The Clown and the Showgirls

Now that I’m drawing early Social Security I can look back on my spotty employment record with tolerant bemusement. Losing your job in the prime of life, which I did more than once, seems like a crushing catastrophe at the time. But time has a way of softening the tension and stress, and, eventually, the resentment.

Take, for instance, the last job I had before cashing in my meager chips with Uncle Sam. I had applied for a job as an English teacher at Nomen Global Language School here in Provo. The owner, one Clarke Woodger, decided instead to hire me as his first ever Social Media Manager. Very well, I figured I could do that job -- since I had been the Publicity Director for Culpepper & Merriweather Circus for two years. Same idea, just new media.

One of my first brainstorms was to photograph a few of the more toothsome female students, casually posed in the student lounge over their textbooks. We used to call this ‘cheesecake’ in the Bad Old Days. Once I started posting these photographs on the school’s Facebook page our clicks took a noticeable jump. I used captions such as “This Brazilian bombshell is trying to figure out the difference between feint and faint.”

Unfortunately, Clarke Woodger had kittens when he read that caption, and furiously demanded I remove it at once. I did -- but that didn’t stop me from posting other lovely students in carefully posed reclining positions, ostensibly studying, on Facebook, Instagram, and Twitter. Which eventually led to me being canned from my job, although the official reason was that the school was ‘retrenching.’

This is a roundabout way of saying that I’ve always appreciated the publicity value of the female form -- even back in the sanctified days when I was a young LDS missionary in Thailand. That philosophy got me into hot water back then, as well. Here’s what happened:

As I have written previously, I spent a large part of my mission performing as a clown doing benefit shows for the Thai Red Cross. My mission president, Paul Morris, thought this would help boost the name recognition of the Church in Thailand, and help dispel rumors that we were CIA operatives (this was at the height of the Vietnam War.)

So I scheduled myself into schools, hospitals, libraries, even prisons, under the auspices of the Thai Red Cross. Soon I was in demand for all sorts of charity shindigs and I didn’t have to go looking for performing gigs -- people came to me to ask for a show. It was a good feeling -- actually, a head trip for me. But my comeuppance was soon at hand.

One steamy day, after the monsoon rains had once again turned the streets of Bangkok into open sewage lines for the afternoon, I was sitting by the phone, hoping for a call to do a show so I wouldn’t have to go out tracting in that smelly muck but could take a taxi to some nice auditorium instead. The phone did ring -- and I was asked to appear at a Thai Red Cross benefit that night. Hallelujah! I wrote down the address and began packing my clown props.

When I told the taxi cab driver where to take me -- a nightclub on Soi Cowboy -- he gave me a second glance.

“You’re a teacher of religion, aren’t you?” he asked me point blank.

“Yes, of course” I replied as I slid into the back seat.

“And you want me to take you to Soi Cowboy?”

“Yes. And please hurry; I have an important appointment there!”

He shook his head in silent disgust and put his buggy in gear, merging with the sluggish stream of traffic.

What he knew back then, and I didn’t, was that Soi Cowboy was, and still is, the biggest red light district in Bangkok. He let me out in front of the nightclub before the evening shadows began to fall -- that is to say, before the shady ladies were out in force; so I still had no idea what I was getting into.

Once inside the club I put on my makeup and costume and waited in the wings for my cue. I should mention that when I perform I never wear my glasses -- so the world is just one big happy blur to me.

After my spot on the program, which featured a string of throbbing romantic singers and some go-go girl routines, I came offstage to the flash of cameras as the Bangkok newspapers got my whiteface profile for the morning papers. I was asked to pose with two showgirls -- I couldn’t see them very well in the dimness of backstage and without my glasses. But I figured this would make a nice photo to promote the Church. I made sure the photographer knew that I was a missionary for the LDS Church.

Early the next morning the phone rang. It was President Morris. He wanted to see me down at the mission office. NOW.

My companion and I got down there, filled with curiosity about this urgent summons. Was I being awarded a medal, perhaps? Or to be made Assistant to the President (a very coveted position among LDS missionaries.)

Instead, I was closeted with President Morris for twenty-five of the most uncomfortable minutes of my young and innocent life, while he raked me over the coals for allowing myself to be photographed with two barely-clad and leering harlots -- which photograph had made the front pages of Thai Rat News, with a caption that read: “Mormon missionary cavorts with sexy night life girls.”

