Prose Poem: How to cook a mean gumbo. (Dedicated to Lily Janiak)

 

I use apples and bananas in my gumbo. I know this is viewed as unorthodox by most cooks, but in my defense I can cite Flying Jacob as an antecedent.  Like Moe Howard used to say, you could look it up.

The most important part of any gumbo, as any rank amateur can tell you (and if you don't have any rank amateurs hanging around your kitchen you can always go out to the nearest coffee shop and find one -- they're as thick as water striders in a puddle) the most important part, I say, is the roux.

The role of roux in gumbo is widely misunderstood by most people.  At one time it was thought the word 'roux' came from the ancient Roux tribe that roamed the primeval forests of Galatia.  They would throw captured enemies into a large iron pot and add the bark of the sassafras tree to thicken things up before eating the whole horrible mess.  But recent scholarship has shown that the Roux tribe actually sent captured enemies to the Riviera, where their tortured cries at the amount you have to tip the waiters gave members of the tribe a cruel satisfaction.

Roux, it seems, actually comes from the root word 'ruckus,' which is Latin for 'rutabaga.'  Ancient peoples, especially those idiot Druids, liked to put rutabaga in everything they ate. It helped hide the fact that there was usually nothing at all to eat except rutabagas.  Those ancient peoples sure had a hard time of it.  It makes me glad I'm a modern peoples.

Of course, in today's modern kitchen there are many ways to thicken up a stew such as gumbo.  But they are all WRONG ways.  Absolutely incorrect.  The only acceptable roux for gumbo is powdered chalk.  And if you don't believe me I don't care -- my cat died last week and there's nothing left for me to live for anyway.

Next to the roux in importance is the lashings.  You've heard the phrase 'lashings of cream' haven't you?  Well, in gumbo you have to lash in all the solid ingredients.  Don't measure it daintily or carefully sprinkle it into the pot.  Lash it in like you're throwing a hand grenade.  The physical shock of contact with the boiling liquid releases the most tantalizing aromas imaginable.  It also spatters your kitchen with an immense amount of grease spots.  So wear a hazmat suit.

Finally, all great chefs know that the real secret to a classic gumbo is keeping any and all sprigs of parsley away from the finished product.  Don't garnish it with anything, except an ice cold can of Old Milwaukee beer.  Unopened.  Let that sucker sit in the lava-like gumbo for ten minutes, when it will detonate -- killing all the captured enemies in your kitchen.  

Then you will finally be free to hunt down those wretched Druids and stone them to death with rutabagas.

 

Lou Jacobs: Master of Mirth.

 

Lou Jacobs, born Johann Ludwig Jacob on January 1, 1903, in Bremerhaven, Germany, is widely recognized as one of the most influential and iconic clowns in circus history. His distinctive comedic style and characteristic makeup design have left an indelible mark on the entertainment world and helped shape the image of the classic circus clown.

As a child in Germany, Jacobs was inspired by the circus performers he saw at local fairs and carnivals. At the age of 14, he ran away to join a circus, where he quickly established himself as a talented acrobat and trapeze artist. While he enjoyed the thrill of these daredevil stunts, his real passion lay in clowning, and he started to develop his own clown character and act.

In 1923, Jacobs immigrated to the United States, joining the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus. His talent and dedication quickly propelled him to star status. He became best known for his exaggerated facial features painted in white, red, and black and for his signature oversized costume, including a red nose, a ridiculously large pair of shoes, and an outlandishly tiny car, an act which he famously performed in.

Throughout his career, Jacobs constantly pushed the boundaries of clowning. His act was a blend of physical comedy, slapstick, and classic clowning elements, like his "squeeze horn," which made a distinct honking noise. His mini car routine, where he squeezed his 6-foot tall frame into a car barely bigger than a suitcase, became one of the most beloved acts in Ringling Bros.' history.

Jacobs's dedication to his craft extended beyond the circus ring. He was instrumental in establishing the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Clown College in 1968, where he served as an instructor, sharing his skills and knowledge with future generations of clowns. His influence on clowning was such that his makeup design was trademarked, a first in the industry.

In a career spanning over six decades, Jacobs brought joy and laughter to millions of circus-goers. He was a master of physical comedy, known for his superb timing and comedic acrobatics. His style of clowning defined the classic circus clown for generations and influenced countless performers worldwide.

