Tuesday, June 6, 2017

The Politics of Clown Alley. 1972



I have been reading old books written by an irascible newspaperman named H. Allen Smith. He was once a best-selling humorist, during World War Two -- but nobody knows about him today. He was fond of lists -- lists of people who died of bee stings; lists of companies that manufactured exploding cigars (there used to be twenty-five in the United States); even lists of schools for aspiring ecdysiasts. So I have decided to ape him by compiling a list of which political party the clowns on the Ringling Blue Unit belonged to back in 1972.

This was not very hard to do, because I have a steel trap memory and because all the clowns back then were vociferous and militant about their political beliefs. There were no Shrinking Bozos when it came to politics amongst the giggle brigade. Some days you couldn’t get clown alley to shut up about Watergate, the ERA amendment, or the Vietnam War. The place sounded like a Wheeler & Woolsey movie. So here goes, in no particular order:

  • Prince Paul -- Staunch Republican. Anyone in the alley who called Nixon a crook could expect to be conked on the noggin by Prince with his canvas folding camp chair.
  • Levoi Hipps. Dixiecrat. As boss clown, Levoi felt it incumbent upon himself to uphold the traditions and priciples of the Old South. That meant 'do as your told and don't ask questions.'
  • Swede Johnson -- Lazy Democrat. He once  said “All politicians are lognere, but at least the Democrats try to hide their lies better than the Republicans.” He told me the last time he voted was when Truman was running for President.
  • Mark Anthony -- Confused Democrat. He remembered Henry Wallace as the Vice President under FDR, and thought Wallace was still a Democrat when he voted for him in 1948, when Wallace was actually running on the Progressive party platform. Mark liked to explain to anyone who would listen that Henry Wallace was the best thing the Democrats had going.
  • Otto Griebling -- The Silent Majority. Since Otto couldn’t talk after his throat operation, his political beliefs were hard to fathom. All I know is that he had Mark Anthony make him a bamboo birdcage, on the bottom of which he placed various newspaper photographs of personalities such as Richard Nixon and Tiny Tim. He never took it out as a walkaround, just kept it by his trunk in the alley.
  • Steve Smith -- Liberal Democrat. Smith was dedicated to the Civil Rights movement. Martin Luther King was one of his heroes.
  • Ron Severinni -- Opportunist. He said to me once “Nut-nut, ya gotta vote for whoever can promise you the most.”
  • Sandy Severinni -- Democrat. She grew up in California and had an unreasoning affection for former Governor and Supreme Court Justice Earl Warren.
  • Tom Kenyon -- Communist. He carried a copy of ‘Das Kapital’ around with him -- but I think he used it mostly to impress girls with how intellectual he was.
  • Robbie Dorfman -- A Tammany Hall Democrat. He liked to say “A new broom should sweep up a lot of cash.”
  • Don Washburn -- Republican. As a collector of fine porcelein tea cups, he had a simple explanation for his political leanings. “Have you ever” he asked me once, “seen a Democrat who collected anything but favors?”
  • Tim Holst. Republican. But he didn’t like Nixon. He called him a ‘honyocker.’
  • Don DeBelli -- Democrat. His line of reasoning in a political debate was always straightforward: “Shut your frigging mouth or I’ll feed it a knuckle sandwich!”       
  • Ray Lesperance -- Democrat. Despite his last name, or perhaps because of it, he claimed to be ‘Boston-bred Irish,’ which could only mean being a card-carrying member of the Democratic party. “Republicans” he would say after a few drinks under his belt, “don’t stink after hard work -- they just smell like tea roses.” What he meant by that remark remains a deep dark mystery in the annals of political science.
  • Rick Cobban -- Whatever his girlfriend told him to be. He was hooked up with one of the showgirls and never made a plain statement of fact without consulting her first. This made them the happiest couple in clown alley.
  • Ted Tertwiller -- Hippie. He believed in Free Love, Drugs, and Rock-n-Roll. If he ever saw the inside of a voting booth he probably thought it was for taking photographs with his date.
  • Butch Williams -- Dixiecrat. He loved the Deep South so much he kept a bag of Quaker Instant Grits in his clown trunk and had the piecar boil him up a big bowl every day for breakfast.
  • Dennis Collevecchio -- Democrat. His clown costume was a Little Lord Fauntleroy outfit, and I think it went to his head. He said that Democrats drank Moxie with their little pinky stuck out at a right angle.
  • Me -- Farmer Labor Party. My dad voted the Farmer Labor ticket back in Minnesota, and I followed suit. Harold Stassen and Hubert H. Humphrey were the only honest men in Washington D.C., as far as I was concerned. Add to that list Walter Mondale and Paul Wellstone, and I still think it’s true!


