Publicity Director for Culpepper & Merriweather Circus

In 1984 I once again thought I had given up the circus for good.  That year began auspiciously enough, working as a clown for the prestigious Nameless Shrine Circus.  We played a lot of dates in Canada and the U.P. of Michigan, moving from one squat hockey arena to the next in the early spring.  There were five of us in clown alley, all seasoned veterans, and getting along well.  I had the coloring book concession; for every book I sold I got two dollars.  So the money was good.  Initially. 

Things  fell apart that summer, when all the clowns but me left the show.  They all apparently knew what I didn’t; that the Nameless Shrine Circus always did good business in the spring, and then went to hell in a hand basket for the summer, when they sporadically played rodeo grounds and county fairgrounds in the western United States.  I had to carry all the clown gags myself, and discovered, to my embarrassment and dismay, that I have no talent as a producing clown, making big props for big ring gags.  My forte has always been pantomime.  But the owner of the Nameless show hated pantomime; he wanted explosions and dummies flying around on bungee cords.  When I couldn’t deliver the goods, he hired some Mexican clowns to produce the gags (and I did become good friends with them, and do have a lot of respect for Latino joeys.)  I didn’t realize I had become a fifth wheel on the show, not until the owner asked me, as a special favor, to travel ahead of the show to Bentonville, Arkansas, to do some pre-show publicity.  He handed me some cash, told me to get a decent motel room, and wished me luck.  I sure needed it, because the show never came to Bentonville, Arkansas, and when I finally contacted the owner he calmly said my services were no longer needed, and this was the kiss-off.  I had spent every last cent I had, waiting for the show, so I pawned my wedding ring for bus fare back to Minnesota, where my wife and kids were expecting the big paychecks to continue.

After that debacle, I swore I’d never follow the tanbark trail again.

Fast forward to 2005; I was working for the Utah State Tax Commission, as a tax collector.  Y’know, the fellow you never want to hear from on the phone.  I garnisheed the wages of hard-working blue collar workers, revoked licenses when businesses fell behind on their sales tax, and put liens on the homes of little old ladies to squeeze every last dime out of them.  All I needed was a black cape and long mustache to twirl and I’d be Snidely Whiplash.  One morning as I was knotting my tie I had a flashback to a time and place where all I ever did was make people laugh.  Calling in sick, I spent the day repairing my resume and sending it out to every circus I could think of.

A week later Trey Key called me.  Would I be interested in a clown job with Culpepper & Merriweather Circus?  You bet I would!

I resigned from the Tax Commission and was down in Hugo, Oklahoma, in two weeks, with my clown  trunk crammed with refurbished costumes and props.  After talking things over with Trey, he made a decision that profoundly impacted my life and career.  He told me to forget about being a clown for the show; he was going to send me out as the Publicity Director.

Wow!

He personally trained me in the job, all the ins and outs of dealing with sponsors and maximizing every free publicity outlet.  I also had to inspect every patch of ground where the circus would set up, to make sure it was adequate and safe.  Low telephone wires are the bane of any mud show’s existence.

Then he gave me my itinerary and wished me god speed.  I was to report in to him each evening by cell phone about each town and each sponsor I had visited.  (This was the first time I’d ever used a cell phone; I felt like Buck Rogers!)

I’d like to say I was an immediate and decided success in my new role of Publicity Director, but the truth was it took me a long time to internalize all the information and advice Trey gave me.  Too long, that first season.  I was in Spencer, Iowa, on the Fourth of July, when Trey called to bluntly say that things weren’t working out as well as he had hoped.  Attendance had been way down for the past six weeks, and he was laying off staff so he could keep the show on the road.  He’d have to let me go.  Since he did it in a straightforward and professional manner, I didn’t mind it so much.  Besides, I’d just been to the local radio station, KICD, where I’d left off a stack of tickets for the DJ’s to give away during their shows, and discovered that the station manager was an old friend of mine from Brown Institute back in Minneapolis.  He’d said that if I ever wanted to go to work for him he’d have a place for me.

Don’t you love it when things like that happen?