I was summarily ordered to pack my clown things away and go back to my duties as a plain, ordinary proselyting missionary. No more funny business, Elder Torkildson! I would be transferred up to Khon Kaen in Northeast Thailand (tantamount to Siberia) for the duration of my mission.

I slunk out of his office, feeling no resentment but only a huge regret that I had brought such infamy upon my church. A few days later I took the bus up to Khon Kaen, where we had all of 3 active church members, and resumed my duties as a humble missionary with my companion.

Happily, when a new mission president took over a few months later I was pardoned and brought back to Bangkok, where I finished my mission back in harness as a buffoon for the Thai public.

I doubt anyone still remembers that photograph -- it never had the repercussions it might have had. And today, 42 years later, my only regret is that I never saved a copy of it. I’d give just about anything to have one to put up in my living room next to my photo of the Salt Lake Temple.

The Adventures of Tim Laughingstock. Episode 16. The Mad Authors

(Continued from Episode 15, In the Dandruff Mine.)

Meanwhile, back at the ‘Pebble & Peahen,”, Sir Cornelius and Gullet the Ghoul were engrossed in their respective narratives. As the sun waned and the moon began to gloom, the two mad authors simply lit some candles and continued on with their writing. Sir Cornelius Cornwit Gnawson began his new epic, “The Eerily Silent Village,” this way:

The village was quiet -- too quiet! Balderdash the Brave moved like a cat through the village lanes and cobbled streets, looking for a sign of life. There was none!

“Methinks some witchcraft has befallen this abode of no people” he observed to no one but his own shadow. “I shall find out the cause of this mischief and restore the residents to their rightful lodgings -- or my name isn’t Balderdash the Bold, son of Peter the Prosaic!”

So saying, Balderdash took out his magic pendant, which revealed the presence of magic, and spun it around like a top on the ground. It hummed and then a beam of light shot out of it towards the apothecary’s shop. Striding inside, Balderdash found a hastily scribbled note on the counter that read: “Help! A band of trolls is taking the whole village hostage because we wouldn’t give them enough weasel juice to drink! They are rounding us up even now to take us to the Horrible Hills. Please, if you read this, and you are a wandering hero bent on fame and fortune, come rescue us! We have much gold and many beautiful daughters -- and you can have as much of both as you want! Sincerely yours, Axel Floom, Apothecary B.B.S.”

“Ha!” cried Balderdash the Brave, and then he cried “Ha!” again, so that the walls of the little shop shuddered and the stucco began to flake off. “I shall journey to the Horrible Hills to rescue these fine folk -- and then collect their gold and maybe a few maidens for a dalliance. Twould be rude to ignore this invitation to adventure!”

Balderdash mounted his fiery steed, Gallstone, and was off in a flash to the Horrible Hills. He rode like the wind, ignoring the weirdly shaped boulders along the way, and the doleful cry of the turnip spitters that eyed him maliciously from their fleabitten grottoes. He stopped only once, to fight a ferocious gunkle that blocked the road. Whoosh-whish went his sword, and the head of the lifeless gunkle rolled into the ditch like a round loaf of oat bread.

The Horrible Hills loomed up before him, horrible and intimidating. A sinister mist clung to the ground as a shrill wind soughed through the dead tree branches above his head. Caring not a fig for any such gloomy nonsense, Balderdash spurred Gallstone onwards and upwards, and soon they had reached the camp of the trolls -- where a huge bonfire was blazing. The trolls were getting ready to eat every last villager!

Stealthily did Balderdash creep up upon the unsuspecting trolls -- and then, whish-whoosh, their heads were tumbling about like a game of marbles! When the last troll had fallen, Balderdash the Brave untied the villagers and bade them return to their homes, safe and sound.

“Oh, brave and noble hero!” cried Axel Floom, the apothecary, “what can we possibly do to repay you for rescuing us? Would you like our gold and some of our fairest daughters?”

“That I would” replied Balderdash, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

“Well” snarled Floom suddenly, “you won’t get either from us, you ugly baboon! This was just a trap set by our master, the wizard Slooterpants, to lure you to your doom! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!”

And before Balderdash could move a muscle, the nefarious apothecary threw slug dust all over him -- and Balderdash collapsed into a shapeless heroic mass on the ground.

