Rubber Bands.

 

Rubber bands, also known as elastic bands, are ubiquitous items in our daily lives. They are remarkably simple and versatile, used in diverse settings from offices and schools to homes and factories. Their history is intertwined with the discovery and commercialization of rubber, providing fascinating insights into the ingenuity of human innovation.

The story of rubber bands begins with the rubber tree, Hevea brasiliensis, native to South America. For thousands of years, indigenous peoples used rubber to create various items, like waterproof shoes and balls for games. They learned to tap the tree's bark to extract the milky latex, which they would subsequently dry and harden.

European explorers brought rubber to the Old World in the late 15th century, but its unique properties weren't fully appreciated until the 18th century. In 1770, British scientist Joseph Priestley noted that rubber was effective for erasing pencil marks, leading to its English name: rubber, the "eraser."

But the real turning point for rubber—and, by extension, rubber bands—came in the 19th century. Charles Goodyear, an American inventor, discovered the process of vulcanization in 1839. By heating rubber with sulfur, Goodyear found that it became more durable and less affected by temperature. This development allowed rubber to be used in a wider array of products, including the predecessor to modern rubber bands.

The rubber band as we know it was patented in England in 1845 by Stephen Perry of the rubber manufacturing company Messers Perry and Co. These bands were made from vulcanized rubber and used to hold papers and envelopes together, and it was a revolutionary concept at the time. Perry's rubber bands were the first to be produced on a large scale and opened the door to countless applications that we see today.

During the late 19th and early 20th centuries, the rubber industry expanded rapidly, with plantations spreading across British and Dutch colonies in Southeast Asia. This provided a steady supply of raw material for rubber bands and other rubber-based products.

Throughout the 20th century, rubber bands became increasingly common and essential in various industries. Advances in manufacturing techniques led to improved quality, durability, and elasticity. The bands started being used in diverse applications such as fastening bags, bundling products, aiding in home crafts, and even in technology like airplane and automobile production.

In today’s world, rubber bands continue to hold their significance. They are manufactured in different sizes, colors, and strengths, catering to a multitude of uses. In the digital age, where paper usage has decreased, rubber bands have adapted, finding relevance in tech, fashion, agriculture, and beyond.

The humble rubber band, therefore, stands as a testament to human ingenuity and adaptability. Born from the sap of a tree, propelled into ubiquity by the spark of innovation, it has stretched and flexed its way into the annals of history and remains a staple of our daily lives.

Prose Poem: Who Makes The Grilled Cheese Sandwiches? (Dedicated to Emily Heil.)

 

Amy puts them under the broiler, and uses mayonnaise.

Me, I fry 'em in a pan, using lots of butter.

So who's right, and who's wrong?  Me or my wife.

We both can't be right. When it comes to grilled cheese sandwiches.

It just ain't natural.  It's contradictory.  An anachronism.  Subversive.

Thinking outside the universe.  Like H.P. Lovecraft.

The cheese really doesn't matter.  We get a block of processed cheese each month

from the Food Bank, so we use that.  We tried cream cheese once.  Not a pretty sight.

Go ahead and laugh, but I'm thinking of taking this issue to the Supreme Court.  Or the Food Channel.  Or my old friend Crazy Henry.  

He lives on grilled cheese sandwiches, and Kraft's Mac & Cheese.  Nothing else. Not a salad or an apple or hamburger.  He drinks skim milk.  He's been called Crazy Henry ever since tenth grade, long ago, when he ordered a Capuchin monkey from the back page of a comic book and kept it in his bedroom until his mother made him take it to Como Zoo. Did you know it was Ted Fingerhut -- the guy who owns the Fingerhut Catalogue Company -- who first started selling little monkeys in comic books?  From there he went to plastic car seat covers.  Man, those things got hot and sticky in the summer, back in the 1960's.

And my mother never made us kids grilled cheese sandwiches.  Not once.  She could have made the effort.  Made us a normal lunch.  But she had to make tuna salad instead.  Nothing but tuna salad.  Amy and I both agree, at least, on that:  The only good tuna salad is a thrown-away tuna salad.

Did I mention the cheese really doesn't matter?

Prose Poem: The Angel Unaware. (Dedicated to Laurie Goodstein.)

