Matt Margucci, Circus Music Composer.

It takes a rare combination of pluck, inspiration, and borderline insanity to write music for the circus. Pluck, because compensation from show owners is often slow and hesitant. Inspiration, because show tunes cannot be done by chromatic rote. And borderline insanity because only a madman would attempt to give musical wings to an aerialist or torture the trombones for a clownish melody. Such a one is my old friend, Matt Margucci.

Matt and I worked together on the Culpepper and Merriweather Circus back in 2008 and 2009. I began the 2008 season as one of the clowns, but the owner, Trey Key, soon decided that I had more promise working directly with the show sponsors -- so he made me the Publicity Director. That was a step up for me -- the money was better, and I got to work directly with Matt on promoting his original musical compositions.

Capturing the spirit of each individual act was a challenge that Matt relished. He created elegant waltzes for the Spanish Web girls. Rollicking scherzos for the clowns. And bombastic marches for the elephants and big cats. All without falling into cliched muzak. When I asked him how he did it, he just shrugged his shoulders and said: "I don't write the tunes, they write me. I get most of them in the back of my head while practicing my trumpet."

Although an accomplished pianist, Matt's first love is his Getzen trumpet. With Culpepper and Merriweather Matt often spent the early morning, after the tent was up, sitting on the bleachers and practicing on his horn, hour after hour. As melodies and musical bridges came to him, he would try them out on his trumpet. When his embouchure was just about ready to collapse he'd quit and come find me so we could go get some breakfast.

Matt and I share a belief that the only decent breakfasts left in America are made in hole in the wall cafes in small town America. That's where the hash browns are hashiest and the scrambled eggs are scrambliest. No yogurt-infused granola or fancy-schmancy acai berry compote on matzoh for us! We sought out the biggest, baddest waffles in the county and the thickest, meatiest sausage gravy over biscuits available -- and not the IHOP franchise pablum, either. We went straight to those weary old fry cooks whose feet hurt and whose aprons are not spotless, the ones that operate a storefront greasy spoon on a potholed main road in a dilapidated town in the Rust Belt or the Deep South. They knew how to serve up a breakfast that not only stuck to your ribs but invited the in-laws to come stay a while as well. Matt was an inveterate drinker of black coffee, while I couldn't get enough chocolate milk -- as long as it was ice cold. There is nothing that spoils my morning reverie quicker than mildly chilled chocolate milk. If it doesn't have penguins swimming in it, I don't want it.

The culmination of Matt's musical contributions to the circus came in 2009, when he released his one and only CD -- Big Top Afternoon. He was hoping it would be a bestseller, but it didn't quite live up to Matt's admittedly extravagant expectations. This really disappointed Matt, along with the fact that several shows had basically stiffed him in the matter of payment for his original circus compositions. So Matt retired from composing circus music to concentrate on his career as a therapeutic pianist in nursing homes in California. He also worked as an accomplished sideman with live bands at Native American casinos across the Southwest. And I left the country to go teach English in Thailand. We've exchanged a few letters and phone calls since then, but since Matt doesn't do social media I can't really say I've kept in touch with him.

So I guess this is my way of saying "Hi ya, Matt. How are things in Burbank?"

Ivanka Trump and Jared Kushner Still Benefiting From Business Empire, Filings Show

Ivanka Trump and Jared Kushner, President Trump’s daughter and son-in-law, will remain the beneficiaries of a sprawling real estate and investment business still worth as much as $741 million, despite their new government responsibilities, according to ethics filings released by the White House Friday night.  from the NYTimes.

the daughter of a president to poverty's immune;

she owns Manhattan real estate and some part of the Moon.

I wouldn't put it past her to have off shore bank accounts --

she'll never write a check that has the slightest chance to bounce.

her husband, too, a gravy train has coupled to his rear -- 

he can buy a Swiss chalet and treat it like small beer.

I'm glad to know Trump's children still enjoy prosperity --

and now if you'll excuse me I must file for EBT. 

The Clown and the Congressman

As the years piled up, the determination to shake off my self-imposed exile from Ringling Brothers started to become an unhealthy obsession. There were many other shows I could, and did, perform with. But I couldn’t get Ringling out of my mind for long. And at this point, being in my forties -- they were no longer interested in rehiring me. This mania led me down some strange paths.

None more stranger, perhaps, than my constant attempts to get my Congressman to intercede on my behalf. I figured since, at the time, the Ringling headquarters were over by Washington DC it just made sense to have my representative go to bat for me. Naturally, my letters went unanswered -- they all went into that vast circular file that lawmakers keep handy for communications from their crackpot constituents.