Gnawson paused here, nibbling on the tip of his quill, feeling quite satisfied with his story so far, but beginning to wonder if he had been a bit too premature in introducing the dark wizard Slooterpants so early in the story. Such powerful villains needed a better build up if they were to be really scary and effective. Perhaps he should put in some more stuff about dalliance before giving Floom his first line? Slightly perplexed, Gnawson looked over at Gullet the Ghoul, who was still scribbling furiously away. Gnawson sighed; novice writers always began like this, in a haze of enthusiasm -- but wait, just wait, my friend, until some grammatical or syntax problem pops up to slow you down. Then you’ll realize how brain-deadly writing can be!  Sir Cornelius gave a deep cough, intending to distract Gullet the Ghoul long enough to impart some of this writerly wisdom to him -- but Gullet didn’t even hear him, so wrought up in his own story was he! And this is what he was writing:

I was born on a log in the middle of a bog near the nest of frog who was eaten by a dog. And things have not improved very much for me since then! My parents were humble ghouls who could barely provide dead meat for me and my seventeen sisters. At the tender age of one-hundred-six I was forced to leave home to fend for myself. And it wasn’t easy, let me tell you! Many nights I had to shelter inside a ring of cattails while the charlie chewups relentlessly prowled about, searching for me or any other innocent young flesh to gobble up. And then there were the fusspots and the floozy-flops that preyed on the unwary swamp child, battening on them and draining them of bile and mucous before you could say “junk bonds.”

Yes, it was a hard life, and I toughened up fast. Soon I could look any bumptious creature right in the eye and tell them to buzz off -- and they would!

But it never occurred to me that my life might be unfulfilled -- until I met Tildy. She was everything I was not. Where I was hard, she was soft; where I was tall, she was short; where I was black, she was white; and where I right, she was wrong! We planned on marrying in the fall of the year, right after the woolgathering. But, alas, on the day of our wedding she accidentally stepped on a miniature land kraken, which stung her so viciously that she immediately swooned and lost all her hair and teeth. When the doctors were able to bring her around, her brain salts had been depleted to the extent that she no longer remembered me. With a heavy heart, I walked out of her life, vowing to never fall in love again and instead devote myself to learning how to ripen a corpse in less than 24 hours -- the Holy Snail of ghouls the world over.

At last Gullet the Ghoul looked up, and saw Sir Gnawson staring at him.

“What’s wrong, colleague? Have you run out of plot twists and turns so early?”

“Nay, my ghoulish companion. I was just thinking we have probably got enough good material to go see my publisher this instant, demand a tremendous cash advance, and then spend the winter in Loma Limeade on the beach, finishing our respective masterpieces!”

“An excellent idea!” enthused Gullet the Ghoul. “Let’s go find Tim and tell him the good news!”

The two mad authors tucked their linen scraps, on which was written their marvelous tales, into their tunics, and headed towards the dandruff mine in search of Tim Laughingstock.

Trump Praises Nascar Fans and Again Rails Against N.F.L. Protests (headline in the NYTimes)

Those traitors at the NFL will never be on par

With the heroes racing for the glorious NASCAR!

While football players soiled the ground with their putrid knees,

Busch, and others like him, stood as stiff as walnut trees.

NASCAR owners in a fit of righteous indignation

Have told their drivers if they kneel they’re going on vacation

And not the kind that puts a tan upon a driver’s brow;

More likely in a breadline cuz their job has gone ka-pow!

Before the start of work in ev’ry class and factory,

We’d better have our Anthem sung to check the loyalty

Of students and of workers, and of pinko teachers too --

Anyone who kneels can be deported to Kabul!

Essential Oils for Better Skin Care

Natural skin care is more popular than ever now that people are cutting back on chemicals in all aspects of their lives. Sound like you? Consider adding oils to your regimen. "Skin oils have hydrating, anti-inflammatory, anti-aging, and antimicrobial properties," explains dermatologist Jennifer Chwalek, M.D., of Union Square Laser Dermatology. "Despite the fact that some essential oils have been around for hundreds of thousands of years, we're just scraping the surfaces of all their uses."

Not to mention, even if you're not actually applying them to your skin, the aromatherapy benefits of certain essential oils can decrease stress levels, which can help with stress-triggered skin conditions like psoriasis, acne, and eczema, says dermatologist Mona Gohara, M.D., an associate clinical professor at Yale School of Medicine.

