Tim Torkildson's Clown Alley

Friday, April 14, 2023

Oatmeal

Children forced to eat oatmeal

tend to see things as surreal.

Children who are given kale

never go beyond small scale.

Deprived of sugar, children grow

morose and wind up on skid row.

Child abuse, it seems to me

is making kids eat too healthy.

Thursday, April 13, 2023

Leaks and other stuff

All you hear about are leaks.

They're the only news for weeks.

The Pentagon or some big wheel

loses documents piecemeal.

Then the docs go viral and

wind up on the old newsstand.

How about instead we read

how to live on chicken feed?

Tuesday, April 4, 2023

Prose Poem: The Frugalman. (Dedicated to Lauren Weber of the Wall Street Journal)

They call me the Frugalman. And I'll be mighty happy to tell you why. Pleased as punch. Pickled tink, in fact! See, I started out life as a luftmensch, then progressed to a schlemiel, then finally hit upon the idea of resizing myself like a tailor would with an old coat, to become the world-renowned Frugalman. My motto became: ANYTHING TO SAVE A BUCK. I had it tattooed on my forehead. To save the expense of printing up business cards. At first not many people were interested in my new personal brand. But all that changed when I bought an old apartment building and began tearing it down to get at the used razor blades. See, years ago, when they first introduced safety razors, the disposable stainless steel blades became a safety hazard. If you threw them in the trash they'd fall out and slit open a wrist or slice off a nose. So it became standard procedure to build into the back of medicine chests in bathrooms a slit for the safety blades. Once done with a blade, the man just slid it into the slot and forgot about it. Like mailing a letter. The blade fell harmlessly into the space between the lathe plaster walls. And there was enough space between the walls to hold tens of thousands of used razor blades. Where they sat gathering dust, doing nobody any good. Until I, the Frugalman, got the bright idea to buy old apartment buildings to tear down. To get at the blades and sell them. Those old blades made by Gillette and Wilkinson Sword were made of the highest grade metals. They're worth a bundle now. Worth tearing down a decrepit building to get at. Plus, I'll never have to pay for my own razor blades again. Boy, the publicity I got from that stunt was tremendous! Of course it was mostly about the poor dispossessed tenants I had to throw out. But hey, today you won't find anyone else out there who claims to be the Frugalman. Mostly because it's too dangerous. I have to live in my car. Maybe I'd better take the "Frugalman" sign off the side of it . . .

Sunday, April 2, 2023

Confessions of a Birthday Party Clown.

Memories of a birthday party clown

I’ve been writing limericks all morning, just to get that tawdry itch out of my system. Now i’m ready to tackle something more serious – my memories of doing birthday parties as a clown. What i remember is a mixture of the mundane and miraculous.

I came home to minneapolis the winter of 1973/74 a physical wreck from my time spent in mexico studying pantomime with sigfrido aguilar. I had caught some kind of bug that disrupted my innards to the point where each meal was a prelude to an agonized and extended stay in the banyo. I recuperated at my parent’s house, gradually regaining control over my bowels. Once i was up and running again I planned to rejoin sigfrido’s mime troop on their world tour. But one vibrant spring day, as the robins pulled fat earthworms from the sodden green grass and the sparkling blue sky was swept by wisps of blinding white clouds, i idly opened the ensign magazine and was immediately galvanized by an article by President Spencer W. Kimbal – “Every Young Man a Missionary.” his ringling declaration of the duty of every young man in the church to serve a mission hit me like a two-by-four on the side of the head. I knew i had to get ready to go on a mission, not cavort around the globe with sigfrido’s merry andrews.

But where was the money to go on a two year mission to come from? I had about a hundred bucks in the bank and was living on the cuff with the folks. When i reported to my branch president Lewis Church my willingness to serve, he gave me the financial facts of life – i had to have five thousand dollars salted away in the bank to qualify for a mission call. Provided i met all the other requirements as well.

Jobs were as scarce as irish rabbis back then. When i reported my lack of gainful employment to president church he said “Tim, why don’t you work as a birthday party clown?”

“Huh?” I replied brilliantly.

Quick as a wink president church outlined a poster on a sheet of white copy paper with a magic marker that extolled my virtues as a children’s entertainer, including my phone number at the bottom. Disregarding church policy about making copies for private purposes, he used the library copier to run me off a hundred birthday clown posters to put up all around town. Which i immediately began doing.

Up in prospect park i taped a poster to a pole outside a big ornate victorian house and was invited inside by its owner – the young widow of John Berryman the poet. She hired me to perform at her 8 year old daughter’s party. I don’t remember her name, but i bless that widow’s memory because she invited a friend of hers to the party. A reporter for the minneapolis star newspaper. The reporter interviewed me extensively, brought a photographer along, and even agreed to print my phone number in her story. It ran on a saturday and my parent’s phone began ringing like mad.

Hurray! Suddenly i had all the birthday party work i could handle. i even spent a week at paul bunyan land up in brainerd.

But alas, since i didn’t drive or own a car, i hit on what i considered a brilliant business gambit. I told prospective clients that my car was in the garage and if they would come pick me up and bring me home i would give them a fifty percent discount. And since i only charged twenty dollars per party (and a party could go on for hours and hours) i was only averaging about ten bucks a day. It would take a long time to build my bank account up to five thousand smackeroos that way.

But then another miracle happened. My old circus pal steve smith, with whom i had studied pantomime down in mexico, called me up with good news. He had negotiated a deal with the ringling circus owner, irvin feld, to do the advance clowning for the show – traveling ahead of the show to perform at schools, hospitals, libraries, and be on radio, tv, and interviewed by reporters for newspapers. Good old Smith immediately thought of me, he told me, after he signed the deal, and asked old man Feld if he wanted an advance clown team. Feld said sure, so smith selflessly created the immortal clown team of T.J. Tatters and Dusty. (My official ringling clown name was dusty.)