 

Frustrated at how little my Social Security provided, I joined the gig economy.  Since I like to write doggerel, I had business cards made up that read: "Poet for Hire."  I had the same made into magnetic signs for my van.  Bright yellow.  Very catchy.

Then my wife hand-lettered, on white poster board, "Poet for Hire."  I took this over to the nearby supermarket parking lot and stood on the sidewalk during rush hour.  I figured somebody might be curious enough to stop and talk and maybe I could write them a limerick for a few bucks.  Not panhandling, you understand.  I had something tangible to offer in exchange for payment.

After an hour a woman approached me.  She had a pinched, drawn face, and was wearing torn jeans.  Smoking a cigarette -- which is always suspect here in Utah. She was pushing a shopping cart full of Diet Coke, bags of Doritos, a gallon of Clorox, rolls of Charmin and a huge package of Bounty paper towels.

"You must be hungry -- here!" she said, handing me a bag of Doritos and a Slim Jim.  Before I could give her my business card and explain what I was doing she wheeled her cart away.  Like she didn't want to talk to me.

That opened the floodgates.  Now people drove up to me waving dollar bills in my face.  Or pushed deli sandwiches, bottles of water, and fruit leather into my hands.

"Wait! Stop! Let me explain!" I pleaded with them as they all drove or walked away before I could offer them my services.  They didn't want my services.  They had no interest in my business card.  Finally I took hold of the arm of a young man who gave me a Hershey bar and forced him to hear me out: "I can write you a funny verse on anything you like! Something for Father's Day or to your girlfriend."

He shook me loose. Then beamed at me.

"That's okay, sir. For all I know I'm entertaining an angel unaware, as it says in the Bible. Happy to do it. Good luck to you!" he said as he practically ran away from me.

So I was nothing but a panhandler to these people after all.  A test of their charity.

"How'd you do?" my wife asked when I got home. "Anybody hire you for a poem?"

"Here" I said bitterly, laying sandwiches, candy bars, dollar bills, and bottles of water on the kitchen table. "I'm gonna go down to Wendy's. See if they're still hiring for weekends."

Everyone Needs a Small Town.

 

Everyone needs a Marshalltown, Iowa; a Zap, North Dakota; or a Swink, Colorado.  A small-town place where one can sit quietly and invite “a green thought in a green shade.”

It doesn’t matter if you are born into such a setting, or come to it later in life.  The important thing is to recognize it and grab hold of it while you can, while the blood runs red and the mind still fights its own discontent.

We joke about the small town, quoting to each other Fred Allen’s story of the seaside village that was so mundane the tide went out one day – and never came back.  New York and Chicago and Los Angeles are crammed chock-a-block with people who have ‘escaped’ from America’s small towns.  Usually to find work and to lose heart.

Small towns can be suffocating, with their blindered zeitgeist.  But they are also liberating, with an anomalous peace that roots deep.

I have lived in several small towns over the course of forty years; towns where the traffic lights simultaneously blink yellow all night long, where mail only comes to post office boxes,  where locks on doors are rusted open from disuse, where grain elevators are the tallest buildings not only in town but in the whole county. 

In these towns all the church bells ring at noon on Good Friday, and business closes up.   Streams of children walk to school, and walk home again for lunch.  Old men sit in the VFW, watching their beer grow warm and flat, remembering the September weather in Inchon. Though the children still frolic, the adults have learned not to bustle, but to treat sidewalks like minefields, stopping frequently to examine the terrain.

 There are benches in the town square, where I have sat many a drowsy summer afternoon or tangy fall morning to watch the same people go to the same places.  This is not monotony.  It is purpose and instinct.  The heavy hardware store door needs oiling.  But I like to hear it clear its raspy throat.  The gazebo needs painting. Chipmunks have set up a commune underneath it and hold comic battles with the squirrels to defend it.  I don’t think great thoughts while sitting on a park bench in a small town in the middle of Iowa, but I don’t think bad thoughts, either.  On such benches, on such days as I could filch from work, I have thought about how much I would like to see a barn owl or recall the milkweed silk and the cottonwood fluff piling up in the dry gutters on a breezy day.  I have relived the small moments that echo so momentously in my life – the day I was baptized, as an adult, into a new church, and the night I met a Thai woman during Songkran, and what came of  those events.