Lou Jacobs retired from performing in 1988 but continued to teach at the Clown College until his passing on September 13, 1992. His legacy lives on not only in the faces of clowns who wear his distinctive makeup but also in the laughter and joy he brought to the world. In 1998, he became the first living person to have his image on a United States Postal Service stamp, a testament to his impact on American culture.

Despite his international fame, Jacobs remained a humble and generous man. He believed in the transformative power of laughter and dedicated his life to bringing joy to others. His legacy continues to inspire performers around the world, proving that the heart of a clown is timeless. His life reminds us that beneath the makeup and oversized shoes, there lies the spirit of a performer whose sole purpose is to bring laughter and happiness into the world.

The back of a comic book held merchandising marvels galore for a greedly little boy like me . . .

 

1. The Wonder of Novelty

The back pages of comic books during the 1950s served as a treasure trove of wonder and novelty. Sprinkled amidst the superhero sagas, mysterious adventures, and fantastic tales were advertisements for items that sparked the imagination and evoked a sense of awe among young readers. In this era before the internet, children awaited their comics not only for the captivating stories but also the fascinating products presented on the back pages. These items, promising uncharted adventures, irresistible fun, and magical experiences, painted an attractive picture of an incredible world within children's reach.

The allure of these items, which ranged from prank props to make-believe tools, lay in their seeming power to transform ordinary life into something extraordinary. Items such as Sea Monkeys, X-Ray Specs, and even Kryptonite Rocks found their way into these advertisements, each with the promise of fantastic adventures and unique experiences.

I ordered one hundred plastic toy soldiers for the amazing price of one dollar. When they arrived they were half an inch high, thin, and so brittle they snapped like saltine crackers.

2. Sea Monkeys and X-Ray Specs

Among the most popular items were the legendary Sea Monkeys. Promising an instant life creation kit, Sea Monkeys tapped into the childlike fascination with life and its mysteries. These packets contained dried brine shrimp that, when added to water, would "magically" come to life. The ads made them appear as humanoid underwater creatures, which sparked excitement, intrigue, and a little dose of science.

X-Ray Specs, on the other hand, played into a child's fantasy of possessing superpowers. The adverts suggested that wearing these glasses would give the user an ability akin to X-ray vision, allowing them to see through walls and clothing. In reality, the glasses were an optical illusion, creating a blurry, double image that suggested transparency. Despite their non-functionality, they were incredibly popular, fueling children's dreams of possessing extraordinary abilities.

3. Kryptonite Rocks and More

Comic books being the primary medium for superhero tales, it was natural for associated products to find their way into advertisements. Among these were Kryptonite Rocks, a play on Superman's Achilles heel. These were glowing rocks that claimed to possess alien energy. Despite the misleading marketing, the rocks were nothing more than glow-in-the-dark stones, yet their connection to the superhero mythology made them desirable to fans.

Another fascinating product featured in comic book ads was the Charles Atlas Bodybuilding course. Atlas, a well-known figure in the fitness world, promised to transform skinny boys into muscle-bound men through his program, appealing to readers who aspired to gain the physical prowess of their comic book heroes.

4. Footprint of the Back Page Advertisements

The back pages of 1950s comic books offered a tantalizing view of the world to their young readers. Though many of the items were mere novelty items with exaggerated claims, they played a significant role in shaping the era's consumer culture. They tapped into the imaginative possibilities inherent in children, playing off their desire for adventure, mystery, and power.

While some of the advertised products would be deemed misleading by today's standards, they added an element of fantastical reality to the comic book realm. Looking back, the back pages of these comic books serve as a time capsule, a window into the values, dreams, and fascinations of the time, telling a parallel narrative to the stories within the comic panels.

Why Clowns Are Not Scary.

 

Clowns have long been a symbol of joy, entertainment, and laughter, yet some perceive them as scary due to popular culture portrayals. However, it's essential to remember that the core of clowning lies in humor, performance, and amusement, not in horror.

To begin with, the concept of a clown is rooted in comedy. Clowns, with their exaggerated make-up, wild hair, and oversized shoes, are designed to depict caricatures of the human condition, thus inciting laughter. Their act often involves physical comedy, humorous jests, slapstick antics, and comic misunderstanding. They juggle, they fall over, they squirt each other with water; their primary purpose is to amuse and delight.