Word to the wise: While essential oils can sometimes be used without dilution for an acute, short-term skin issue (like a bug bite or a burn), derms almost always recommend diluting essential oils for everyday skin care to protect against irritation and sensitivity. (It will also allow the essential oil to absorb over a larger surface of your skin!)

Known for its antibacterial and antimicrobial effects, tea tree oil has been studied for its ability to treat bacterial and fungal infections. Paired with its anti-inflammatory properties, it can also help with conditions like acne and rosacea, says Dr. Chwalek.  Tea tree oil has wound-healing properties, too, making it helpful for cuts and burns.

Want hydration? Rose essential oil should be your go-to—it helps your skin to retain water, Dr. Chwalek says. This makes it a great essential oil to add to any DIY lotions, especially if you're dealing with dry or chapped skin. Even better: When applied to the face, rose oil can improve skin texture and fine lines and wrinkles, she says. It's one of the best oils for youthful skin.

While not all oils are necessarily hydrating, coconut oil is known to be the best hydrator and skin softener of the group, Dr. Gohara says. It actually helps improve skin water loss, which means it's a great solution for those dealing with dry skin, or even eczema and psoriasis, Dr. Chwalek says. (Coconut oil can also repair brittle nails; try this DIY.) And, thanks to a fatty acid called lauric acid, it also has an antimicrobial effect, helping reduce the risk of any skin infection or irritation, she says. (Bonus: Unlike the essential oils, coconut oil can be applied to your skin directly without needing to be mixed with another oil first.)

On top of the stress-relieving benefits that come from taking a whiff of this essential oil, lavender can also do wonders for your skin. It's widely known for its antimicrobial properties and for helping speed the healing of burns, cuts, scrapes, and wounds, Dr. Chwalek explains. This oil also increases collagen production, making it a great anti-aging regimen for wrinkles, she says.

Learn more about the benefits of essential oils from doTERRA Health Advocate Amy Snyder at http://my.doterra.com/amysnyder 

How Far Will the NFL Go? And How Far Will We Follow?

As football players started kneeling when our Anthem rung

They started a new tradition that affects both old and young.

On high school fields across the land, our youth on bended knee

On Friday nights defied their coach and many faculty.

It spread to the lacrosse fields and the baseball diamond too.

And soccer players sneered at our dear red and white and blue!

Soon no one was standing when our Anthem filled the air.

Some were really protesting (and some just didn’t care.)

And then no one was standing for the POTUS -- goodness sake!

His tweets at last exposed him as a lightweight and a fake.

And then the Pope and Putin got the treatment, just the same.

It seemed that ev’rybody had to play the sit down game.

No flag or creed or anthem was thus spared this awful curse.

The people did not rise up -- what they did was far far worse.

For at the Second Coming when the angels blew their trumps,

The world would not get up at all but stayed upon their rumps!  

A Clown on Capitol Hill

I can do no better than to quote the first few paragraphs verbatim from the September 18th edition of The Washington Post:

An Ohio man who tried to discipline his 6-year-old daughter by chasing her around in a clown mask has been charged after she ran screaming to a stranger’s apartment — prompting that neighbor to fire a gunshot into the air, police say.

The incident occurred just before 10 p.m. Saturday, when 25-year-old Vernon Barrett Jr. donned a clown mask and began chasing his young daughter outside their apartment in Boardman Township, a suburb of Youngstown, Ohio.

It was supposed to be a prank, Barrett later told police, a way to get the child to behave without resorting to spanking. A police report did not specify why he was trying to discipline his daughter that day.

Instead, the frightened child ran to a female stranger’s car nearby, jumped inside and said she was being chased by a clown, police said. That woman later told police that the man wearing the clown mask pulled the child out of her car. Unsure of what was happening, the woman called 911. (“I don’t want to be named,” the witness told The Washington Post on Monday when reached by phone, “but I can tell you it scared the bejeezus out of me.”)

It’s idiots like Barrett Junior who give clowns a bad name (to say nothing of those in Congress).

It’s just not safe to show up anywhere unannounced as a clown. In the good old days you could don the motley and stroll about spreading cheer without much fear of being tossed in the hoosegow.