The big city will feed you life, almost intravenously; in a small town you chew over the cud of your existence again and again.  It takes courage and tenacity to live in a small town and not go stir crazy.  To live in a big city all it takes is money, or something to counterfeit it.

We should all have a Marshalltown we can go to when things are too noisy, too intense, and too unstable.  I hope I’ll meet you there some day, on a park bench over by the courthouse.

It's always time for pickled herring!

 

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Pickled herring, a popular delicacy in Scandinavian and Northern European cuisines, has its roots deeply embedded in historical food preservation techniques. As with any food, its consumption carries a mixture of potential benefits and drawbacks, and it is vital to consider these to make informed dietary decisions. One of the most notable advantages of pickled herring is its rich nutritional profile. High in protein and omega-3 fatty acids, it provides essential nutrients that can contribute to various aspects of health, including heart health, brain function, and overall immunity.

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Omega-3 fatty acids, in particular, are highly lauded for their numerous health benefits. They play a crucial role in brain health, reducing inflammation, and improving heart health by decreasing triglycerides, blood pressure, and the build-up of plaque in the arteries. Regular consumption of pickled herring, which is rich in these essential fatty acids, could help prevent chronic diseases, such as heart disease and Alzheimer’s. Moreover, the high protein content can aid in muscle building and repair, making it an excellent choice for those seeking to increase their protein intake.

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Pickled herring is also an excellent source of vitamin D, a nutrient not found abundantly in many foods. Vitamin D is essential for bone health, immune system function, and the absorption of calcium. Its presence in pickled herring can help prevent vitamin D deficiency, which is often linked to bone diseases such as osteoporosis. Furthermore, this fish also provides a considerable amount of B vitamins, notably B12, which is key for nerve function and the production of DNA and red blood cells.

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Despite the numerous benefits, consuming pickled herring does present some potential downsides. The pickling process often involves the use of vinegar, salt, and sugar to enhance flavor and longevity. Consequently, pickled herring can be high in sodium, which, if consumed excessively, can contribute to high blood pressure, heart disease, and kidney disease. It is therefore essential to consume this food in moderation, particularly for those with existing health conditions or those on a sodium-restricted diet.

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Another downside to consider is the sugar content. Although not as significant as the sodium content, the sugar used in the pickling process can contribute to the overall calorie count. This could lead to weight gain if not balanced with other low-calorie food items and regular physical activity. Additionally, excessive sugar intake is associated with an increased risk of conditions such as type 2 diabetes and heart disease.

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Moreover, pickled herring, like other fish, may contain traces of heavy metals such as mercury, depending on the water in which it was caught. Although the levels in herring are typically lower compared to larger fish like tuna, the potential risk cannot be completely disregarded. Regular consumption of fish with high levels of mercury can lead to mercury poisoning, which can negatively affect the nervous system and cognitive development.

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Allergies are another potential concern. As with other types of seafood, some people may be allergic to herring, leading to reactions that could range from mild, such as itching and rash, to severe, such as anaphylaxis. It's therefore essential for those with known seafood allergies to avoid herring, while those trying it for the first time should do so with caution.

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From an environmental perspective, herring is considered one of the more sustainable choices in terms of seafood. They are usually caught using methods that do less harm to the environment compared to other fishing practices. However, there are still concerns regarding overfishing and the potential impact on herring populations and the broader marine ecosystem.

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Despite these potential drawbacks, the taste of pickled herring is an appealing factor for many people. It offers a unique combination of tartness from the pickling process and the inherent fishy, yet milder flavor of the herring itself. Its distinct taste is celebrated in many traditional dishes and events, adding a cultural richness that extends beyond its nutritional profile.

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In conclusion, the pros and cons of consuming pickled herring are multifaceted, involving considerations related to health, diet, environment, and culture. Its nutritional benefits are substantial, including a rich supply of omega-3 fatty acids, protein, and certain vitamins. However, concerns about sodium and sugar content, potential allergenic properties, and traces of heavy metals underline the importance of moderate consumption. With this balanced view, one can fully appreciate the value and potential drawbacks of this traditional delicacy.

The LDS Faith is no sheyne maysele.