This list does not include the foreigners in clown alley, such as Dougie Ashton, Lazlo Donnert, Kochmanski, and Stanley and Lester Janus. As guests in the United States, they were remarkably reticent about what they thought of American politics. Even the irrepressible Dougie never said a peep about Watergate or the war in Vietnam. Perhaps they were of the same mind as Woody Allen, who about that same time made a movie called “Take the Money and Run.”



Email to a friend.



I just woke up from a long, disorienting nap. It was filled with R.E.M. dream images that began to fade the moment my damn cell phone rang (it was a robo-call for business loan money) but left me very disturbed -- or maybe it was the automated phone call that upset me. Anyway, I was just sitting here completely shattered -- unable to remember anything I wanted to do or needed to do today, feeling like I’d somehow survived a terrible cataclysm. And then I got your nice comment on my scorpion story, and the world started to fall back into place again. I pretty much have to take a siesta every day or I get physically sick -- but sometimes I dread it because of the weird dreams that come creeping up on my vulnerable mind. They mug my sanity, leaving me uncertain and perplexed about everything. So, thank you for your restorative comment.

One other person has contacted me about the scorpion story. I don’t know him at all, but he used to work for Ringling in some capacity and got the story link off my Facebook page. He pm’ed me that he wanted to talk to me about why God allows suffering in the world when He is all-powerful, etc. I referred him to the Book of Job in the Bible, which seemed to help him somewhat. He didn’t even recognize that I had quoted Job in my story. People need to be more Bible-literate. Whether you believe in it or not, it’s a cornerstone of Western civilization.

Oh, before I forget, I don’t remember where the scorpion story took place, except that it was the first place I was assigned in Thailand, some Bangkok suburb, and Bart Seliger was my companion. I sure miss not being in touch with him. I think of him as an older brother. He was very good to me, his ‘greenie’ companion.

Your roof story reminds me of my bathroom story. Amy and I bought a house on Como Avenue in Minneapolis, just down the street from my parent’s house, and across the street from Van Cleve Park, where I spent my childhood winters skating and summers swimming. I thought it was a beautiful setup. This was just before the break up, around 1991. We didn’t have to make any down payment, because most of the neighborhood houses were being used as student rentals for the U of M and the city wanted to reverse that trend and bring in families -- so we got a special dispensation through the city and the bank to buy the house w/no down payment cuz we were a big family.  

It only had 2 bedrooms, but a big glassed in front porch -- which we divided to make a third bedroom. The basement was full of mice, because the house sat across the alley from a hive of grain silos and a tangled skein of railroad tracks. Immense clouds of pigeons circled the silos endlessly, cooing eerily. There was an ancient cottonwood tree in the backyard that dumped several tons of fluff on our house in the early summer. The kids loved to play in it as if it were a sandbox or the torn out stuffing of a mattress, and dragged so much fluff into the house that we had to buy a new vacuum when the old one asphyxiated on the cottonwood ‘snow.’

The house had been built in 1897 and had only one bathroom, upstairs. The tub began leaking, staining the dining room ceiling, so I tore up the bathroom floor to find the leak -- only to discover that the old lead pipes were completely rotten. We called in a plumber for an estimate, and like your roof, the price of repair was way beyond our ability to pay. We couldn’t qualify for any kind of home improvement loan, so we used the tub to store linen. Luckily, there was a crude shower in the basement, and that’s where everyone had to go to clean up. The kids were terrified of going down there without either Amy or I going down with them, because of all the mice. I caught dozens of mice with glue traps, but they just kept coming back.