My salary from that job was enough to fill my coffers down at the farmers and mechanics savings bank in minneapolis with the requisite five thousand.

But all that ensued as advance clown is a tale for another day. I want to back up to the nuts and bolts of being a birthday party clown. Or at least what i can dredge up from a faltering memory that sputters and goes out like a campfire in a simoom.

I did balloon animals. Without a balloon pump. I blew those suckers up one at a time and tied them into dogs, giraffes, and swords for the ravenous little nippers until my fingers grew as stiff and brittle as spaghetti pasta. I quickly learned that kids, when given a fragile balloon sculpture, do not cherish it but stomp on it and bite it until it pops, and then come crying back to me demanding another one. And another one. And another one.

The birthday party clown has to eat a large piece of birthday cake or the birthday child feels slighted. You might think that would be pleasant. And the first dozen times it is – but after that the cloying sweetness got to me and i managed to make my piece of cake ‘disappear’ by covering it with a napkin and then smashing it with the flat of my hand. Hey, i was a clown – i could get away with anything.

I could juggle. Just barely. When i dropped one of my expensive solid rubber lacrosse balls (what all professional jugglers use) i had to scramble like lightning to get it back before one of the kids would grab it and run away with it like a jack rabbit. Children firmly believe that anything a clown drops is a party favor and now belongs to them.

I played my musical saw, getting the kids to sing ‘happy birthday to you.’ the adults at the party were fascinated by my saw and requested many an encore, but the kids couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. After one or two songs they’d begin to wander away, looting the kitchen and pouring koolaid on the persian carpets.

I tried doing magic but there is always one child who feels compelled to yell at the top of their lungs ‘it’s a fake!’ so i’d go back to making more balloon animals.

I had a routine with a golf club and marshmallows which usually went over well. But once the kids got ahold of something as sticky and malleable as a marshmallow they’d start a shooting war with each other. The marshmallows wound up on the drapes and stuck to the ceiling.

All in all, i’d have to say that being a birthday party clown was good training for future parenthood – it showed me plainly how capricious and treacherous children could be. The lovable side of a child rarely appears during the selfish gluttony of their own birthday party.

I still get offers to do birthday parties from time to time today. I always reply with a bland yet predatory smile that i would be glad to make a brief appearance at the child’s party. For the paltry sum of five hundred dollars. So far, thank heavens, i’ve had no takers.

Sunday, March 26, 2023

Prose Poem: The Light at the Start of the Tunnel. (Dedicated to William Wan.)

My doctor tells me to avoid reading newspapers. He recommends instead I listen to soothing classical music by Brahms, close my eyes, and imagine the news I'd like to read about in the newspaper. Like the end of the Ukraine invasion by Russia. North Korea overthrowing their dictators and becoming a democracy. Abundant rain in the Sub Sahara leading to amazing crop harvests that feed everyone and leave enough to export for huge profits. A federal government program that features handouts of free cotton candy. So far it's worked pretty well. My mental health has improved markedly. There are no longer voices in my head telling me that sugar is poison or that Donald Trump is another Caligula. I can smile again. Meet people and shake their hand with a smile and twinkle in my eye. Even use my pressure cooker to make beef stew again -- for the first time since 1995. But I have to confess I miss the feel of newsprint crackling in my fingers as I turn the pages from wars to disasters to Dilbert. Carrying a newspaper on the bus, reading it on a park bench, rolling it up to beat my dog when it soils the carpet -- these are all tactile pleasures I need to replace. So I put rubber bands around my wrist. And snap them whenever I want to buy a copy of the Washington Post. My wrist is black and blue. And I might be developing gangrene -- there's a dark blue line running up my arm that throbs with heat. But at least I'm not obsessing about global warming or living in dread of Alec Baldwin. Only thing I still have trouble with is lying. I don't have a dog. Don't beat it with a newspaper or anything else. In fact I don't have a carpet for it to pee on. No house. No job. I'm homeless, actually. And don't have a doctor. I'm making all this up while sleeping under a layer of newspapers on a park bench. Have you got a quarter?

Friday, March 24, 2023

Prose Poem: Not about cherry blossoms. (Dedicated to Christine Clarridge.)

Leaders of the Floogle Street Gang.

I can watch a piece of grass grow for twenty years. That's why I like to view the invisible blossoms each spring. These are on trees that most people claim have no blossoms. Larches. Yews. Spruce. And redwoods. The scientific community, in their overweening overconfidence, claim that such trees do not flower. And the public seems to accept this balderdash. Since there are no springtime tours to admire the larch blossoms or the redwood blooms. Not like those upstart cherry trees. They get all the attention. Which they hardly deserve. But I won't get started on that . . .

The larch blossom, it's true, is extremely small and dull. It looks like a grey pimple on the larch branch. And when it is done blooming (just two short hours) it starts to drip a black tarry liquid that can stain the windshield of your car. Still, it's a blossom and deserves some respect for being just that. Not every blossom is a show stopper; not every bloom is a work of art. Which doesn't mean we should ignore or denigrate those more modest unspectacular flowerings. I've always admired the way the redwood blooms. It sends out a thin green finger, about 200 feet above ground, which gradually turns into a tiny octopus-shaped translucent flower. Which turns to powder during the night and blows away. It smells awful. Like burnt popcorn. But I think there's a need for people to see these disappointments of nature, so to speak. People should be forced to go on tours of larch forests and stands of redwood in the early spring, when it's still damp and cold and muddy, to view these tiny things with telescopes and magnifying glasses. The federal government should get involved. But I won't get started on that . . .