Moreover, clowns are historically associated with circuses, fairs, and parties, all places of celebration and merriment. They interact with audiences, especially children, creating a playful atmosphere filled with laughter and enjoyment. Many of us have fond memories of attending a circus as a child and being absolutely enchanted by the clowns' performances. The laughs that echoed through the tent were, without a doubt, primarily due to their acts.

Clowns are also significant figures in therapeutic environments. Clown doctors or 'therapeutic clowns' interact with children in hospitals to ease anxiety and stress during difficult times. This highlights the empathy and kindness that's central to the art of clowning. If clowns were inherently scary, they wouldn't be so successful in these sensitive settings.

The fear of clowns, also known as Coulrophobia, is not a widespread phenomenon but more of an exception. It's often fuelled by how media and pop culture have exploited the clown image for terror in movies and books. Characters like Pennywise from Stephen King's "IT" are not representative of clowns as a whole; rather, they are fictional constructs designed to provoke fear. The majority of clowns are light-hearted performers, far removed from these sinister portrayals.

Furthermore, the image of a clown is culturally diverse, making it a universal symbol of amusement. In Native American cultures, clowns play essential roles in religious ceremonies. They're revered as sacred tricksters who use humor to enlighten people. The European tradition has jesters and fools, who were seen as wise and were trusted advisors to royalty. In Asian cultures, clowns often serve as comic relief in serious traditional theatre. Across the globe, clowns are seen as bringers of joy and laughter, not fear.

It's a fallacy to generalize all clowns as scary due to a minority of horror-based portrayals. Clowns are, by nature, performers whose goal is to bring joy, entertain, and in some cases, heal. It's essential to look beyond the fear-inducing representations and understand the true intent behind the red nose and colorful attire. When you consider their history, purpose, and global significance, it becomes clear that clowns are not inherently scary. Instead, they are symbols of joy, laughter, and entertainment that continue to delight audiences worldwide.

The Cook Tent: A Circus Memory.

 

In 2005 I was 'between engagements', as we say in the Business. Ringling Brothers was no longer interested in my services, but I still hungered for life on the road. So I began contacting all the smaller shows to see if they needed a middle-aged clown. They didn't.

But, much to my surprise, I heard back from Barbara Byrd, the matriarch of the mighty Carson & Barnes Five Ring Circus, out of Hugo, Oklahoma.

She wasn't interested in my clowning abilities either. But since I had listed radio announcing as one of my many talents she asked if I would consider being their ringmaster that season.

You could have knocked me over with a croissant. I had never considered such a career shift.

But needs must when the devil drives; so I graciously accepted. 

How I fared in tailcoat and top hat is not to be told in this story. Instead, as a dedicated foodie long before that word was even recognized by Webster's, I wish to dwell for a moment on the Carson & Barnes cook tent.

 The cook tent's blue and white stripped siding was attached to a roach coach type truck that prepared and dispensed 2 meals each day; lunch and dinner. Since the show moved every single morning at 5:30 a.m., there was no breakfast as such. The cooking staff, which doubled as trash pickup and truck drivers, merely set out stale donuts and instant coffee on several rickety card tables. Biting into one of those ancient crullers was like chewing on cardboard sprinkled with powdered sugar. However, I rarely had any appetite to speak of that early in the morning -- so I did not feel impelled to grumble.

Luncheon was served promptly at 12, or as soon as the big top was up and the rigging set inside.

Initially I thought my status as the ringmaster would allow me to step up front for my meal.

How wrong I was!

The roustabouts, those unappreciated drudges who put up the tent each morning and tore it down again each night, had first call at the cook tent. I was politely told to step aside until they had all been served.

After they had been served I once again stepped up for my meal, only to be told once more to cool my heels. 

Now the clowns, already in makeup, were to be fed, since they had to go out well before the show started to sell coloring books. 

Then it was my turn, along with the rest of the no-accounts. 

Since most of the workers and most of the acts were Hispanic, lunch leaned heavily towards beans, corn, and tortillas. There was also a generous tub of pickled jalapeno peppers, sliced carrots in vinegar, and fresh radishes with the stalks still on. I learned quickly that radish leaves are just as good to eat as the radish itself -- something Latinos have known all along but we gringos have yet to learn.

Meat empanadas were also a mainstay of lunch. I had never eaten one prior to working at Carson & Barnes, although I smugly considered myself a world traveler. The cooks did 'em up right. The crust was light and flaky and they didn't skimp on the savory pork or beef filling.  