Until, that is, I sent a note to Senator Rudy Boschwitz -- the ‘Plywood King’ of Minnesota. I really did not expect to hear anything back from him -- I was just writing out of habit, more by rote than by hope. But, in a letter dated April 5, 1990, Senator Boschwitz detailed his attempts to help me out. Here is the entire text of that amazing letter:

Dear Tim;

Enclosed is a response to the inquiry I made on your behalf from the Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus.

I sincerely regret the agency response could not be more favorable. If you feel there is something further which I can properly do to be of assistance in this or in any other matter, please let me know.

Sincerely, Rudy Boschwitz.

Good old Rudy . . . Is there a United States Senator today who would put himself or herself out like this for an obscure and obviously bonkers constituent? I doubt it.

The ‘response’ that Senator Boschwitz refers to came from Kenny Feld, Irvin Feld’s son, who was then running the show. It is dated March 8, 1990. Here it is in full:

Dear Senator Boschwitz;

I am in receipt of your letter dated February 28, 1990. Your File #005710012, regarding the possibility of rehring Tim Torkildson as a clown with Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus. There is never an age limit put on any of the people we hire as long as they can do the job.

Mr. Torkildson left the show and throughout the years has bad-mouthed our organization and operation. I know he has contacted many of our people and I’m sure has had an answer, even if it was not in writing.

At this time I do not have a position for Mr. Torkildson but I wish him well in whatever he pursues.

Sincerely, Kenneth Feld.

Senator Boschwitz did me a huge favor by getting Ringling Brothers to officially state my status with them -- persona non grata. Kenny’s letter finally freed me from my fixation with Ringling, and I began casting about in earnest for other venues where I could put my peculiar talents to use.

Clown Alley and the BLT

Clowns are a hungry breed. Something about the work induces ravenous appetites -- you won’t find a picky eater among the whiteface crowd. And while ‘Gluten-free’ may be the rallying cry for many a circus buffoon today, many moons ago when I was just starting out in the business with Ringling Brothers there was a definite surge of sympathy in clown alley for the humble blt sandwich.

I came to clown alley completely innocent of the blt. It was not on my mother’s menu -- for reasons I have never fathomed she considered a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich on par with oysters Rockefeller and caviar -- something only rich people could afford. So she stuck to tuna casserole and beanie-wienie. Organ meats were popular in our household as well, because of their cheapness -- popular with my mother, that is; we kids shunned the stuff with the determination of Crusaders in the Holy Land.

So one bright morning when I happened upon Roofus T. Goofus munching on a blt sandwich I was all agog.

“What in the world is THAT?’” I asked him.

“Bacon, lettuce, tomater sanawich, Tork” he replied indistinctly, dripping mayonnaise and bits of bacon from his mouth.

“Where’d you get it?”

“Guy across the street makes ‘em in that greasy spoon. Only a dollar.”

The ‘guy across the street’ turned out to be a true artist in the craft of blt-making. When I entered his flyblown emporium and timidly requested a blt he didn’t bother to ask if I wanted whole wheat or white -- he made ‘em all the same way, on white toast with gobs of mayonnaise and greasy bacon and just a touch of lettuce and tomato. Then he wrapped ‘em in wax paper and handed them over to be admired and devoured.

I had two that first day. And have been in love with this distinctively American comfort food ever since.

Swede Johnson told me that when Ringling was still under canvas and they ran a giant cook tent for everyone, the bacon, lettuce, tomato sandwich was the prefered takeout for clown alley.

“You could take it with you if you weren’t hungry right then, and eat it later -- it still tasted just as good cold as hot” he told me. “Besides, the damn cooks didn’t really like serving them -- they were all hired from big hotels in New York and Chicago and wanted to show off with fancy dishes. They thought a blt was a trashy comedown so they’d let us take as many of ‘em as we wanted. I used to take half a dozen to give away to hungry kids I saw working on the lot.”

Clown alley was divided into two warring factions when it came to the blt. You were either ‘burnt’ or ‘cooked right.’ The Burnts maintained that it wasn’t a good sandwich unless the bacon was so crisp it crumbled away on first contact. The ‘Cooked Right’ crowd, on the other hand, stoutly avowed that the bacon should still have a little fight left in it when you bit into it. Needless to say, I was a “Cooked Right” man from the get-go. Everyone agreed that skimping on the mayo was a knavish thing to do -- any cook caught in the act should be strung up by their thumbs.

Some of the clowns, like Prince Paul and Murray Horowitz, did not eat pork, and so they were not involved in the debate at all. But they had their own set of standards when it came to a good pastrami sandwich. Once out of the New York area there was never anything remotely approaching a good pastrami sandwich.