 

A faith community distinguished by its emphasis on love, service, and an unending sense of optimism, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, or the LDS Church, as it is often referred to, is widely acknowledged for its mesira nefesh (devotion) to charitable endeavors. This, some say, is no sheyne maysele (simple tale), but a foundational part of the Church's teachings, deeply rooted in its scriptures, traditions, and doctrine.

The LDS Church's remarkable tzadakah (charitable giving) is derived from its theological mandate of "love thy neighbor." This principle is woven into the very fabric of LDS culture, extending beyond mere financial contributions to include acts of loving-kindness, outreach, and voluntary service. From assisting their mishpokhe (family) and community to reaching out to the world's destitute corners, the LDS Church encourages its members to be the personification of a mensch (person of integrity and honor), always willing and ready to help others.

The LDS Church, being a global organization, has developed far-reaching humanitarian efforts that illustrate its extraordinary baleboste (competence in managing households or organizations). For instance, LDS Charities, the humanitarian arm of the Church, continually responds to crises worldwide, providing essential relief in the forms of food, shelter, and healthcare.

At the heart of these generous acts is the LDS concept of "diener" (servant), which embodies selfless service and love for humanity. This has led the LDS Church to establish welfare programs, education initiatives, and employment assistance schemes that target those suffering from poverty, illiteracy, and unemployment. The Church's long-standing welfare program, for instance, epitomizes this diener spirit, offering assistance to the needy and facilitating self-reliance by fostering a work ethic and building life skills.

For many in the LDS Church, the act of giving is seen as a mitzvah (commandment), not merely an optional good deed. This spiritual responsibility is formalized in the practice of "tithing," where members donate ten percent of their income to the Church, fueling both local congregational needs and global humanitarian projects. Such consistent and disciplined financial contributions highlight the LDS Church's generosity.

Another unique practice within the LDS Church is the concept of "fast offerings." Once a month, members voluntarily fast for two meals and donate the money saved to the Church. This money is then used to aid those in need, demonstrating the LDS Church's commitment to shared sacrifice and communal support.

At its core, the LDS Church's philanthropy is rooted in the Yiddish ideal of being a mensch – performing good deeds not for praise or recognition but because it is the right thing to do. From welfare programs and humanitarian aid to education initiatives and disaster relief, the LDS Church's bountiful giving encapsulates the Yiddish saying, "A guter mensch tracht zu helfen" – a good person seeks to help.

Indeed, the LDS Church’s generosity is not a bubbe meise (old wives' tale) but a lived reality, a testament to its foundational tenets of love, service, and community. It is this spirit of giving, this consistent and concerted outreach, that sets the LDS Church apart as a paragon of religious and humanitarian generosity.

The Special Children. A Circus Memory.

 

When I returned from my LDS mission in Thailand I was stony broke. I called old man Feld at Ringling Brothers, and he gave me a job back in clown alley. I was hoping he'd reinstate me as an advance clown, but no -- I was to be one of the faceless funny faces.

On top of that, there were now dancers in clown alley, for the love of Mike! They spent patient hours of their free time showing me the new, intricate steps that the clowns had to perform during Opening, Spec, and Manage. I repaid their kindness with cold stares and a nose completely up in the stratosphere.

The whole atmosphere of clown alley had grown seedier in the 3 years I was gone. A pall of cigarette smoke hung over the place as if someone were filming a 1940's film noir. Beer cans clattered to the floor and were kicked through the blue curtains out into the public hallways. The boss clown was busy chasing showgirls, even though he was married. And the old stalwarts like Prince Paul and Mark Anthony were decaying before my eyes; growing into slippered pantaloons, only interested in counting their money and their days until retirement.

Several weeks after reenlisting in this dissolute buffoonery brigade I decided to save my pennies and seek further light and knowledge by going to Paris to study with Marcel Marceau. I applied to his pantomime school and was accepted; now I needed to come up with the 25-hundred dollar tuition.

I applied myself to the arts of miserliness and cadging.

I attended every press party, in makeup, to fill my ample pockets, ala Harpo Marx, with any loose comestibles. I ate only chili at the pie car -- 95 cents a bowl, and so swimming in rendered bovine tallow that I began to develop an udder.

I forsook Stein's Clown White for the detestable Nye's Liquid Clown White to save a dollar or two each week. It streaked horribly, leaving me looking like The Mummy's Revenge by the end of the day.