I did my last professional clown gig back in 2013, and it nearly resulted in a trip to Devil’s Island thanks to Homeland Security. Here’s how it went down:

The year 2013 started out on a sour note when I had to leave Thailand suddenly, due to a visa snafu. I made arrangements to rent a room from my daughter just outside of Washington D.C., and settled down to teaching English online through my former employer back in Thailand. But that job went kerflooey after a few months and I had to find another gig, pronto.

It came to me that I might as well put on the old clown costume and do some street performing, as I had done a few years earlier back in Minneapolis. That had garnered me the grubstake that took me to Thailand in the first place.

And what better place for a little street theater than Capitol Hill? So one bright spring morning I took the VRE into Grand Central Train Station in downtown Washington, used the Men’s Room to put on my makeup and costume, and marched over to the Senate Rotunda bearing a placard that read: ‘UNEMPLOYED CIRCUS CLOWN. PLEASE PUT ME IN CONGRESS WHERE I BELONG!’  

I planted myself under one of the expansive plane trees on the promenade and began a little pantomime show with juggling and my musical saw. All went well for about an hour, with little knots of tourists stopping to take a photo with me and my sign and then dropping a few bucks into my hat.

Then all hell broke loose when a detail of Homeland Security guards, guns drawn, surrounded me. Their leader, a tall, slim blonde in a dull black uniform, sporting reflective sunglasses, yelled at me through a bullhorn to drop the weapon. What weapon? Oh, she meant my musical saw! I gingerly put it down, and the circle drew in tighter. In the meantime, I had lost my mind with fear, so when Blondie began questioning me about who I was and where I came from I fell back on my old pantomime training, gesturing and mouthing words but unable to actually say anything. I think that may have saved my skin, because Blondie became intrigued with my frantic body language and actually smiled.

“Doesn’t your clown character talk, Bozo?” she finally asked me, after looking through my wallet.

I nodded like a demented bobblehead.

“I guess he’s okay, boys” she said to her coterie of gun-totting minions. “Just don’t ask for money” she said sternly to me. I mimed an eloquent affirmation that I would never do such a heinous thing. The Homeland Security thugs dispersed, and, after using the donniker over at the Botanical Gardens, I resumed my performance -- careful not to overtly ask for any money. But my sign made it clear that I wouldn’t turn down any donations to my campaign fund, so I continued to do okay while keeping to the letter of the law as laid down by Blondie.

I became a fixture there at Capitol Hill that summer. A few Senators and Representatives even stopped by to have their pictures taken with me, and the local cops started addressing me as “Senator Dusty.”

There were other nutjobs who also inhabited Capitol Hill along with me, carrying various signs about their imaginary grievances. One gentleman I remember very well; his sign ran into several hundred words -- the gist of it was that the CIA had stolen his wife, and he wanted her back. Another guy dressed up like Uncle Sam and passed out cheap copies of the Constitution while cheerfully warning everyone that fluoride was a terrorist plot.

I made out pretty well, especially when a group of school kids came by and their teacher stiffly warned them against stopping to read my sign or interact with me. That just spurred them on, and they emptied their pockets for me. The Chinese tourist groups, usually about fifty in a pack, all demanded photographs with me, and then loaded me down with quarters. I never broke my silence, but carried a pad and pen so I could write down whatever I couldn’t convey via pantomime. Most of the questions revolved around if I was a real circus clown, so I always wrote down “Ringling Brothers, starting in 1971!”

It was a sad day in my professional life as a clown when Blondie showed up again that fall to tell me: “Sorry, Bozo, but the rules have been tightened. You can’t loiter around here anymore unless you can prove you’re on official business. I’ve gotta ask you to leave.” So much for free speech in America.

But she did give me a five dollar bill prior to sending me away. Some of those people are all right.   

The Clown and the Sermon

It was Art Ricker’s fault. And I knew the minute he stepped into clown alley that his presence boded ill for my weekend plans. He had that placating yet conniving look on his face that all Ringling press agents had. Wreathed in a cloud of noisome cigar smoke, he sidled up to me with a hail-fellow-well-met affectation that fooled no one.

“Any big plans this weekend, boychick?” he asked me heartily. He had taken to calling everyone ‘boychick’, on the off chance it would ease the resentment most of the the First of Mays felt towards him for either getting them up at the crack of dawn to participate in some hare-brained publicity stunt, or ignoring them altogether when there was a really choice PR gig (one that offered lots of free food.)

