that consistently caused my speedy exit from one small market radio station after another.
And why not make light of my intractable, nay indefatigable, ability to bring station managers to the boiling point in a matter of months -- sometimes in a matter of weeks? Now a tottering wreck, practically chained to my recliner, I look back on my mad capers in broadcasting only to say: “So what?” “Who cares?” “Big deal, schlemiel.” In broadcasting annals my stunted career will never rate so much as an asterisk; but I did manage to upset the applecart quite often . . .
For instance, when I landed at KTGO Radio in Tioga, North Dakota, in 1983, after an abortive attempt to find work as a birthday party clown in Florida (old people there would rather look at caskets, and young people have the beach; nobody wants a mundane clown.) KTGO was a daytimer station -- meaning it went on the air at dawn and off the air at sunset. Most days I pulled a 12 hour shift, playing country western records, giving the weather and pork belly futures, and doing a ‘rip and read’ newscast for five minutes at the top of the hour. It was hard to fit in a bathroom break, let alone lunch. Amy fixed me innumerable ham sandwiches on her own whole wheat bread, which I gobbled like a Hun whenever a free minute presented itself.
My bladder was saved from bursting by the extended song cycles of Willie Nelson, who often went six or seven minutes with his barnyard ballads. One fine day I introed one of his songs by saying “Willie is the DJ’s friend -- without his long winded yodeling I’d never make it to the toilet and back to the mic in time.” Dave Guttormson, the station manager, summarily dismissed me at the end of my shift that same day.
Up in Park Rapids, Minnesota, a few years later, at station KPRM, I managed to discombobulate the automated FM station one Sunday when I was put in charge by turning the wrong switch. I didn’t bother to listen to what the station was spewing out -- which turned out to be the same single song and the same single commercial for seven consecutive hours -- but hurried off to church in the morning and then went out fishing in the afternoon. I caught half a dozen eelpout, a ghastly looking fish but rather tasty when fried in lard. Early Monday morning as I came in the door to prepare my newscast I was met by the owner, Ed Delahunt, who informed me of the previous day’s debacle and then invited me to take my carcass elsewhere. Oh well, that’s showbiz.
At KICD, in Spencer, Iowa, I nabbed the job of morning talk show host, where I immediately set the community buzzing with outrage by referring to Storm Lake, a nearby community that sheltered about 1200 Ethiopian immigrants, most of whom worked at the Butterball Turkey processing plant, as Addis Ababa. I was given a verbal warning by the station manager, and told to keep my nose clean. But he said nothing about eggs, so that summer during the sweltering dog days, I did a live broadcast from Main Street, where I attempted to fry an egg on the sidewalk. Alas, the egg I chose to make broadcast history with was from a carton of organic eggs that had been laying around the station for several months, unrefrigerated. They had gone bad. And I mean REAL bad. As soon as it landed on the hot sidewalk my egg exuded a remarkable stench that drove the curious crowds away at light speed. I had chosen to crack the egg in front of a prominent dress shop, and the owner felt forced to close up for the rest of the day -- while I vainly tried to scrub away the egg and the odor with bleach, ammonia, and a quart of Mr. Clean. Naturally enough, in the scheme of things, the shop owner was not only a big advertiser on KICD, but was also the manager’s brother-in-law. He put in the good word and I was once again ‘at liberty.’
My last radio job was at KRCQ in Detroit Lakes, Minnesota. I worked as the news director. The only reason I ever got the job was because the station owner was impressed when I ordered liver and onions for lunch after my interview with him. “That’s a gutsy move” he said to me. “I want a fella who’s got the guts to get the news for me!”
And initially I performed gutsy. My first day on the job I caught a squeal on the police band monitor about a gas leak in town in a substantial residential area. I was the first one on the scene, interviewing the police chief and the fire chief as they supervised the evacuation. My report scooped all the other local media, and even made it down to the Twin Cities, reported by WCCO Radio, using my name. The station owner gave me a fifty dollar raise.
But as the months wore on I turned sour. I was in my late forties, divorced, never able to get ahead in my child support payments, and haunted by an obsession to Make It Big. How could I ever Make It Big in Detroit Lakes, Minnesota, for the cat’s sake? My brooding led to a psychotic break -- I began making up the news. Real happenings didn’t interest me anymore. I reported that the North Dakota State Patrol was now stopping all cars coming from Minnesota to look for pennies, which were illegal tender in North Dakota. I ran a story about the introduction of wooden manhole covers in downtown Detroit Lakes in an effort to save money and be more green. My listeners were astonished to learn that with the coming of the railroad in the 1880’s, both the humidity and the rainfall in Becker County had increased by sixty percent -- and quoted faux statistics from the weather bureau to prove it. My piece de resistance undoubtedly was my story on the Fourth of July of a man who blew his head off by mishandling fireworks. I quoted a nurse from the hospital in Hawley saying the head was making a speedy recovery and would be sewn back onto his body within a week.