“I’d kill for some decent pastrami right now” Horowitz would say fiercely as we traversed the cornfields of Nebraska.

“Wait until we get to Los Angeles” Prince Paul would counsel him. “At Canter’s the pastrami is so good you’ll eat until you plotz!”

The pie car made terrible blt’s. Since the cooks were always from one of the overseas acts they were unfamiliar with the basics of American cookery. They didn’t toast the bread and thought the bacon was just for window dressing -- so they only put one itty bitty strip of it on and instead piled on the lettuce and the tomato, thinking in their confused foreign way that it would taste just as good. And they put brown mustard on it, for the cat’s sake, not mayo!

The fact of the matter is, the best blt sandwich I ever made myself consisted of white toast, half a jar of mayonnaise, and six pieces of bacon -- I just waved the lettuce and tomato over it.

Before the sorry rise of the monolithic fast food empire, America was dotted with luncheon stands where you could order a blt and a bowl of tomato soup for a dollar and a quarter. Bacon was cheaper than hamburger. Down South, the Rebels put a slice of cheese on their blt sandwiches or else inserted a dill pickle. No wonder they lost the War Between the States.

In search of that ineffable sandwich in today’s food court hurly burly, I recently stopped by the local Five Guys franchise in Orem. Along with their superb hamburgers and abundant fries, their menu features a luscious looking blt sandwich. So I ordered one. Imagine my outrage when it came out with the bacon burnt to a crisp!

It’s a conspiracy, I tells ya! Breitbart News needs to get on this one, pronto!

The Clown Gets Married

(continued from ‘The Clown Fries an Egg’)

When Tim Holst heard that I was engaged to be married he sent me a wedding present -- a wooden rocking chair. I have often wondered just what he meant by that gift, what it was supposed to symbolize. I never did figure it out. But it was sure nice for rocking our eight children to sleep over the years. Steve Smith sent me a check, as did Chico and Roofus T. Goofus. Swede Johnson sent me a bottle of Geritol -- an archaic blood tonic that was supposed to pep up old men in the bedroom that is still in circulation today as a ‘dietary supplement.’

The last time I saw Amy six months ago, before she moved to Virginia to live with our oldest daughter, she gave a talk in church -- and at one point she looked directly at me to say “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you the stories you needed to hear.”

I understood what she meant very well, but I’m not sure I can explain it to anyone else. When you’ve been married to a person for fifteen years you develop a private language that excludes everyone else, even your children.

Maybe the best way to explain what she meant is to tell some of the stories she was referring to.

Our reception in Williston bordered on farce of the ring gag variety when one of the flower girls became enraged at Amy for attaching cute little bumblebees to the silk flowers we used to decorate the LDS basement hall -- this loony thought it was a desecration of the holy rites of matrimony, so she ran around tearing off the bees and ripping holes in the flowers. I and some of Amy’s brothers finally got her in a half-Nelson and threw her out. And please remember -- there was absolutely NO alcohol served at this LDS reception. Next, the wedding cake that Amy’s mother Alice made began to tilt like the leaning tower of Pisa, finally collapsing on the basement floor before we could shore it up. We still served it -- but just the top portions. And finally the reception photographer, a former boyfriend of Amy’s, deliberately took all the photos out of focus and then made us pay in advance before we saw the album. When we got it I couldn’t help laughing uproariously at the calamitous start to our marriage -- until I realized Amy was quietly sobbing her heart out in a corner. She really thought our marriage was cursed by some wandering and malicious spirit that had settled over us like an invisible vampire -- sucking all the joy and satisfaction out of it. I did my best to cheer her up -- but clowns are no good at cheering up people without their seltzer bottle or trained baby pig.   

The actual marriage took place in the Salt Lake Temple in Salt Lake City.

Amy was a gregarious and vivacious gal, always eager to please and ready to try anything new. When I broached the subject of working as a husband and wife clown team to her she was gung-ho for it. Until, that is, one of her sisters helpfully reminded her of a scripture verse from Section 88 of the Doctrine and Covenants. Verse 121, to be specific:  “Therefore, cease from all your light speeches, from all laughter, from all your lustful desires, from all your pride and light-mindedness, and from all your wicked doings.”

This initially created a huge rift between us, for Amy was of Brigham Young’s persuasion when he declared “The Kingdom of God or nothing!” She suddenly realized that I was a damned soul for wanting to make people laugh, and she would follow me to Perdition if she encouraged me or participated in any kind of professional clowning. The same sister that had initially shown her that pernicious scripture recommended a quick divorce as the best solution. (And my children wonder why I hate their maternal aunts so much . . . )

This particular LDS scripture has been a thorn in the side of LDS comedians for many years. It seems to say cut out the funny business. But taken in context it simply means don’t make fun of sacred things -- or, as Ecclesiastes 3:4 puts it: “A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.”