I refused outright to purchase a clown wig, and styled my own mousy brown hair, with minimal success, to stand up straight like Stan Laurel's.

My costumes came straight from Goodwill -- baggy golf pants and pregnant women's blouses. Luckily, while I was in Thailand I had a Parsi tailor in Bangkok make me a huge orange overcoat with yellow piping and giant green buttons. It now covered a multitude of shabby sins.

I would not contribute to the coffee fund. Or to the beer fund. I never went halves on a pizza delivery, but hung about the periphery of the feasters, ready to swoop in like a vulture and devour the discarded crusts. I did not go to the movies or hang out in bars with my fellow joeys.

And I'm afraid my plans for imminent departure, along with my disdain for their riotous and prodigal ways, were all too clear to my colleagues. I was about as popular as a dirty diaper in a bowl of punch.

Halfway through the season I attained my coveted goal -- the 25-hundred was securely deposited in the bank.

I confided to my old pal Tim Holst, who was ringmaster that season, that I was going to jump ship as soon as my confirmation letter arrived from Paris. A travel agency in New York was handling my sojourn -- a tramp steamer left from the Jersey side every Wednesday, and I could book passage to La Havre for a measly two-hundred bucks. Holst wished me good luck, saying "You don't belong in this hellhole anymore."

But before my letter arrived, the terrible Charlie Baumann came into clown alley just before a matinee, peering gloomily around at us. He was the Performance Director, a Teutonic tyrant who hated clowns. He was also the tiger trainer, and carried around a whip like it was a crozier.

His glare settled on me. I fell back, cowering, before his far-from-benevolent gaze.

"You!" he said thickly, in his Katzenjammer accent. "You kommen vit me!"

He gestured imperiously for me to follow him as he strode out of clown alley, much like the Kaiser in World War One must have ordered his troops to the front.

I meekly obeyed. Once outside the alley he turned on me, and I don't mind telling you I flinched like an owl blinking in the sunlight. But he merely said "Dere iss ein boonch uff kits in da front section. You are excuzzed from da show to sit mit dem und narrate da show for dem. Dey are blind. Verstehst du? Blind." He dragged me through the auditorium entrance to point them out to me. Then left.

Being in makeup, I usually feel invulnerable in front of a crowd. But not that day. Not at first. I sidled slowly over to the kids; about 2 dozen of them, all chattering excitedly and making strange gestures with their hands. I sat down on an elephant tub in front of their seats, cleared my throat, and shouted "Hi kids!" They immediately went silent, their hands falling to their sides as if tied to lead weights. I tried again, softer.

"Hi kids. I'm Dusty the Clown."

"Hi Dusty!" they chorused back enthusiastically.

After that, it was a cinch.

As the show progressed I described the costumes and animals to them, giving them the inside info on the performers they'd never get from a program.

"Here comes Anna Bornholm, our famous Princess of the Spanish Web -- that's not green lipstick she's wearing -- she eats so many pistachios that she doesn't NEED lipstick!"

"And there goes Stancho Sandor, our world-famous Bulgarian acrobat. He can hold ten men on his burly shoulders. He's in love with a lady pig farmer he met back in Iowa, and he has me write all his love letters for him!"

"Watch out, kids! Those crazy clowns are coming out again. This time they've got ladders and buckets of white paint. Get ready to duck! That little guy is Prince Paul -- he's only four and a half feet tall, but he can throw the most paint of anyone in clown alley. That's because he practices throwing pop bottles at the rats that come sniffing around our trunks."

By the end of the show I had nothing but a hoarse croak left for a voice.

I used it to thank the children for coming, and to ask if there was anything else I could tell them about the show.

One little girl spoke up quickly.

"We want to feel your face" she shouted. The rest of the children echoed her request, so I climbed over the railing and let them come up and lay their fingers gently on my face.

And a strange thing happened.

"Oh" said one child, "this part is white."

Another one giggled and said "He's got blue eyebrows!"

"His nose is all red!" said a boy, who not only couldn't see but was in a wheelchair.

"Why are you crying, Dusty?" one girl asked.

"Oh, I ain't crying" I told her. "That's just sweat -- being funny all the time is hard work!"

After they had all felt my face, and commented on the different colors it contained, their teacher got them ready to go back on the bus. I managed to take her aside for a second to ask how they could tell what color my makeup was.