That first winter in the house was a brutal one -- a blizzard on Halloween dumped over 3 feet of snow on Minneapolis overnight and we couldn’t dig our car out of the garage for three days. Then Amy had a bad attack of rheumatism that nearly crippled her for life. The doctor said we should think about moving to a warmer climate, so we decided to pull up stakes and move out here to Provo, where most of Amy’s brothers and sisters were located. A year later we were divorced . . . just when I had finally gotten a good paying government job. Tax collector. Which I hated, but if I stuck with it for a year I could get a promotion into management and then just goof off like the rest of the supervisors I knew there.

But after the divorce I bought a VW van to live in and went down to Florida to work for the Clyde Beatty Cole Brothers Circus as an advance man -- setting up ticket outlets and scheduling media interviews for the show’s stars and clowns. And I’ve never had my own home again. Just rented, like I’m doing now.


I like your idea of selling up and going to Thailand, but won’t encourage you since Jennie is against it. A peaceful marriage is better than the beaches of Thailand.

Utah Headlines & Rhymes. Tuesday. June 6. 2017.



WITH STRICT NEW DUI LAWS, UTAH BAR OWNERS SAY IT'S IMPOSSIBLE TO GET PATRONS DRUNK ANYMORE

In Utah a driver who drinks
Is jailed if he so much as winks.
But out in the sage
If you show road rage

The cops are as mum as the Sphinx.



There was an old man, name of Ott
Who worked for the county -- or not.
The older he grew
The less that he knew --

They pay him to be a mascot.




The tooth fairy is in cahoots
With patrons at Walmart -- the brutes.
So buyer beware,
Or you’ll get the chair --
And have a tooth out by the roots!


****************************************************************************************
Editor's Note:
The above limerick about Gary Ott was denied a posting under 'commentaries' in the Deseret News this morning. An email from their editors gave the following reason:


Dear Tim Torkildson,
Thank you for commenting on The trouble with Gary Ott on DeseretNews.com.
Unfortunately, your comment was not approved for the following reason:
   * Comment included insensitive thoughts that were not appropriate in the context of the story.
From our comment policy:
Be sensitive in comments about death and injury, especially in stories that involve children.
We invite you to edit and resubmit your comment using the following guidelines:

   * Comments should be thoughtful and helpful to your fellow readers with additional insight or counterpoints to the article.
   * Avoid personal attacks and other inappropriate responses to fellow readers.
   * Treat other readers as you would if you were speaking to them from a microphone, looking them in the eyes, then passing the microphone cordially to the next contributor.

*************************************************************************************



DO THE GHOSTS OF ANCIENT MILLIONAIRES STILL HAUNT THE DESOLATE BEACHES OF CUMBERLAND ISLAND OFF THE SHORE OF GEORGIA?

On Cumberland Island the rich once resided --
But now it is open to tourists, provided
They pay through the nose for the sand and the sea
And maybe the ghost of a lost Carnegie.
The rich don’t buy islands today, for reflection

Shows them it’s cheaper to buy an election.

Monday, June 5, 2017

Utah Headlines & Limericks. Monday. June 5. 2017.



There was a young person from Sandy
Who craved Facebook time just like candy.
Forsaking all others,
Both sisters and brothers,

He thought isolation just dandy.





I try to just live in the ‘now’
Without having much of a cow.
But just when I think
I’ve conquered a wink
My mind wanders off to Macau.






Do not ever swim Utah Lake.
The water’s a toxic milk shake.
Just one little sip
Your stomach will rip
And turn your intestines opaque.






BRITAIN AT CIVIL LIBERTY CROSSROADS AFTER MOST RECENT TERRORIST ATTACKS. WILL THEY VOTE THE RIGHT TO PRIVACY UP OR DOWN? 

Nobody has figured the trick
Of what makes a terrorist tick.
Psychotic distress,
Too much porn access --

Or maybe for Hell they’re homesick?