So, I went from being Publicity Director for Culpepper & Merriweather Circus to Talk Show Host for KICD-AM Radio, in Spencer, Iowa.  As such, I promoted the eating of canned sardines (one of my prime fetishes; they’re GOOD for you, and so cheap!); I cracked an egg on the sidewalk on Main Street on the hottest day of the year to see if it would fry – it didn’t – and I single-handedly revived the ancient art of making corn cob jelly by inviting a 90-year-old woman onto the show to demonstrate how it is done.  (The jelly, I may say, makes a good relish for an Iowa chop.)

But that’s NOT the end of the story . . . “good day” . . . as Paul Harvey might say.

The next spring Trey Key calls me to ask if I want to give the circus publicity job another try.  He needs someone fast.

Well, Land o’ Goshen!  Here I am settled into a comfortable job in a friendly little town in Iowa, making decent money and becoming of a local celebrity.  What do you think I told him?

I’d be in Hugo in two weeks.

The File Clerk

“Mr. Roth is the caretaker of The Times’s “morgue,” a vast and eclectic archive that houses the paper’s historical news clippings and photographic prints . . . “

From The NYTimes

Once upon a time the mighty file clerk ruled supreme

In his dusty archives where the light could hardly gleam.

With visor and green lampshade, a stepladder by his side,

He labored alphabetically his arcana to divide.

Noble yet ridiculous, ignored except when needed,

He lurked among steel cabinets -- his chalky voice unheeded.

No company or newspaper could do without his skill;

Without his guidance, research work would come to a standstill.

But like the horse and buggy he is now quite obsolete --

His vast array of data in the Cloud will now accrete.

A relic and a vagabond, the file clerk joins the ranks

Of circus clowns and pinsetters who now are merely blanks.

Practical Jokes in Clown Alley

A wave of practical joking swept through the Blue Unit of Ringling Bros’ clown alley in the summer of 1971.

Whoopee cushions, rubber vomit, and pepper gum were rampant.  I was lured into this tawdry practice with a pea shooter; I would wait for my unwary victim to turn their back on me and then shoot a plastic bead at their neck.  I kept my anonymity for about a week before a quiet suggestion from Rick Cobban, to the effect that if I wanted to keep my front teeth intact I should cease and desist immediately, caused me to change my tactics.

I began gluing dimes to the cement floor in clown alley, using epoxy, and then watching in high glee as various parsimonious denizens of the alley would vainly try to pry the coin loose.  I overreached myself when I tried gluing a quarter to the cement floor.  The midget brothers Stanley and Lester got a hammer and cold chisel, chipping the coin right out of the floor and leaving behind a gaping crater that probably still baffles the  maintenance staff of that particular building.

My final comeuppance came from Dougie Ashton, the noted Australian comedian.  We all used old steamer trunks for our costumes, makeup and smaller props.  I bought mine at a St. Vincent DePaul store in Augusta, Maine, for ten dollars.  The standard issue trunk from the circus management was a puny foot locker made of flimsy plywood; it fell apart if you looked at it the wrong way.  We all wanted big, strong, hefty trunks, where we could sequester an entire set of the Encyclopedia Britannica if needed.  Dougie’s trunk was especially capacious, having been in his circus family since the 1920’s.  It was virtually indestructible. 

I decided it would be a good idea to tie a tow rope around his trunk, toss the rope up over a steam pipe, and then haul the trunk up, out of immediate sight, one evening when I thought no one was around to witness my caper.  The next day Dougie went berserk, trying to locate his trunk by showtime.  He usually strolled into the alley a few scant minutes before the start of the clown’s come-in, when we had to be out warming up the audience, to daub on a bit of makeup around his eyebrows and mustache, loudly proclaiming that a true clown didn’t need to hide behind much makeup.  This did not make him too many friends, especially among the new clowns such as myself, who prided ourselves on the hours we spent getting our ‘faces’ on just right.  So nobody told him that his trunk was right over his head until showtime was upon us; he untied the rope and lowered his trunk with celerity, and colorful cursing, but still missed the opening of come-in, and was fined twenty-dollars by the performance director, Charlie Baumann.

When he found out who had done this foul deed, as he eventually did, he bided his time before striking back, lulling me into a false sense of security.