That was the straw that broke the station owner’s back. During one of my live newscasts, while I was observing a moment of silence on air for the extinction of the passenger pigeon, he burst into the studio, roaring “What the *bleep* is the matter with you!”
That *bleep* was heard by roughly ten thousand people in Becker County and surrounding areas. And when the FCC got wind of it they immediately fined the station several thousand dollars. Needless to say, I got the bum’s rush. After that affair, I turned my back on radio (or, rather, it might be more accurate to say that radio turned its back on me) and I went back to my first love, the circus. Didn’t do much better there, either -- but that is a tale for another day . . .
North Korea’s Kim Strikes Milder Tone on Nuclear Tests, Detainees
That Kim is such a pussycat;
He only wants some nice chit chat.
So when we meet him at the board
He’ll strike a most congenial chord.
He’ll smile and promise a blank check
If we will just get off his neck.
And when he gets a breathing space,
It’s back to warheads he will race.
Our Ultimate Destination
President Russell M. Nelson
President Russell M. Nelson
There are many destinations that we aim for here on earth,
From a seat at royal banquets to a soft and easy berth.
But the only destination worth the effort and the time
Is the temple of the Saviour, where we learn his will sublime.
Help me never lose direction as I struggle down the path
To the temple, where I’m promised all the Father himself hath!
Friday, April 20, 2018
the mourning dove pipes
the mourning dove pipes
the mist dissolves the mountains
just empty moisture
The LDS make good citizens
President Russell M. Nelson
President Russell M. Nelson, speaking in Harare, Zimbabwe.
Though set apart by stricter rules than others may obey,
The Saints are peaceful citizens and all their taxes pay.
Counseled by the Prophet to observe the local laws,
Members love their country (even when there ain’t much cause.)
The Mormons make good neighbors -- you can always check the stats.
(And there are very few of them who vote as Democrats.)
Thursday, April 19, 2018
put on thy beautiful garments, O Jerusalem
. . . put on thy beautiful garments, O Jerusalem . . .
Second Nephi. Chapter Eight. Verse 24.
No shabby garments clothe my soul when I am with the Lord.
Such raiment is so priceless that a king can scarce afford.
Golden silk and gemstones are but dross to me when I
Contemplate the beauty of the God of earth and sky!
He clothes the lilies of the field; He makes my robe to shine.
If I do but obey him then my wardrobe will be fine.
Studying Pantomime in Mexico. Part Three.
Teatro Degollado. Guadalajara.
And then . . .
I do most of my writing early in the morning, when my energy levels and focus are at their zenith. This morning, however, I have been stalled in writing my final chapter about my time in Mexico because of psychological distractions. This is a recurring state of mind for me. As I review the events of my past I begin to question if any of them really happened at all; that it’s a story I have made up to bypass the shame of admitting to a humdrum and shabby existence. My past must be a continual round of hair raising or zany exploits; otherwise I’m a complete washout, a monumental failure. This state of mind freezes my fingers over the keyboard. Am I just creating and animating a flock of false memories?
My answer to that question varies from day to day, even hour to hour, and is never going to be definitive. The only seeming certainty is that writing is as vital to me as breathing and eating. I must write, or die. And today is NOT a good day to die, Worf.
And then . . .
After our triumph at the Teatro Degollado in Guadalajara I ran up against a disturbing verity. Namely, men and women come together in a love that often degenerates into war. My parents were a prime example of this, with dad forever escaping the sharp tongue of his spouse by keeping late hours at the Pine Tavern,irresponsibly drinking and playing pinochle, and mom forever referring to dad as “that toad on the stove.” Yet they never separated. When I joined the LDS Church after leaving home for Ringling Brothers I figured I would never have to deal with that kind of emotional fallout again. The fact was, I didn’t take all that much to girls anyways; outside of an occasional hormonal flare up that I quickly doused when I considered how costly it was to woo a modern maiden. In my case, the skinflint won handily over the lover. And I have battled those misogynistic tendencies in myself ever since.
But now I was plunged into the midst of this discord once again. Robin Shaw, Smith’s former girlfriend, a nurse from Ohio, showed up unannounced at our doorstep in Patzcuaro. She had driven an old clunker straight through from Zanesville to ‘reconnect’ with Smith, who seemed perfectly happy, to me, with his current bachelor existence. Smith moved out of our hacienda into an apartment down the street with Robin. He feigned great enthusiasm for her return, but it didn’t fool me. When the two of us rehearsed new routines for the upcoming tour of South America he acted like a newly freed prisoner whose pardon had been revoked. With Robin upon the scene, the comic chemistry between Smith and I quickly diminished, and we were unable to come up with any further pantomimes with real panache. And Robin wanted to join Payasos Educados as a full-fledged performing member, with a full salary -- even though her experience was limited to juggling bedpans at a hospital. This put Smith in an awkward position, and he sweated pea pods trying to figure out how to approach Sigfrido with her veiled ultimatum.