Sunday, June 4, 2017

The Clown and the Miracle




Terry Parsons used to stroll through the Ringling clown alley and lay his hands on various heads before shouting “You are healed, brother!” He did this to get my goat, since he was a militant atheist and I was a recently returned LDS missionary. But I never rose to the bait. Besides, I liked Terry as a friend and sparring partner. He really didn’t have a mean bone in his body. Let others think what they would about wicked circus clowns getting a blessing from God -- I knew what I knew . . . .

When I had left the Ringling clown alley in 1973 to serve as a voluntary missionary in Thailand for 2 years, it was with my clown trunk. I was called to work with the Thai Red Cross part-time -- doing fund-raising clown shows the length and breadth of Siam. The LDS Church needed some good PR in SE Asia at the time. I was happy to tramp the boards in my baggy pants and polka-dot blouse for the people of Thailand -- I found them to be the friendliest and most prone to giggle audiences I’d ever encountered. They doted on my musical saw and couldn’t get enough of me falling over backwards off a folding chair. I took so many pratfalls off so many chairs onto so many bamboo stages that I’m still picking the lightweight splinters out of my keister forty years later.

Two months into my Thai mission I put my shoes on one hot afternoon after a heavy lunch of sticky rice, green papaya salad, and broiled fish -- only to feel a stinging sensation on my left heel. I quickly removed my shoe, shook it, and leaped back about forty feet when a small scorpion fell out of it to wriggle malignantly away. Since my foot didn’t really hurt, I shrugged it off. My companion and I went out knocking on doors until the early evening -- when we came back for a bowl of rice noodle soup flavored with dried squid and tamarind paste before beginning an hour or two of language study. By then my foot was throbbing, but I decided to ignore it. The next day my companion and I visited a small local hospital, where I put on my clown gear and did about 20 minutes for the kids with my saw and a couple of cheap Chinese-made balloons that kept popping in my face as I tried to blow them up. The only good latex balloons I could ever get while in Thailand were shipped to me from the States by Robin Shaw -- who addressed me on her packages as “Elder Babycakes” -- something I never lived down while in Thailand.

After the show I was in agony. When I removed my left clown shoe it was filled with blood and pus. Since we were already at a hospital I was able to have an intern look at my swollen foot right away. He cleaned it up and bandaged it, then told me to hie myself over to Bumrungrad International Hospital in downtown Bangkok if I didn’t want to die of gangrene in the next 24 hours. I took his advice.

The doctors there put me on an IV and notified my mission president, President Morris, that they had one of his missionaries heavily sedated and ready for surgery to remove an infected foot. President Morris told the sawbones to not get any funny ideas about lopping off any of my appendages just yet until he could get there to assess the situation.

The news he gave me after consulting with the medicoes was grim. If the swelling did not start to go down in 24 hours they recommended amputation to save me from probable blood poisoning. I had no words to convey my shock and disbelief to him. I was mute with horror. He told me to trust in the Lord, and then placed his hands on my head to give me a priesthood blessing. I don’t really remember the words he spoke to me in that blessing, except that no healing or quick resolution was promised. It was more an exhortation to trust in the Lord and be patient.

After he was gone my companion settled into a nearby chair and was soon snoring. Mormon missionaries are never to be left by themselves, even in the hospital. The tropical sunset is always sudden and jarring -- and the night birds, even in the middle of Bangkok, sound weird and tortured. My room had no air conditioning, just a sluggish ceiling fan that barely moved the dust and dead flies around. The nurse looked in silently, then shut the door.

Now began my spiritual agony. I lay in bed and talked to God, as only an anguished soul, threatened with a terrible loss, can talk. At first I was bitter -- how could He let this rotten thing befall me? Hadn’t I joined His one true Church and been faithful in paying tithing and obeying the Law of Chastity and the World of Wisdom? Hadn’t I gone to church every Sunday while traveling with the circus, despite the high cost of cab fare and lack of sleep it caused me? And now here I was on a sweltering night in Bangkok, an ordained minister of the Gospel, about to lose my foot. How could I ever clown again? It was the only livelihood I ever wanted!