The rule on Seconds was simple; when the cook yelled "Que quiere mas?" there was a mass stampede up the metal steps to the truck window for the leftovers. It was not unlike a soccer riot, and I did not wish to risk being trampled to death -- so I usually had some beef jerky or beer nuts stashed away in my little room in the back of the electricity truck if I still felt peckish. 

I also functioned as the on-lot publicity man, so whenever a newspaper reporter came to do a story I would give them a tour of the circus lot, including the cook tent. This turned out to be a good deal, because the cooks were instructed by Barbara Byrd herself that any time a reporter visited the cook tent she wanted lots of green salad to be served as well as the regular starchy provender. I took advantage of this ukase by casually informing the cooks almost every day that I expected a reporter from the Times Picayune to pop up during the lunch hour. This got me some much-needed greenery in my diet, although eventually the cooks caught on to my stratagem and started demanding the name of the so-called reporter that was coming over to sample their wares. 

Dinner was much the same as lunch, served between the matinee and evening performances. The big difference being there would also be a hearty soup or stew and cake and pie for desert. All meals were served on metal trays, the same kind the military uses, and after you were done you took your tray and utensils behind the truck and slid them into a large soapy trough for later washing. 

No one ever went hungry who worked for Carson & Barnes. 

Dining al fresco under the blue and white stripes held vast charms for me most of the time. I could look out past the tent flaps onto the circus lot, where elephants swayed, tigers snarled in their cages, and the pennants at the top of the main tent snapped in the breeze. And I always found the combined smell of manure, cotton candy, straw, and cumin to be exhilarating.

 The only hair in the soup, so to speak, was when it rained hard and blew fast -- at those times the cook tent was a leaky, soggy hellhole. The food turned cold as fast as it was served out, and there were boggy holes to circumvent on your way to your table if you wished to avoid sodden feet and a sprained ankle. 

And of course, in the great tradition of mud shows everywhere, during the last few weeks of the season, when the cooks finally realized that they would be unemployed pretty soon, they began to skimp on everything so they could feather their nests for the winter. That's when the food became all canned, all beans, and practically inedible. I had been forewarned that this would happen, so I always located the nearest Subway and began getting most of my meals there. 

I was ringmaster on Carson & Barnes for only one season -- a Byrd family nephew had been groomed to supplant me. But that didn't dismay me; at least I'd eaten well. And with the circus, that's about all you can ever hope for.

The Importance of Religion in America

 

Religion, undeniably, plays a significant role in shaping the social, cultural, and political fabric of American society. It offers a prism through which we can understand several aspects of America's rich diversity and how it influences the nation's values, ethics, and behavioral norms.

Firstly, religion provides a moral framework and a sense of community for many Americans. It offers guidance on how to live an ethical and fulfilling life, fostering social cohesion and mutual understanding. The teachings and values instilled by various religions often translate into individual behaviors and societal norms, leading to community service, philanthropy, and other forms of altruism. This, in turn, contributes to the general well-being and stability of society.

Secondly, America is known for its religious diversity, a reflection of its history as a refuge for those persecuted for their faith. This diversity is a critical aspect of America's cultural tapestry, nurturing the nation's characteristically strong commitment to pluralism and tolerance. The freedom to practice one's religion has been enshrined in the Constitution and has shaped American identity and its politics since its inception.

Thirdly, religion plays a vital role in American politics. Religious beliefs often influence policy debates and political alignments, spanning issues such as social justice, education, health care, and more. The phrase "faith-based voting" is often used to describe the phenomenon of voters casting ballots aligned with their religious convictions. Moreover, religious institutions frequently mobilize social movements and catalyze political action. Historical movements such as the Civil Rights Movement and the Abolitionist Movement were deeply rooted in religious convictions.

Fourthly, religion in America offers a path for personal growth and exploration. It serves as a sanctuary for individuals seeking inner peace and existential answers. Whether through prayer, meditation, or study of religious texts, many Americans find solace, strength, and purpose in their religious practices, contributing to their mental and emotional health.

In conclusion, religion is a significant element of American society due to its ability to shape moral frameworks, nurture cultural diversity, influence politics, and support personal growth. However, it's also important to acknowledge the ongoing dialogue about the role of religion in public life, which reflects the evolving nature of American society and its values. Amidst the undeniable importance of religion, America continues to uphold the principle of freedom, allowing individuals to practice their religion or to refrain from religious practices as they see fit. This delicate balance is a testament to the enduring importance of religious freedom and pluralism in the United States.