Worse still was the widening breach between Sigfrido and his wife Amel. Amel was American, and pretty ‘hippy-dippy’ in an unfocused, disregarding way. She had no formal training in pantomime, but she, too, had to perform in the troupe. Her ungainly attempts at comedy were painful to watch. I quickly grew to resent how much stage time Sigfrido gave her in our shows. Their son Andres, on the other hand, was a natural born scene stealer -- catching flies with an ease that belied his tender years.
What they fought about and why I no longer recall. Likely there was never any true reason at all -- just the natural bile that built up between two people who never should have been together in the first place. After Guadalajara we continued to tour schools while the paperwork was being completed for our South American tour -- and now each show was preceded by a blazing row between Sigfrido and Amel, with little Andres running to Smith and I in terror until it blew over. These fights never affected Sigfrido’s performance -- he was as brilliant as ever onstage.
Offstage he stopped talking to Amel, and then moved out of their hacienda -- taking a room at the hotel on the Plaza Grande in Patzcuaro. He left her in charge of booking the tour and handling the finances for it. Smith finally asked Sigfrido to give Robin a small part in the show. He slowly shook his head back and forth, but what he said was “Go ahead, Steve -- it cannot make much difference now.”
The English playwright William Congreve first came up with the concept of “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned” 220 years ago. He knew what he was talking about. Amel bided her time until the money came through for the tour; then she took every last centavo and vamoosed to parts unknown -- along with Andres. Sigfrido was held accountable for the loss by the Mexican government, and spent the next several years dancing with abogados. With no money for a tour and our Maestro Sigfrido in the legal doldrums, Los Payasos Educados ceased to exist. Steve and Robin drove back to Ohio where he enrolled in an advanced theater class at Kent State, and I flew back to Minneapolis to begin preparing for an LDS mission -- I needed a few years away from the bright lights and heartbreak of show biz. Or so I thought. In less than a year Smith and I would be back together again, doing the advance clowning for Ringling Brothers.
Twenty two years later I ran into Amel in Bangor, Maine. She had a small boatyard where she and a few hippy dippy partners hand crafted wooden skiffs. Andres also worked there. He had grown up an exact duplicate of his father -- the same willowy physique, liquid brown eyes, and shy, engaging, smile.
Amel and I conversed briefly; I had no desire to renew our acquaintance, so I quickly invented some urgent business I needed to attend to. As I turned to walk away she grabbed my arm to whisper in my ear: “He sent men after me, you know. I’m still in hiding. Don’t tell him where I am!”
I promised I would keep her secret. I told Smith about our meeting, but not Sigfrido.
Wednesday, April 18, 2018
Studying Pantomime in Mexico. Part Two.
Sigfrido Aguilar
Those first few weeks in Patzcuaro were a sleepless time for me. Not so much because of excitement over a new venture, but because it was mating season for the local iguanas, who spent the long chilly nights rolling around on our red tile roof, squalling like cats. Then there was no central heating in our hacienda, just a modest fireplace tucked into the corner of the bedroom. Smith and I shared a bedroom, which we vainly attempted to keep heated at night with inexpertly laid sticks of oyamel. As soon as we got a sputtering flame going we dived under our thin cotton blankets and feel heavily asleep, only to awaken in the middle of the night with our chops chattering like gag wind up teeth and the fire nothing but cold greasy ashes.
At five each morning the nuns across the way played an old scratchy record of Schubert’s Ave Maria over their loudspeaker, to call the faithful to early Mass. And the abattoir next door went to work about the same time, zealously slitting the throats of dozens of squealing swine. A small brook ran through the backyard we shared with the slaughterhouse; a pretty thing to look at, except when it turned crimson red with pig blood. I never cared to go wadding in it; the frogs that croaked on its banks had a particularly carnivorous look in their bulging eyes.
Smith and I breakfasted on hard boiled eggs and cups of steaming atole -- a corn starch concoction that approximated hot chocolate. We did all our own cooking, which was very minimal and pragmatic; canned peaches, boiled eggs, atole or Sidral to drink, and the local mini loaves of white bread eaten with chunks of the local soft white cheese. We ordered a beefsteak dinnerseveral times a week for lunch down at the hotel on the Plaza Grande, and munched on the Lake Patzcuaro dried pesca blanca like potato chips.
