Street Performing on Nicollet Mall in Minneapolis

This brief video was taken by the Minneapolis Star Tribune reporter CJ back in 2009, when I was working the streets of Minneapolis with a clown routine in order to make enough money to move back to Thailand. It took me three months to earn the airfare, and I learned a lot about street theater during that time.

For instance, I learned that there are dozens of bullying s.o.b.'s who make it a habit of shaking down street performers once or twice a day -- if you don't give them your money they punch you very hard. The cops have absolutely no interest in preventing this; they hate street performers and treat them like vermin.

So I learned to get scary crazy with the bullies. Whenever one would come up and demand my 'take' for the day I would pull out a big sports whistle and get right in his face to start blowing as loud as I could. If done without hesitation, making direct eye contact at all times, this always discomfited them enough to send them lumbering away.

I also learned to make a new sign each day -- in my case, in verse. Since I worked right in front of the U.S. Bank headquarters I got a lot of stuffy bankers who wouldn't normally give a beggar the time of day -- but when they noticed that I made the effort to write something original each day for my placard they started giving me ten dollar bills. And you don't do any better than that unless you're a pole dancer!

I worked the main drag of Nicollet Mall, a pedestrian walkway in downtown Minneapolis where only public buses were allowed to use the street. This is where most of the Twin Cities' street performers and homeless lunatics congregated. I was impressed by one young man's determination and simplicity of execution. He spent eight hours a day walking up and down Nicollet Mall, asking everyone "Can I have a quarter?" Most people ignored him or snarled at him to go to hell. But he never stopped, and so the sheer numbers favored him. I asked him how much he made in an hour and he said he could usually count on twenty-five dollars an hour. Nice work if you can get it.

Another guy, a really down-and-out bum who simply sat on the sidewalk with a scrawled cardboard sign that said "PLEASE HELP" actually kept a second piece of cardboard with him, on which were pasted personal checks, with the heading: "Do Not Accept."

A very cultivated gentleman, who rarely shaved and liked to drink Listerine, could recite page after page of Shakespeare for only a dollar, or sometimes he would walk beside a victim reciting the Bard if they DIDN'T pay him a dollar.

After knocking myself out doing slapstick, pantomime, and playing my musical saw to mostly indifferent crowds, I learned that what turns on the spigots for women and children is to simply sit down, look sad, and blow bubbles. I can't fully explain it, but when I would do this women would rush up to me in tears, saying "Oh, this reminds me of my childhood!" and then dump all their spare change into my bucket. And children were mesmerized by this simple expedient. They refused to move away from me until their parents emptied their purses. This leads me to the conclusion that you don't need any talent to succeed as a street performer -- only a deviant understanding of human psychology.

The problem with bubbles was that the cops were always looking for reasons to chase us street performers off the Nicollet Mall, even though we had a perfectly legal right to be there. So if one of my bubbles happened to float into someone's face and pop, causing them to blink and shake their head, a flatfoot would immediately pounce on me as a public menace and tell me to leave. It's no use arguing with the cops, unless you want to get shot, so I'd shuffle down a block or two and go back to work.

And finally, I learned that when it comes to rest rooms some stores have big hearts and some are just plain mean. Panera Bread would call a cop the minute I stepped into their store, but the Target security team was always very pleasant to me -- they never even searched me once, and began greeting me by name when I would come in.

It took me a few weeks to get the hang of street performing, but once I learned the ropes and got tough with interlopers who wanted to horn in on my performance so they could share in the 'take,' I started making anywhere from two-hundred to three-hundred dollars a day. That's on sunny, warm days. When it rained or the wind blew cold I was shit out of luck -- making less than 20 dollars for six hours work.

So do I ever give street performers money when I see one nowadays? Nope. Not even if they're blowing bubbles.

No More Chariots

“Yea, wo be unto the Gentiles except they repent; for it shall come to pass in that day, saith the Father, that I will cut off thy horses out of the midst of thee, and I will destroy thy chariots”

The day will come, when with remorse

The Gentiles will not have a horse,

Nor car nor truck nor taxicab --

They’ll have to walk; now ain’t that drab!