How to tell a joke.

 

Telling a joke is a unique skill that involves timing, delivery, and a keen sense of your audience. It's a delightful fusion of the right words, context, and personality. Here are some practical steps you can follow to deliver a joke in the most entertaining manner.

Firstly, you must understand the joke yourself. Before sharing a joke, make sure you comprehend it, find it amusing, and can communicate it clearly. Remember, if you can't explain it, your audience won't get it either. For instance, consider this simple joke: "Why don't scientists trust atoms? Because they make up everything!" To tell this joke, you must understand that atoms are the building blocks of all matter, or 'make up everything', which is a play on the phrase 'to make up' meaning to lie.

Secondly, know your audience. Consider their backgrounds, tastes, and potential sensitivities. Will they appreciate a pun, or are they more inclined to laugh at a knock-knock joke? If you're telling a joke in a professional setting, it's wise to steer clear of risqué humor. A safe example might be: "Why don't we ever tell secrets on a farm? Because the potatoes have eyes, the corn has ears, and the beans stalk."

Next, perfect your delivery. The timing, tone, and tempo play a pivotal role. Use pauses effectively, and pay attention to the rhythm of your words. In the joke, "I told my wife she should embrace her mistakes... She gave me a hug," the pause before the punchline is crucial for effect.

Finally, practice makes perfect. The more jokes you tell, the better you'll become at gauging your audience's reactions and adjusting your delivery. And don't worry if you occasionally miss the mark; even professional comedians sometimes tell jokes that fall flat.

To sum up, telling a joke is an art, but it's one that you can learn. By understanding your joke, knowing your audience, honing your delivery, and practicing regularly, you'll have them laughing in no time. To close, here's a classic: "Two antennas met on a roof, fell in love, and got married. The ceremony wasn't much, but the reception was excellent!" Happy joking!

Otto Griebling: The Saddest Clown You Ever Laughed At.

 

Otto Griebling: The Whimsical Maestro of Circus Laughter

In the whimsical world of the circus, where laughter and amazement intertwine, one name stands out among the crowd—Otto Griebling, the master of mirth and the crowned prince of clowning. With his vibrant personality, impeccable comic timing, and mastery of circus lingo, Griebling turned the art of clowning into a symphony of hilarity that captivated audiences around the globe.

Born on a chilly winter's eve in 1912, in the small town of Wunderstadt, Griebling seemed destined for the circus life. From an early age, he was captivated by the mystique of the big top, drawn to the kaleidoscope of colors, the aroma of popcorn and sawdust, and the infectious laughter that filled the air.

At the tender age of 12, Griebling ran away from home, joining a traveling circus troupe as a "ballyhoo boy." His days were filled with sweeping the ring, tending to the elephants, and studying the seasoned clowns with an unwavering determination. He learned the secret language of the circus, soaking up every piece of jargon like a sponge, eager to one day make his mark under the big top.

With each passing year, Griebling honed his craft, mastering the art of pratfalls, slapstick humor, and acrobatic buffoonery. His clown persona, known as "Bumble the Baffling," became a symbol of laughter and joy, embodying the spirit of the circus itself. With his red bulbous nose, oversized shoes, and a cascade of rainbow-colored ruffles, Griebling transformed into a comedic maestro, conducting laughter like a virtuoso.

His performances were a symphony of laughter and merriment, orchestrated with meticulous precision. From the first notes of his "horn o' plenty," which spouted water in every direction, to the gravity-defying stunts on the high wire, Griebling brought the circus to life with his infectious energy. Whether juggling a dozen rubber chickens or emerging from a tiny clown car with his fellow jesters, Griebling's antics transcended language barriers, bringing smiles to faces of all ages.

But Griebling's talents extended beyond the clowning arena. He was a true polymath of the circus world, excelling as an accomplished trapeze artist, tightrope walker, and magician. His daring aerial exploits left spectators breathless as he soared through the air, defying gravity with each graceful swing. And when he wasn't performing jaw-dropping feats of athleticism, Griebling dazzled audiences with his sleight of hand, weaving illusions that left even the most skeptical spectators in awe.

Behind the greasepaint and exaggerated gestures, Griebling's heart overflowed with compassion. He dedicated his life to bringing joy to those who needed it most, often visiting hospitals and orphanages to share his clownish antics and brighten the lives of those facing adversity. His kindness and empathy shone through his performances, leaving a lasting impression on everyone he encountered.