I came out of this marital crisis with my belief in the sanctity of a good laugh intact, and eventually Amy moderated her views so that she didn’t think I was an automatic customer for asbestos longjohns. But she refused to ever perform with me (although she did consent to be my assistant when I was Ronald McDonald down in Kansas.)

Let me ask all you married clowns and comedians out there: Does your spouse think you’re funny? Oddly enough, this is a question I never asked Amy -- did she think I was any good as a clown? And she never volunteered that information. As the years rolled by she stopped laughing when I was around -- or was it I stopped laughing when she was around? I can still remember her bubbling laugh early in our marriage when something would amuse her -- a passage from a James Herriot book or one of Hawkeye Pierce’s zingers from “MASH.” I loved that sparkling melody of hers And I miss it terribly, even today.

But I am not a clown with a broken heart. Far from it. I’m a comfortable old bachelor who fiddles with words and finds his self-worth outside the conventional bonds of matrimony. Not every fairy tale is meant to end happily ever after. And even when a fairy tales goes sour -- still, it was a fairy tale for all of that. And something to bring wonder into the world.

William McPherson

A writer has died and left nothing behind

A bank would call prudent or gainful or kind.

His deficits mounted; his profits grew thin --

Words have no value, they’re like a cheap gin.

So pass the hat slowly, ye colleagues of old --

And keep your ambitions in sight of your gold.

Mike Pence

The office of VP’s a blank.

It holds neither power nor rank.

Those who possess it

Often assess it

As something like walking the plank.

You Won't Believe What's Happened to These 80's Superstars!

Henry Winkler. Believe it or not, the Fonz is now one of the new Apostles of the Mormon Church. After joining the Faith back in 1989 after a bad pizza delivery, Winkler slowly worked his way up the church hierarchy until he was ordained an Apostle last spring at General Conference.

“I love this church because it’s so family friendly” he said recently to the Salt Lake Tribune. “And I’m all about being family friendly. Besides, they give me a discount on tithing.”

Cyndi Lauper. This vivacious pop music star, whose single “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” became the national anthem of Albania in 2002, is now feeding all the stray cats in Bismarck, North Dakota, on her 12 acre ranchette just outside the city limits. She still sings occassionally -- usually to the hundreds of cats that roam the ranchette and leave an unbelievable stink.

“I gave up on human beings back in the 90’s” she says candidly. “Cats are intelligent and self confident. They will soon be our masters. The smart money’s already investing heavily in Tidy Cats.”

Mr. T. His real name is Herman Aloysius Butterhole, the Third. After walking off the ‘A Team’ set over a contract dispute with Fort Knox, the cranky character actor and part-time jiu jitsu collector abandoned show biz to become a spokesperson for Dirndl Restoration, based in Austria. Today he owns a string of polo ponies and enjoys unstringing them and letting his staff chase them all over the place.

James Finlayson. He was dead by the 1980’s, more’s the pity, but we just like to look at his photo. He worked a lot with Laurel & Hardy. We think that makes him cooler than Cyndi Lauper, Mr. T., and Henry Winkler combined.

Remembering Allen J. Bloom

Allen J. Bloom was always known as Irvin Feld’s right hand man. In the treacherous world of show business and arena booking, where a dog-eat-dog mentality existed, it was highly unusual to find two such men so willingly and inextricably bound together. Feld trusted Bloom completely, and Allen would do anything for Feld without a thought for his own comfort or advancement. Theirs was the kind of working relationship that made cynics shake their heads and wonder about their own wisdom.

Bloom was not seen very much in clown alley. His duties lay elsewhere. And, I believe, so did his inclinations. He didn’t actively dislike the clowns, like Performance Director Charlie Baumann did, but he didn’t love them like his boss Irvin Feld did, either. He was somewhere in between -- tolerating them, I think, as a necessary nuisance.

My one major interaction with Bloom occurred in 1973, when Steve Smith and I were being considered as advance clowns for the Ringling Blue Unit. We were both flown out to Washington D.C. to confer with Mr. Feld about the position. Uncertain how to dress for such a momentous occasion, I wore a three piece dark green suit I had picked up at Eckblad’s Discount Clothing in downtown Minneapolis. The salesman assured me the material was indestructible and would last me for many years to come. On my thin frame it made me look like a willow sapling. Eschewing the regulation necktie, I wore a polka dot bowtie. I invested in a staid grey pair of Hush Puppies.