One payday, after the last show, I locked my cash salary into my trunk and went out to take a shower.  When I got back my trunk was gone.  No one would tell me where it had gone.  My entire week’s salary was gone with it!  Being just 18 at the time, a beardless youth who had never left the environs of Minneapolis prior to joining the circus, I broke down and cried a little bit.  I went back to the train and  spent a sleepless night in my murphy bed.  The next day Dougie came by to inform me he had put my trunk in the ladies room at the arena. 

I got the trunk out of one of the stalls, where it had been wedged tight with diabolical skill, and was delighted to find my salary still intact.

That cured me of playing practical jokes on my fellow buffoons; after that, I played my jests strictly on the audience.

Who Takes Comic Books Seriously?

"On Saturday, Marvel said that it would remove artwork from the first issue of X-Men Gold, part of a reboot of the X-Men franchise, after readers in Indonesia raised alarm bells on Reddit and elsewhere on social media about what they said were anti-Christian and anti-Semitic messages in some panels of the comic."

from the New York Times

I read comic books as a child,

But quickly became unbeguiled.

Today they are read

By ev’ry sorehead

Who thinks they have doctrine defiled.

Lunch at the Provo Senior Center: Ham with Scalloped Potatoes.

After my morning swim at the Provo Rec Center I stroll over to the other side of the building, which is the Senior Center, to cadge a cup of Bengal Spice herbal tea in the community room, where we have our lunch. There's usually not too many people there in the morning; the Senior Center bus makes the rounds of nearby Senior housing complexes to pick up those who can't walk it and dumps them off around 9:30 -- then they sit around reading or filling in adult coloring books, waiting until noon for lunch. Today's menu of ham with scalloped potatoes also featured beets and for dessert a really outstanding blueberry crisp.

Each week the Utah Valley Food Shelf gives out a bag of canned goods to anyone on a fixed income, like me. My bag today included two packs of chicken Ramen Noodles; one can of dark kidney beans; one can of black beans; one can of pear halves; two cans of tuna in water; one can of corn; one can of cream of chicken soup; and one can of chicken noodle soup. All the cans are slightly dented. I've been using all the canned goods, except the tuna fish. I've got roughly 44 cans of the stuff squirreled away right now -- even my kids won't take it off my hands.

I didn't want to lug all those cans home after lunch, so I waited for the Senior Center bus -- it makes a loop of all the Senior Housing apartment buildings starting at 1 pm. I had to wait for the second round, since the bus doesn't hold more than a dozen people. We waited out in the watery sunshine, neither hot nor cold, sucking ham out of our teeth. Nobody felt like talking, least of all me -- I tried putting some Tiger Balm on the heel of my right foot this morning because it's been throbbing for the last three weeks to the point where I don't like walking anymore. But the ointment was a bit too strong and my heel felt like it was under attack by flaming sandpaper. As soon as I got back home I put my feet up in the recliner and vowed not to get up again until tomorrow. But my former wife Amy and my grandson Diesel came by to give me a loaf of day old Italian bread, and so Amy could look through my storage closet one more time for a white binder full of Norwegian folk music she wants for the next Sons of Norway meeting. She looked for it once already earlier this week -- which ended in us both going to see Disney's Beauty and the Beast as a sort of anti-date. I wanted to hold her hand but wound up holding her purse instead. 

No Comment

If your brand of product poisons people, kills a few;

If it is unsafe and turns the lips a deadly blue;

If contaminated, full of fungus or of brine,

Simply keep your mouth shut and all comments do decline.

Do not say you’re guilty or you’re innocent – remain

Still, and be as quiet as a bowl of cold chow mein.

Soon the social media will move to something new

And you’ll be forgotten like a postcard from Peru.

Maybe you will pay a fine, but that’s about the limit.

That yearly bonus to the board?  You’ll barely have to trim it.

The public has a memory with the lifespan of a snowflake,

Unless reporters stir it up and lots of muck and woe rake.

To those with shoddy products, who see naught but bottom line:

if you must do something have your spokesperson resign! 