Throughout his illustrious career, Griebling's name became synonymous with laughter and wonder. He headlined in the most prestigious circuses around the world, from the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus in the United States to the Cirque du Soleil in Europe. Critics hailed him as a true icon of the circus, a luminary whose presence could light up the darkest corners of any tent.

As the years rolled on, Griebling continued to embrace his role as the ambassador of laughter. Even as age dimmed his physical abilities, his spirit remained indomitable. He mentored aspiring clowns, passing down the secrets of the trade and preserving the traditions of the circus for future generations.

In the twilight of his life, Otto Griebling could look back with pride at a career that brought smiles to millions. His legacy continues to inspire and delight, reminding us all that laughter truly is the greatest show on Earth. So, the next time you find yourself beneath the big top, amidst the swirl of circus lingo and the roar of the crowd, take a moment to remember the whimsical maestro of circus laughter—Otto Griebling, the clown who forever painted the world in vibrant hues of joy.

The Importance of Poetry.

 

Poetry is an extraordinary form of expression that stands uniquely in the realm of the arts. It combines the precision of language with the expressive capacity of music and the symbolic potential of visual art. The importance of poetry is multilayered, ranging from its emotional power to its role in intellectual development and cultural preservation.

From an emotional standpoint, poetry serves as a profound medium for human expression. It captures and conveys emotions in a way few other art forms can, offering an outlet for feelings that might otherwise remain unexpressed or misunderstood. Whether the poet expresses sorrow, joy, love, or any other human emotion, the reader is offered a visceral understanding of these feelings. This experience promotes empathy, as one is transported into the emotional world of another, broadening one’s emotional intelligence and understanding of the human condition.

Poetry also has an instrumental role in cognitive development. The reading and composition of poetry require analytical skills, encouraging a deeper comprehension and appreciation for language. Poetry’s concise form and emphasis on subtlety pushes the reader to consider each word’s significance, fostering a deeper understanding of language's nuances and complexities. Similarly, the creation of poetry requires critical thinking and the ability to translate complex thoughts and feelings into words. This cognitive engagement is beneficial for all, regardless of age or educational level.

Moreover, poetry enhances creativity and encourages imaginative thinking. The often-abstract language used in poetry stimulates the imagination, as the reader must interpret the symbols and metaphors presented. This fosters creativity and nurtures an open-minded perspective that is not only important in artistic fields, but also in problem-solving and innovation in any area of life.

Poetry's importance also extends to its role in preserving culture and heritage. Many civilizations have used poetry to record their histories, beliefs, and experiences. This provides a window into their world, granting future generations a unique insight into their past. Poetry captures the zeitgeist of its time, preserving collective memories and giving voice to those who might have otherwise been forgotten.

Additionally, poetry encourages diversity and inclusivity. Since poetry can be written and appreciated by anyone, regardless of socio-economic status, education, or cultural background, it fosters a sense of belonging and unity. The universality of emotions and experiences portrayed in poetry underscores our shared humanity, promoting mutual understanding and acceptance.

In the digital age, poetry has taken on even greater significance. As we navigate an era defined by information overload and shortened attention spans, poetry’s brevity and depth offer a respite. It compels us to pause, reflect, and appreciate the intricacies of language and emotion. Poetry's ability to distill the essence of human experience into a few stanzas holds a mirror to our lives, provoking thought and inspiring introspection.

In conclusion, the importance of poetry is manifold. It is an emotional outlet, a tool for cognitive development, a stimulus for creativity, a keeper of culture, a promoter of inclusivity, and a sanctuary in a hyper-connected world. It enriches our emotional vocabulary, broadens our understanding, and ultimately makes us more empathetic, creative, and aware beings. It is a celebration of language, emotion, and the human experience itself.

The Goat Story.

 

I have a goat story.  Doesn’t everyone?

Back in 1985 I was briefly associated with Aurora, the Living Unicorn.  She was the feature attraction of Ringling Brothers, Barnum & Bailey Circus that year.  I had retired from the circus several years earlier to marry and raise a family in Minnesota, working at a small-market radio station in Park Rapids.  I followed the saga of Aurora, the Living Unicorn, in the newspapers.  The media unequivocally  branded her a goat, with some kind of kinky horn transplant.  