When we arrived at the office Mr. Feld was busy tying together some loose ends with a team of Frisbee free-throw champions from Argentina. He bade Allen Bloom take us in hand and give us a tour of the town until he was finished.

Bloom took one look at my outfit and said “You look like you could be the town banker in Hooterville!”

Allen Bloom was a connoisseur of fine wine, Cuban cigars, and the best cuisine in the Capital. He knew the toniest nightclubs and was on a first name basis with every Maitre D worth knowing.  But after taking one look at Smith and I he decided we’d be just as happy with hotdogs and a visit to the National Zoo. He even bought me a bright green balloon to go with my suit.

At the Zoo we paused by the monkeys to eat our hotdogs on a park bench, and Allen unbent a bit with us. He told us of the days when he had to babysit Chubby Checkers, who had a tendency to get homesick for New Orleans while on the road -- he missed a particular kind of southern fried chicken they only served in the French Quarter and would blow off shows to drive back down to the Big Easy for it. It was Allen’s job to keep him on tour, even if he had to lock him into his motel room each night and stand guard.

He told us about his boyhood dream of wanting to see the world before he settled into a dead end job like his father. He signed on to work aboard a tramp steamer that was leaving New York for Africa’s Gold Coast when he was 16, but his mother cried so hard when he told her that he gave it up and instead got a part-time job sweeping floors at a drugstore -- which was owned and operated by Irvin Feld and his brother Izzy. One night a desperate customer came into the store for something to ease his headache. The pharmacist had stepped out for a minute and the other clerks were busy, so Bloom politely listened to the customer’s symptoms and then ‘prescribed’ a bottle of Algonquin Indian Elixir --  which the Felds sold in the summer at county fairs around the DC area. Not only that, but he persuaded the man to spruce up his appearance by purchasing a pearl-handled hair brush, a large tin of mustache wax, and a large bottle of Vegetal cologne. When Irvin heard about this sales coup, as Bloom made sure he would, he was so impressed that he immediately brought Bloom in on promoting their new record store. And the rest, said Bloom as he finished his hotdog and lit up a Montecristo, is history.

When the monkeys began losing their appeal we wandered back to the circus office. Bloom had made Smith and I feel like we had hit all the high spots in DC and were now accredited bon vivants. He had that kind of magic when dealing with people, from clowns to lion tamers to newspaper reporters. He gave people the feeling they were important. That, I think, was the secret to his success as Mr. Feld’s right hand man -- anything Feld wanted promoted, from Paul Anka to Ringling Brothers, Bloom would promote with zest and good fellowship. And with the best bottle of of Veuve Clicquot available.

Could the Most Flavorful Supermarket Tomatoes Actually Come in Jars? Hell No!

(Brought to you by the Compost Soup Company)

It’s easy to think that the most flavorful tomatoes should be found down your local produce aisle. But remember, all that runs red when beaten with a stick is not tomatoes!

Those fresh tomatoes you surreptitiously squeeze down at the local market are picked when they are as green as a child’s boogers. Then, horror of horrors, they are unnaturally ripened using a mysterious ethylene gas that comes from the endangered Fubar peedle pod, only to be found on a coral atoll near the Brooklyn Bridge. What does this mean for you, the hungry, hungry hippo? It means mealy-mouthed tomatoes that will cut you dead at the next Sons of Sicily meeting you attend.

Compost senior chef Max Schmutz says they only use hand-crushed tomatoes, or those stomped on by mellow Florentine feet. So if you get a few brown toenails in your sauce, tough luck.

Only the ripest tomatoes go into Compost Farmer’s Market Tomato Sauce. In fact, they’re so ripe they drip mold and fungus and beetle dung and other organic scrimshaw.

The tomatoes you get at the market are pink. The ones that go into our sauce are a vibrant red, a firehouse red, and red light district red -- so red they burn your retinas irreparably. Again, tough luck.

Bob Limburger is a fourth generation hobo who uses our tomato sauce exclusively to rid himself of bedbugs and lice every Ash Wednesday. He says that only the ripest and reddest and sexiest tomatoes will do -- and that means Compost Tomato Sauce. Or kerosene -- it’s all the same to him, the old bum.

We could go on. But you get the picture. Short sentences with punchy grammar.

So the next time you’re thinking of making your family a nourishing and authentic tomato dish, reach for the car keys and go to a restaurant. We can’t be bothered with keeping up the pretence of flavorful tomatoes and all that crap.

Shakespeare said “Ripeness is all.” But tomatoes hadn’t been invented yet, so he was probably referring to gooseberries or mead. But if we put a picture of him right here you’ll believe anything we tell you, won’t you? You fools . . .