All those who would escape this fate

Must increase love and eschew hate.

The Saints, as well, must learn some things

before they  fly on angel’s wings.

For chariots are not a sign

That you or I are doing fine.

It will not take us anyplace

If  we forget God’s loving face.

Restaurant Review: Lunch at the Provo Senior Citizen's Center

If you are a resident of Provo, Utah, and are sixty years of age or over, you qualify for the Senior Lunch Program at the Senior Center on Freedom Boulevard. It costs three dollars per meal, but it is done strictly on the honor code -- they put out a little wooden box for you to put your money in. I usually give five dollars per week. The building is the back of the Provo Recreation Center. It features classrooms, billiard tables, a quiet lobby with a tropical fish display and  fireplace and vinyl-covered chairs that discourage comfortable naps. There are exclusive exercise rooms and a large social hall with a stage, where lunch is served promptly at noon.

The Senior Center also provides several free health, finance, and legal noontime workshops for Seniors every month. Today it was an eyesight and glaucoma check up, from BYU. I'm happy to say that even though I've had the same pair of glasses for six years now, my prescription does not need to be updated.

The menu today is:
Salisbury steak
mashed potatoes and gravy
carrots
a dinner roll
and a bowl of pears.

It is served cafeteria style.

Everyone thought the pears were apple sauce, and several went back up to the servers to say it tasted funny. That's how they found out it was pears they were eating, not applesauce. Since about half the group is Hispanic, the condiment table features pickled cactus strips, which several elderly Gringo ladies mistook for green beans -- filling their plates full of them and then nearly losing their dentures because of the heat. We also get a small carton of one percent milk, so they were able to cool down.

It's cafeteria food, so what can I say about it? The only way I can actually eat it and enjoy it is to skip breakfast so I'm ravenous by noon -- then it tastes pretty good. Most of the people who eat lunch at the Senior Center are no longer able to do much cooking for themselves, or have completely lost interest in eating at all. The volunteers who staff this lunch program provide one hot meal a day to people who otherwise would probably only ever eat cat food and baloney sandwiches.

I eat there now because I need to save up enough money for a colonoscopy and to get my prostrate taken care of. I figure in six months time I'll have enough money saved up to do so. If I can stand it. I might start nagging my children for money instead. It's never worked in the past but maybe the recent General Conference has turned them into angels . . .

Re: How Uber Uses Psychological Tricks to Push Its Drivers’ Buttons

Notably, the company also announced that it would fix its troubled relationship with drivers, who have complained for years about falling pay and arbitrary treatment.

--from the NYTimes

Come drive for Uber to discern

Just how much coin and joy you earn!

It’s true they used to crucify

Their drivers like old Captain Bligh.

But now they’ve had a change of heart

And they will give you a la carte!

They pay for ev’ry coffee break

And once a year you get a cake.

Drive when you want; not when they say.

Guy Fawkes is a paid holiday!

They will pay for embrocation

If your skin needs titivation.

And if you want to make them laugh

Just ask to see their pension graph.

Polykrikos kofoidii

The Polykrikos kofoidii

Hunting prey is rather sly.

Looking harmless as a loon

It shoots its victim with harpoon

Then tows it off to feast at ease

Somewhere in the seven seas.

I hope it never is my fate

To meet this dinoflagellate --

Though microscopic it might be,

A million could gang up on me!

The One and Only Gatekeeper

"Therefore ye must always pray unto the Father in my name"

All may approach the Throne of God but none the Kingdom gain

Who do not have the name of Jesus Christ in heart and brain.

All the good that’s ever done will find a just reward,

But access to the Father is completely through the Lord.

So do not think a substitute will pass you through the gate;

No proxy has the Father named to take His Son’s mandate.

The Clown and the Sabbath

It is a cruel twist of fate that when I go down in the circus history books, if I go down in them at all, it will be because of my titanic battle with Michu, the World’s Smallest Man, and not because I am the only Ringling clown to ever negotiate a contract with Irvin Feld that gave me the absolute right to have every Sunday off from work.