"I don't know" she said simply. "But they always know the colors of the things they love the most."

A few days later my letter came from Paris. I put it in my clown trunk and didn't get around to replying for quite a while. Seems like every time I got ready to reply, another group of Special kids came to the show and Baumann always picked me talk to them.

Today's results. So far.

 

so I took my "Poet for Hire" sign over to Fresh Market around 1:30 this afternoon. It was cloudy so I didn't have to worry about overheating, although I did put on the sun screen anyway.  I was just getting ready to leave when a mousy blonde, 30-ish, wearing white culottes and a pink blouse, with oversized sunglasses, came up to me.  She was filming me on her phone as she approached.

"I'll give you all the money I've got in my purse if you'll write a poem for me right now" she said.

"How much you got?" I asked her.

She gave a snarky smile and said she wouldn't tell me.  I shrugged my shoulders and said okay, I'd do it.

"I only do haiku" I told her. "Do you know what that is?"

"Sure" she said. "5-7-5."

"Okay" I replied. "What do you want it to be about?"

"About you."

"About me?"

"Yes."

I demurred.

"That's hardly a proper subject for a haiku" I told her. "How about something from nature?"

"I'm sorry we couldn't agree on the subject" she said, very sniffy.  I was curious to know how much was in her purse, so I relented and said I'd write a haiku about me.  It went like this --

I am not too fat.

You are not too cruel, yet.

Can we be buddies?

I signed it, then tore the page out of my notebook to hand to her.  She opened up her purse and, lo and behold, I received . . .

$14.00. 

I guess this whole rigmarole will be on social media somewhere.  I didn't bother to ask for her name or what platform the video would be on.  I was starting to get hot and wanted to go into Fresh Market to buy a few things with my new ill-gotten gains to make a cookie salad tomorrow.

Then I walked home and stopped in front of the building to sit with my sign for a few minutes to catch my breath.  It's been awful windy today and it was all I could do to hold onto my sign with both hands.

As I'm sitting there a van pulls up to me, with a Domino Pizza sign on top.  The driver gets out, introduces himself as Connor, and proceeds to tell me his life story -- how he writes fantasy novels and hopes to crack the bestseller list one day. In the meantime he supports himself delivering pizzas.  I gave him one of my cards and wished him good luck.  I nearly offered to write him a haiku in return for any extra pizzas he might be carrying, but thought better of it -- too crass, for a haiku master of my stature.

I've noticed that many of the people who stop to talk to me don't want to buy a poem from me, they just want to discuss their dreams of writing success with someone they think is empathetic to their aspirations. In reality, of course, I am thinking to myself: "If you don't want to give me money then hit the road!"  But I put on a pleasant, interested, hypocritical face and listen to their twaddle.  As Winston Churchill said:  "It costs nothing to be polite."

And that's all I've got to say for myself.

P.T. Barnum: El gran tamposo.

 

Phineas Taylor Barnum, conocido popularmente como P.T. Barnum, fue un impresario estadounidense que hizo de lo extravagante y lo extraordinario su "pan de cada día". Nacido el 5 de julio de 1810 en Bethel, Connecticut, Barnum fue un pionero en el campo del entretenimiento, particularmente en el circo, en un tiempo cuando tal concepto era aún novedoso.

Desde joven, Barnum mostró una afinidad por el entretenimiento y los negocios. Empezó vendiendo "agua de serpiente" como cura milagrosa, una hazaña que demostró su talento innato para el marketing. Después de varios intentos empresariales, Barnum abrió su primer museo en Nueva York, conocido como el "American Museum", en 1841. Este lugar estaba lleno de curiosidades, desde un enano conocido como el "General Tom Thumb" hasta la famosa "Fiji Mermaid", supuesta criatura mitad sirena, mitad mono. Su objetivo era asombrar y entretener a la gente, y su lema, "el show debe continuar" (en inglés, "the show must go on"), se convirtió en un lema de la industria del entretenimiento.

El verdadero salto al estrellato de Barnum ocurrió en 1871 cuando creó el "P.T. Barnum's Grand Traveling Museum, Menagerie, Caravan, and Circus", un espectáculo itinerante que más tarde se conocería como "el mayor espectáculo del mundo". En asociación con James Bailey en 1881, crearon el "Barnum & Bailey Circus", que se convirtió en un nombre familiar en los Estados Unidos. Este circo ofrecía de todo, desde acróbatas hasta animales exóticos, lo que garantizaba una experiencia mágica y emocionante para todos los espectadores.