One spring morning, as I looked out the kitchen window at the pearls of dew glistening on the tiny new leaves of the butternut tree in the backyard, feeling the lick of a playful southern breeze on my cheek, and generally rejoicing in the placid simplicity of my life, the phone rang. It was my old Ringling pal, Jerry, impresario of garish headlines and unabashed ballyhoo for the circus.  We exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes before Jerry got down to brass tacks.  Aurora the Living Unicorn needed a babysitter while the show was in Chicago.  Her current keeper had to leave the show on family business for two weeks.  Would I consider rejoining the show for that time period, to tend the fabulous creature?  Transportation would be paid and the remuneration was handsome.  I could even stay at the Palmer House.

I was initially cold to his offer, but promised to discuss it with the wife and call him back with my decision later in the day.  Amy liked the money, which we could use to pay down the mortgage.  I had the two weeks available as vacation if I wanted.  And several of Amy’s sisters were coming for a long visit anyways.  So it seemed more opportune than I had at first imagined.

That is why a few days later I was in the Windy City, trying to stare down a one-horned goat.  There was no doubt about it – whatever the circus programme might burble, that animal smelled like, looked like, and acted like a goat.  Her horizontal pupils glistened with pure goat malice; she tried to butt me constantly, and nibbled my windbreaker to shreds.  Plus she had the scours, which in goats is a mild form of diarrhea.  Instead of neat little berries of poop scattered here and there, she was constantly dribbling an unspeakable green slime.  Jerry assured me this was not serious.  I should dose her with slippery elm powder, just put it in her grain, and she would be right as rain.

Aurora had her own float, on which she rode in triumph during the Spec.  My job was to be at her side so she did not try to bolt off the platform.  She was tethered to it, but still insisted on leaping away like Super Goat, which might have strangled her.  The costume that circus wardrobe rigged up for me while I was on the float was a cross between Napoleon on the battle field and Bozo.  I staggered under the weight of a ten pound bicorne that sprouted peacock feathers, had a checkered silk vest that was too tight, and wore blazing red knickers that gave way to yellow stockings and large pink slippers.  Aurora wanted those peacock feathers.  She kept jumping up on me, placing her front hoofs on my chest, to better grab a mouth full.  Her foul breath would have made sewer gas seem like Chanel #5.  

True to Jerry’s promise, I had a lavish room at the Palmer House, but I never stayed there.  Not a single night.  Aurora, bless her Bovidae heart, needed companionship at night, as she suffered from insomnia and night jitters when left alone.  So I rolled up in a sleeping bag and nestled with Aurora in fresh hay each night.  By day she was irascible and intractable.  By night she was all affection.  He who snuggles with a goat partakes of the aroma of a goat.  The only way to get rid of that goatish perfume was to shower with Fels-Naptha laundry soap.  

I took the goat, um, I mean the unicorn, to a press conference, where Chicago reporters displayed more interest in the buffet table and free bar than in Aurora.  I had been labeled her ‘temporary entourage’ by a playful Jerry.  He had given me an information sheet on Aurora, which she promptly ate before I had a chance to review it.  A woman reporter, in between bites of brie on a cracker, asked me if Aurora could have kids.  Only with another unicorn, I replied.  I felt pretty cocky after that zinger, so I was unprepared when another reporter began to grill me about how cruel it was to force a living creature to demean itself with horn bud transplants.  I finally managed to stammer that Aurora was in absolutely no pain and that nothing had been done to alter her horns or any other part of her body.  At this point Aurora decided to end the press conference by bleating loudly and rushing the front row of ink-stained wretches.  The room erupted into chaos, with reporters cowering near the free bar, protecting the fragile liquor bottles from harm, while Aurora cheerfully trotted around the room, butting abdomens and lapping up the spilled booze.  She was a mean drunk, sucker-punching several TV cameramen.

When I finally managed to drag her away from the imbroglio she had started she repaid me by giving me a good, sound kick in the knee with her hind legs.  It would have been curtains, or goatburger, for her at that moment if Jerry had not intervened with the joyous news that Aurora’s regular keeper had returned, a few days earlier than expected.  I guess Jerry figured I was too disgruntled about the whole Living Unicorn episode to trust, so he put me back on a plane to Minnesota that very same day.  Which was fine with me, because I had the big, fat Ringling check in my wallet.

Back in peaceful, unicorn-free Park Rapids I settled down in bed that first night with Amy and attempted to become reacquainted her.  She repulsed me.

“Whew!” she told me before turning over, “You smell like a goat!”

Thanks, Aurora.