I grew up in a time and a place where Sunday was purposely different from any other day of the week. There was a strong element of self-righteous piety, not to mention smugness and hypocrisy, in the Scandinavian/German neighborhoods of Minneapolis sixty years ago. It had little to do with religion but much to do with goofing off. Businesses, shops, markets, and factories were all closed on Sunday -- but the theaters, restaurants, and saloons were wide open and did a roaring business. As a child and teenager I devoted every Sunday that I could to fishing. The Mississippi was just a few blocks from my house and Como Lake was within easy bicycling distance. My childhood religion consisted of worshipping a bamboo pole and a coffee can full of nightcrawlers.

When I left home to join Ringling Brothers I simultaneously left my mother’s Catholic faith for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. The Mormons. And one of the main tenets is proper Sabbath Day observance. The Lord told Joseph Smith:  “For verily this is a day appointed unto you to rest from your labors, and to pay thy devotions unto the Most High.”

As a First of May, of course, I worked every Sunday. Business was always good on Sundays -- parents enjoyed taking their children to see the elephants and clowns after church services. But I was troubled about breaking the Sabbath day and not keeping it holy. When I shared my feelings of guilt with my great pal and LDS exemplar Tim Holst he explained his pragmatic view about it.

“Look, Tork” he said. “Some people have to work on Sundays -- like policemen, firemen, doctors and nurses, and bus drivers. The Lord doesn’t condemn them for it. We gotta work on Sundays, too. It’s part of the job. And we always try to get to Sacrament Meeting before the show whenever we can, right? I think the Lord is alright with our efforts.”

But I remained unconvinced. I was uneasy with applying the greasepaint when I should have been knotting a necktie for church services. So I wasn’t exactly heartbroken when I left the show after the next season to go study pantomime down in Mexico. We never had class on Sundays, of course, so I could take the Tres Estrellas bus into Morelia for church each week. And even though the entire service was in Spanish, which I did not understand, I felt more at peace with my own beliefs.

Then came the call from Washington DC, from the Ringling office. Would I be interested in teaming up with Steve Smith to work as advance clown for the Blue Unit?

A week later Smith and I were seated in Irvin Feld’s dim private office. Because his eyesight was damaged by high blood pressure, he kept the blinds down and used special French-manufactured light bulbs inside green lampshades. The dignified murk reminded me of a gypsy mitt joint I had once entered in Greenwich Village.

After a few pleasantries, Mr. Feld got down to brass tacks. We were expected to be ready to start traveling ahead of the show in three weeks. Our salary and benefits were set out in standard boilerplate language in the contract. All we needed to do was sign on the dotted line. Smith eagerly reached for the pen proffered by Mr. Feld and scribbled away. When he handed me the pen I gulped several times as if trying to swallow my Adam’s apple, and finally spoke up in a timid squeak. I had made up my mind to negotiate.

“Um, would it be okay if something were added about me not working on Sundays?” I asked in a whisper.

Smith ground his heel into the toes of my right foot to indicate surprise and mild displeasure at my sudden and unexpected diffidence. His eyes rolled up into his head as he suppressed a groan of frustration. I was going to queer the deal!

“You want Sundays off? Why?” asked Feld.

“Um, because it’s Sunday and I, um, don’t want to break it like it says in the Bible, too” I explained with perfect lucidity.

Mr. Feld shrugged. He handed the contract back to Allen Bloom, who had been looming silently in the background.

“Here, Allen. Take this back and add something about Torkildson having Sundays off so we can get this thing signed. You two boys wait out in the lobby and Allen will have it back in a minute. Good luck.”

He stood up and shook our hands -- and that is how I cannily negotiated the only circus contract to ever contain language about Sabbath Day observance.  I wish I still had that contract -- I would donate it to the Smithsonian. (I could use the tax write-off.)

I confess that I did not remain very humble about my unique contract. When circus promoter Art Ricker would ask Smith and I to do a live Sunday TV talk show I simply pulled out my contract and waved it rudely in his face.

“Says here I don’t hafta do it, Art!” I would crow. Lucky for me, Smith was a good sport about the whole thing. He went and did them himself.