Ode to the Critic

The critic prowls the haunts of man, to pounce with ghoulish glee/

Upon those things he cannot stand, with stinging repartee/

His own opinion is the only worthwhile monument/

Ev’ry other notion is, at most, incompetent/

His nose is out of kilter and his brow is beetled deep/

And the bile within his gullet up his throat doth gently creep/

Peaceful coexistence is not part of his design/

And he’s only ever happy if he makes you lose your mind/

He picks upon a scab until it crimson flows once more/

He picks up imperfection like a common stevedore/

His charity is cold as ice, his kindness microscopic/

All the world to him is seen through eyes too much myopic/

He misses all the beauty that the world provides amain/

He is only generous when he gives out some pain/

Fie on thee, dull critic; your tropes are but a dream/

Please take them, with some sandpaper, and up your backside ream!

Kindness

“Brethren, we do not honor the priesthood of God if we are not kind to others.”

Thomas S. Monson

Honoring the priesthood and the power of our God

Is done through generosity of spirit, not by fraud.

If you must fake love of neighbor or a near relation

You will not feel holy, but much closer to damnation.

Benevolence will come with time, if only you will let it --

Although with some folk you might have to grit your teeth and sweat it!

Common Garden Pests and What to do About Them

Spring has arrived, and the mistle thrush is in full-throated hue and cry.  The good black mold is being turned and spaded; soon the seeds and transplants will be sucking up the juice of their Mother Earth.  The garden will bring forth its tender and succulent harvest for us to enjoy.

But before that happens, we need to brace ourselves for the onslaught of many common garden pests – those nasty things that can turn a day in the garden into a hellish nightmare.  Below I offer some ways and means of dealing with these unwelcome pests, as well as a description of these beasties.  In battle, it is always wise to “know your enemy”.

·       The “Know-it-all” Neighbor.  (Nosicus Parkerii)  These noxious creatures are sure to show up just as your tomatoes and cucumbers are doing well.  They are most active in the evening, usually ambling over with a smug expression and a stout beverage in hand (of which they never offer you a sip).  They can be recognized by their annoying cry of:  “I wouldn’t muck about the cabbages like that, old boy – not good for the roots, you know.”  They usually hover nearby whenever there is any hard work to be done, offering gloomy advice but never lifting a finger to help.  They all have bad backs.  The best way to get rid of them is to spread fertilizer around them with reckless abandon (or a manure spreader) and watch them scamper away in disgust.  To keep them from coming back, a vicious Rottweiler does the job nicely.

·       Bigfoot Junior.  (Stumblebummus ridiculo).  This annoying invader invariably shows up at dinner time, often claiming to be your son or daughter.  After eating you out of house and home they like to trample through the garden, crushing and smashing delicate berry plants and tender blossoms with their gangly arms and gigantic feet.  If left unchecked they can destroy a full hectare of ripening vegetables in just minutes.  They can be recognized by their moon faces and ungainly stride, as if they’d been up at the pub too long (which they probably have).  They can be controlled, but not completely eradicated, by sending them back to school early if young, and enlisting them in the Royal Navy if they are older.

·       The Silent Picker.  (Snatchit rapidus).  These stealthy visitors often come in the guise of distant relatives or old friends, who are just passing through and thought they’d drop in for a look at your garden.  What they are really after, of course, are your tomatoes, lettuce, and broad beans.  They are easily identified by the enormous, empty hand baskets they always bring with them.  They won’t leave your garden until they have filled up the baskets with your produce, offering only a restrained ‘thankyou’ for all the free bounty.  Should you be unwise enough to refuse their veiled request, they will simply wait until your back is turned, and then help themselves. The best way to deal with them is to stealthily fill a syringe with ipecac and inject it into the biggest, plumpest, ripest greengage you have, and make sure the Silent Picker takes it home with them.  You will not be troubled with another visit.

It is always a good idea to put a sign up on your garden fence that advises:  WE SPRAY FOR UNWANTED VISITORS.  This will keep many pests away without the use of landmines or shotguns, which can be awkward when the police show up.  And do always remember, green thumbs up!

How to Prune a Tree

I think that I shall never prune/

A tree that I don’t finally ruin/

I snip a bud, or twig, just right/

The whole darn tree gets chestnut blight/

When I attempt a limb to saw/

I leave a wound that’s always raw/

I use the shears with tender care/

But still my trees are starkly bare/

The timber I have maimed would fill/

The most gigantic lumber mill/

I fear that ev’ry bush and tree/

Has put a contract out on me!