A pesar de sus éxitos, la vida de Barnum no estuvo exenta de controversia. A menudo era criticado por sus tácticas de explotación y su ética empresarial. Sin embargo, a pesar de los desafíos, la influencia de Barnum en la industria del entretenimiento es innegable. Fue un hombre que cambió el panorama del entretenimiento y el marketing con su visión audaz y su capacidad para crear algo increíblemente entretenido a partir de lo ordinario.

En su vida personal, Barnum demostró ser un hombre de resiliencia y determinación. A pesar de los contratiempos, como la quiebra y varios incendios devastadores, Barnum siempre encontró una manera de reinventarse y continuar su espectáculo. Su actitud positiva ante la adversidad se resume en su famoso dicho: "Siempre algo nuevo".

En su legado, P.T. Barnum dejó una impresión duradera en el mundo del entretenimiento. Su circo marcó el comienzo de una nueva era de entretenimiento popular y sentó las bases para la industria del entretenimiento tal como la conocemos hoy. A su muerte el 7 de abril de 1891, el mundo perdió a un titán del entretenimiento, pero su espíritu vive en cada gran espectáculo que asombra y maravilla.

P.T. Barnum fue, en muchos aspectos, el epítome

My Golden Age Of Comedy.

 

What do you think of when you hear Chopin's haunting Etude Op. 10, #3?

Leaves falling on a dreary Autumn day? Past loves and regrets? The impossibility of breaking through the solitude of existence?

When I hear that refrain I think of the Keystone Kops.

For that lovely bit of Chopin was appropriated in 1957 for the film "The Golden Age of Comedy".  A compilation of film clips from the silent movie masters of comedy like Laurel & Hardy, Charlie Chase, and the peregrinating Keystone Kops. 

I saw that movie at a revival in 1961 at the old Varsity Theater in Dinkytown, next to the University of Minnesota campus in Minneapolis. As it played, I heard for the first time in my life the true belly laugh -- a gasping, wheezing near-death experience where a man drools and snorts in a paroxysm of mirth. There were moments during that screening when the audience's laughter reached nearly obscene heights of bacchanal.

It was a career epiphany for me. I wanted to obtain the same kind of comic influence those herky jerky figures on the screen possessed, that could make a crowd dissolve into helpless delight.

As an eight-year old I had no idea how to achieve such distinction, but I was determined to find out. So I was in every school play; the part didn't matter, for I would wind up tripping over my own shoes and taking spectacular pratfalls that had my teachers terrified I would break my neck. I read the wonderful and abundant clown biographies of the day -- Mr. Laurel & Mr. Hardy, by John McCabe; W.C. Fields; His Follies and Fortunes, by Robert Lewis Taylor; Keaton, by Rudi Blesch; Father Goose, by Gene Fowler; and Notes on a Cowardly Lion, by John Lahr.  I haunted the local Film Societies, sitting in the dark and learning from the nimble Old Masters of slapstick.

I even wrote an entire Marx Brothers play, in longhand. And had the effrontery to mail it to Douglas Campbell, the Artistic Director of the renowned Guthrie Theater. He actually responded several weeks later, with a brief note thanking me for my submission and suggesting I have someone type it up so he could actually read it.

To me all this was a deadly serious pursuit. As the years slid past my adolescent passion to make people laugh turned into an obsession.

Walking home from school in the middle of a deep Minnesota winter, I would pry up sheets of ice from sidewalk puddles, then smash them over my head and stagger about like Curly Howard or Chaplin after being hit with a mallet. I carried banana peels with me, the better to impress the girls with my balletic slides and tumbles. (It didn't work.)

The world would never hold any satisfaction for me, unless I could stick my tongue out at it as a paid professional.

What kept my parents from sending me off to a laughing academy was the fortuitous opening of the Ringling Brothers Clown College. The school actively sought amateur clowns of every stripe. As soon as I was out of high school I was on my way to Venice, Florida, to enter the school's unhallowed halls.

And all because I had once seen Charlie Murray hit Louise Fazenda with a two-by-four at the Varsity Theater.