In the LDS cosmos where I have lived for the past 45 years, and in which I still continue to live, this story should have a neat wrap up -- one where my obedience to the commandments of God, such as keeping the Sabbath Day holy and going on an LDS mission for two years to Thailand and getting married in the Salt Lake Temple, allow me to keep my standards intact until I reach a hallowed and peaceful old age. But, instead, it turns out that contract was just a fluke. A one-time expedient that would never be repeated again. When I returned from my LDS mission and needed a job desperately, Mr. Feld was glad to hire me back -- but not as advance clown. I worked on the show for a regular clown’s salary, and I had to work Sundays like everyone else in clown alley. And I never got Sundays off again when I went to work for other circuses, either. And I was always glad to get the work, believe you me. I had a large family to support for much of that time.

But now that I’m retired living on a modest fixed income, and not in very good health, every day is a Sabbath Day -- a day of enforced idleness, if you will, and quiet contemplation. And even though there is no neat ending to this narrative, there is this one thing I’ve learned over the years about Sunday -- real Sabbath Day worship comes from the heart and not from outward forms and actions and restrictions. It took me a long time to learn that simple and basic bit of Christian doctrine.      

Bill O'Reilly

O’Reilly gets sued by the gals

For nonsensical rationales.

He is misconstrued

And called awful crude

For wanting to be their best pals.

He Will Return

“We testify that He will someday return to earth.”  

(Testimony of the First Presidency and the Quorum of the Twelve. January 1, 2000)

The day will come when Christ returns,

And ev’ryone his mercy learns.

The stillness of the grave will crack.

The hopeless will receive hope back.

The miser will find gold a bore;

He’ll spread it as a happy chore.

Oppressors all will drop their whip.

Their victims will not vengeance grip.

Without exception we’ll detect

The Lord sees us, not our defect.

And children once again we’ll be

Now at his feet eternally.

Restaurant Review: The Deli at Smith's

Who knew supermarkets were going to turn into delicatessens? They all have pharmacies and takeout sushi, and on the East Coast they now serve drinks at an in-house bar for the weary housewife who needs a snort or two. So I thought I’d take me a look at the deli over at Smith’s on Freedom Boulevard in Provo. It’s catty-corner to the Rec Center, so when I got hungry this morning after my swim I got out my camera and notebook to record the experience for posterior . . . . er, posterity.

Drat! I got there too early -- there was no hot food ready yet, just sherbet and cold salads. I thought they had bacon and egg biscuits and such like, but they don’t. The fried chicken starts coming out around ten.

But not to worry -- when it comes to food we Torkildsons are zealous improvisers. I bought a bollito for 44 cents -- and I can tell you their bollitos are scrumptious. Brown and crisp on the outside, white and yielding on the inside -- they remind me of my days as a pantomime student back in Patzcuaro, Mexico. I bought 2 cans of Jumex pineapple coconut juice for a dollar. And a can of Cliff Side Sardines in soybean oil for a dollar-nineteen. Then I sat me down in their dinky deli section and feasted.

It is a utilitarian ambiance, I can tell you that. Meant for functionality, and nothing more. Anyone who lingers over their cafe au lait here is probably homeless. But I gotta hand it to them, they are well-stocked. They have plenty of plastic knives, forks, and spoons. Their packet selection is outstanding, featuring Tabasco sauce, mayo, taco sauce, mustard, ketchup, and tartar sauce (which is spelled on the bin label “Tar Tar.”) There is an abundance of non-dairy creamer and sugar packets. And something called ‘Equal.’ Salt and pepper packets (half of which are always empty, as if the manufacturer were playing a practical joke.) The paper towels and thick and brown. And there is a jumbo jug of hand sanitizer within easy reach.

I may come by again some day just for the bollitos. If I do, I’ll bring a couple of hard boiled eggs and some cheese so I can snack as cheaply as possible -- although I think I’ll still get two cans of Jumex for a dollar. That’s a pretty good deal.

Smith's has an inconspicuous stand by the produce section, where they offer a free piece of fruit to kids. I may just come in each morning a snag a free banana or apple for my breakfast, and forget about the bollito. On my Social Security, it's not easy to keep the wolf from the door.