Sigfrido’s studio was a good mile away, in the center of town. An asthmatic old bus came down our street every twenty minutes or so, spewing diesel fumes, but I preferred to walk the distance, enjoying the stately eucalyptus trees that lined the roadway, their lower trunks painted white, and the profusion of nanny goats -- each one carefully staked in the middle of a small dusty yard, where they appeared to relish eating stones and cacti. Patzcuaro was a small dusty tourist hideaway back then -- hardly developed, with only one hotel on the Plaza Grande. Our arrival as gringo estudiantes ignited a keen interest among the beggars of the town. Each morning as I walked to school I was accosted by nearly a dozen of them, meekly holding out an upturned palm while requesting some pesos. At first I was nonplussed as to what to do about them. I was living on my savings, not bringing in any money; so my budget was tight. Sigfrido dismissed them all out of hand, saying they were con artists whose racket was mulcting soft-hearted tourists. Still, I didn’t like turning them away. So each morning on my way to the Academia I would stop at the outdoor market to buy a basket of fruit for a few centavos.Whenever I was approached with a request for aid I simply dug into my basket and handed out an apple or an orange, wishing the recipient ‘buena suerte.’ After a few days my generosity was rewarded by a beggar boycott -- whenever a shabby mendigo saw me coming he would do a quick volte face and skedaddle.
Sigfrido had studied corporeal mime under Etienne Decroux in Paris. He put together a series of mime exercises for us that was extremely demanding -- and, to my way of thinking, extremely boring after the first few weeks. Although I was enamored of the balletic comedic grace of the great French mime Marcel Marceau, I also adored the frantic silent gyrations of Red Skelton; his work was so broad and robust that it could be understood and enjoyed by anyone. Whereas I was beginning to think that classical French mime was more of an acquired taste, if not downright snooty .
And as the weeks wore on I realized that the classical mime exercises that Sigfrido used were not what I wanted. What I wanted was to learn the facial and body tropes that conveyed basic emotions like happiness, anger, fear, boredom, and so on. I knew Sigfrido had mastered that kind of silent physical communication, because his solo performances were rife with hilarious double-takes and bodily tumults that only a Chaplin could pull off. That was the kind of stuff I wanted to learn, not the elegant ‘inside a box’ exercises that we did hour after hour out in the courtyard of the school.
I talked this over with Smith. He agreed with me; we needed more Vaudeville and less Versailles. At last we approached Sigfrido with our dilemma. He was initially aghast at our desire to abandon our rigorous course of classical training to pursue a more slapstick style. He told us that he himself had not been allowed any comic training from Decroix until he had studied the basics for nearly two years. But Smith and I were adamant; with all due respect, we told him, we were not prepared to hang around Patzcuaro for two years just to perfect pulling on an imaginary rope. I told Sigfrido I needed training in how to become more freewheeling and open as a clown, and that mincing around in leotards had never really been part of my agenda.
And that is when the true and delightful genius of Sigfrido Aguilar came into play. Instead of berating us as impertinent popinjays, he immediately began to play with the idea of a clown/mime fusion of performing styles. A few days later he formed the three of us, along with his then wife Amel and their five year old son Andres, into the prestigious troupe known as “Los Payasos Educados.” He announced that he was applying for a government grant to take our troupe on an inaugural tour of Mexico, displaying the silent art of both the clown and the mime. Sigfrido informed Smith and I that we would need to concoct a dozen or so silent clown routines with a minimum of props for the show. Working like beavers on Red Bull, the two of us rifled our collective memories for every bit of business we could remember from Ringling Brothers and Three Stooges movies -- and then repurposed it all to loosely fit within the parameters of mime. We had a ten minute bit about slipping on an invisible banana peel; about a visit to the doctor’s office (in which Sigfrido played the libidinous nurse with balloons for a bosom -- and yes, they were popped during each performance); and Sigfrido came up with an odd piece of phallic buffoonery in which he discovers a large plastic cigar onstage, begins puffing on it, and is thus turned into a strutting, arrogant aristocrat. Each member of the troupe grabs the cigar in turn and transforms into a similar patrician character -- even little Andres! And I managed to work up a silent routine with my musical saw, along the lines of Gene Sheldon’s whimsical performances with his banjo.
We took the show on a shakedown cruise to a dozen high schools throughout Michoacan and Oaxaca. The show was a smash; the kids loved the slapstick and the teachers were impressed with the elegant portions of mime. The grant money from the Mexican government came through; Sigfrido’s wife Amel became our troupe treasurer, and we booked our first professional engagement as Los Payasos Educados at the Teatro Degollado in Guadalajara.
We spent a week at the Teatro Degollado, a nineteenth century opera house that had tiered balconies and gilded putti crawling down the marble colonnades. And once again, we were a smash. The crowds especially liked Sigfrido’s cigar bit (and to this day I still don’t know WHY.)
It looked like clear sailing from here on out. Good reviews in the newspaper; the backing of the Mexican government; and growing international interest in both clowns and mimes. A golden trifecta that should have taken us right to the top. Sigfrido began lining up an extensive tour of South America, with handsome salaries for both Smith and I.
And then . . .
(to be continued)
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