After some quiet weeping, I resumed my conversation with The Man Upstairs -- but now I was ready to accept whatever came. It would be hard to never hear those big bursts of laughter again from a rowdy crowd made intoxicated with cotton candy and watered down Coca Cola, but if that was how things fell out I would accept it like Job accepted his troubles -- and not curse God and die. Then I fell into an exhausted sleep that lasted until the nurse came in the next morning to change my bedpan and bring me a large bowl of rice gruel flavored with saffron and full of grilled chunks of pork liver.

And the swelling in my foot was down. In a few days I was out of Bumrungrad and back onstage for the Thai Red Cross, tripping over my own clown shoes and juggling coconuts. Some days the heat was so intense that during a performance my clown white literally melted and dripped off my face like sweat -- but I didn’t care. I was clowning again -- and with both feet firmly up in the air!



My Doctor



My doctor is kind of boutique --
Whenever my joints start to squeak,
He bustles right in
Prescribing asp’rin --

Then takes off to go play bezique.

Utah Headlines & Limericks. Sunday. June 4. 2017.



In Utah, county prosecutors have it their own way.
They can have you put in jail for mocking Doris Day.
Little gods of tin, who demand their full backsheesh --
I’d like to see ‘em muzzled (or at least put on a leash.)
Their idea of Justice is to bully and encumber --

Try to show me one that isn’t just a big humbugger!




Jesus was a refugee, and homeless all his life.
He could be a troublemaker, causing lots of strife.
He trod the hills of Galilee, and sometimes was unkempt.
And so the city elders treated him with but contempt.
Today we have the homeless still, and still we often cry:
“Let them follow all our rules, or we will crucify!”






There was a beekeeper in Orem
Who kept all his bees in a quorum --
This church-like control
Increased his bankroll --
His honey was made with decorum.

Saturday, June 3, 2017

Lucille Ball -- The Perfect Clown.



I joined Ringling Brothers Circus as a clown, in part, because of the crazy shenanigans of Lucille Ball on her sitcom 'I Love Lucy.' She was a gutsy lady who wasn't afraid to get sprayed with seltzer while doing the 'Niagra Falls' routine, or get chocolate goo smeared all over her face on an assembly line reminiscent of the one in Chaplin's 'Modern Times.' The canned laugh track that functioned as her Greek Chorus didn't distract me from the fact that Lucy knew her slapstick.
Lucille Ball should have quite a shindig going on for her upcoming birthday this coming August. Her hometown of Jamestown, New York, is planning a celebration, and you can see a Lucy look-alike on the main page of the city’s website at http://www.jamestownny.net/   
Ball was an outstanding physical comedy actress in her day; highly acclaimed and publicized.  Most purists would say that someone like Buster Keaton was the better of the two, indeed, was the superior of even Chaplin himself.  And Keaton and Ball have a shared history at the MGM studios.  But Buster doesn’t generate the same warmth and affection that Lucille Ball does, and, after much reading and thinking on the subject while traveling the country as a circus clown, I have an idea why . . .
In the book “Keaton” (Blesh, Rudi, Keaton (1966) The Macmillan Company ISBN 0-02-511570-7) the author devotes several chapters to the late Thirties and early Forties, when Buster Keaton, drying out for the final time from the alcoholism that destroyed his career, was relegated to the back lot of MGM studios as a gagman and occasional extra when a scene called for a spectacular pratfall or a reference to Hollywood’s “Golden Age”.  It was a Tinsel Town Siberia for Buster, where the studio paid him a few hundred dollars a month and forgot about him.  This was the same period when Lucille Ball was spinning her wheels at MGM, playing everything from dizzy blondes to conniving blondes to wholesome blondes to an occasional Technicolor redhead who didn’t do much but look good in an Edith Head dress. Wandering the back lot of MGM between movie takes, she struck up a deep and abiding friendship with Keaton, who saw her as something of a protégé, and taught her all he could about the subtleties of physical comedy.
From him she learned the proper way to do a double-take, where the comedian looks at something but it doesn’t register, and then snaps back to gawk in consternation, fear or anger at whatever it is that he missed the first time.  He taught her to do the spit take – calmly drinking coffee or beer or some other refreshment, only to geyser it out when something untoward occurs.  He showed her how to fall properly, breaking the fall with the arms so no injury occurs.  Keaton taught her all the ancient lazzi, the physical business of comedy that had been around since the Greeks first put on plays.  Ball proved to be an apt pupil, and wanted to put her new-found talents to work, but MGM kept putting her in empty-headed musical comedies and perky domestic comedies where she either wore an evening dress or an apron and was not allowed to do much more than pout or simper.  The executives at MGM, and at most other entertainment venues, felt that physical comedy was exclusively a man’s prerogative – nice ladies, unless they were the dowager-type like Margret Dumont, did not get pies in the face.  They danced, were romanced, and married happily ever after.
When Ball teamed with her husband, Desi Arnaz, in a nightclub act, she decided to pull out all the stops and go completely physical; while Arnaz stayed the smooth, gracious Cuban, Ball would lope onstage dressed in a baggy suit straight from the Goodwill Store and pretend to be auditioning as the new bass fiddle player.  There followed some standard slapstick business, straight from a Keaton silent film, before the two of them would sing a ballad together and walk offstage, arm in arm.  The similarities between Desi Arnaz as Dean Martin, and Lucille Ball as Jerry Lewis, are quite striking.   You can see this bizarre act in their audition tape for the “I Love Lucy” Show.  It was considered so outrageous by TV executives that the tape was never used during the run of the show.
Bowing to network feedback, Ball toned down her zany character, becoming the dutiful housewife who now and then gets a wild hair up her coif and is allowed to bellow, topple, and grimace like a circus clown, until Arnaz, with some help from neighbor/confidant Fred Mertz, puts everything right again.   
And this is the character she kept on playing for the rest of her television career; the dutiful, demure woman, who always looked good in a pair of slacks or a Paris gown, who was allowed to go wild for a few minutes, and then was brought back down to earth by a man, whether husband, boyfriend, or boss. 
Ball had learned more from Keaton than Keaton realized.  While Keaton was a fantastic figure, a frozen icon, he produced no lasting affection in an audience, especially in a female audience.  That is why he was honored for his genius, and then allowed to sink into poverty and near-obscurity.  Lucille Ball, on the other hand, had her moments in the slapstick sun, but prudently balanced them with tender moments, as a mother, a wife, or a good friend and neighbor.  Audiences, especially female audiences, could identify with Lucy when she burned the breakfast toast while talking on the phone, and men could relish her persistent good looks and guffaw at her zany antics, smugly aware that at some point a man would enter the picture and calm her down – as was a man’s duty.
  She was one of the first beautiful women to buck the male-dominated comedy system and perform as an accomplished physical comedienne, yet her greatest success came exactly because she played the stereotypical housewife so well.  Behind the scenes she was all business, running a large entertainment empire and finally casting off Desi Arnaz when his drinking and infidelities became too blatant (and too damaging to the ‘family’ image Ball wanted Desilu to project).  Onscreen she donned an apron to make a meal at the least provocation, and looked to a man to guide her domestic life and her career.  In the last analysis, she was the smartest of showmen/women, because, as P.T. Barnum had said long before, the best way to please an audience is to give them exactly what they want.  As long as American audiences wanted a subservient female on their screen, they got Lucille Ball.  Ball faded just as Roseanne and others like her came barnstorming on the scene, taking guff from no one, and especially not from any man.
Lucy would probably have done a spit take over that . . .




Telemarketers Have Found an Invasive New Way to Reach You



Mr. Kemp had just experienced a technology gaining traction called ringless voicemail, the latest attempt by telemarketers and debt collectors to reach the masses. The calls are quietly deposited through a backdoor, directly into a voice mail box — to the surprise and (presumably) irritation of the recipient, who cannot do anything to block them.


The telemarketer enduring
Has no end -- or mode of curing.
They thrive amidst both flame and flood.
They call when you are stuck in mud.
No earthquake keeps them from their job.
They do not fear the raging mob.
Leaving voicemails without pause,
They’re sneakier than Santa Clause.
So ditch your phone, and go in hiding --

Otherwise they’ll sell you siding!