“Oh, I might be saving the Free World from Trotskyites” I said casually, eyeing him with deepening suspicion.

I actually did have some plans for the weekend, weaved around the exhausting schedule the show kept on Saturdays and Sundays -- 3 shows on Saturday and 2 on Sunday, and then pack everything up to move out to the next arena. I had just bought a Revell of Germany Junkers JU-88 A-4 Bomber plastic model kit, which I intended to tinker with during odd moments between shows and then finish gluing together in my roomette Sunday night. I’d run out of good books to read that week, and had not found a decent used book store in Akron to feed my paperback addiction. I thought an airplane model would make a nice break from my literary routine. Roofus T. Goofus said he would help me with it, too -- he was very handy with artsy-craftsy things like that. The finished product would make a nice addition to the drab, utilitarian decor of my roomette on the train.

“Good!” boomed Ricker. “I didn’t think you had anything important going on. I wanna give you one of the most fantastic publicity gigs the circus has got for the whole Midwest! And only you can do it!”

The airplane model kit was still unopened on top of my clown trunk; I eyed it wistfully as I sullenly asked: “What now, Ricker?”

“I need you to perform at a Christian service at the St Paul Episcopal Church Sunday evening” he said smoothly. “I tried getting Peggy Williams in for it, but she can’t come.”

Peggy, one of the first girl clowns in modern Ringling history, was being vetted for Big Things by Irvin Feld and his publicity machine on the Red Unit. I knew she would do just about anything for the PR boys -- and make it look fun and happy. She had already done a number of ‘sermons’ at churches around the country. She exuded a positive energy that was contagious when she was up at the pulpit.

I, on the other hand, as a recently returned LDS missionary from the wilds of exotic Thailand, was a little burnt out in the evangelical department.

“I don’t believe in mixing religion with clowning” I started to object, but Ricker had done his homework.

“Don’t gimme that, boychick. DIdn’t you do clown shows all over Thailand for the Mormon Church?” he asked me.

I had to admit he was right on the money. But I had another shot in my locker.

“Sunday evening, you say? Well, then, it can’t be done! I’ve gotta be here for the last show -- you know that.”

“I’ve already made arrangements with Charlie Baumann to have you excused from the evening show” he shot back. “We’ll have some of the national papers there, too!”

Hmmmm. There was something to be said for getting out of that last show on Sunday -- I was usually so paralyzed with exhaustion I just walked through it without a spark of enthusiasm or inspiration. And maybe the Episcopalians would have some toothsome snacks at their evening service. So I said yes, and Ricker said he’d personally come by the arena to pick me up at six on Sunday night -- and to be ready to “give ‘em that old razz matazz!”  

Hoo boy . . . what could I talk about to a bunch of Episcopalians? Back then, my language and my erudition were more rough and ready than polished and polite. So I flipped through my handy dandy Topical Guide for the scriptures to see what I could come up with:

Genesis 17:17 -- Abraham fell upon his face, and laughed

Psalms 2:4 -- He that sitteth in the heavens shall laugh

Ecclesiastes 2:2 -- I said of laughter, it is mad

James 4:9 -- Let your laughter be turned to mourning

Yikes! Not too promising. Finally, I just decided to wing it -- I’d take some props with me and see what happened . . .  

They had a three-piece rock band play some opening hymns, which I didn’t recognize at all. Then their youth pastor made a pitch for an upcoming Bible Camp to be held at Presque Isle State Park. Then I was on.

“Um . . . “ I began brilliantly. “Um, who has any questions about circus clowning?”

As a few hands tentatively went up I could see Ricker in the back, motioning furiously for me to get on with some slapstick business -- something the photographer by his side could snap for a catchy display in the morning paper. That’s when I decided I would sit down, take it easy, and do my best to give straight answers. My contrary streak was in full gear. The more Art Ricker wanted me to throw a pie or drop my pants for the bored photog next to him, the less inclined I felt to do so.

I had a nice quiet chat with the congregation -- most of ‘em young people. I told them that clowning could be learned by just about anyone, and that hardly any of the clowns I knew had a broken heart. I told them about the pie car, and the train, and Clown College, and then told them I’d been away from the circus for two years on a proselyting mission for my church. They were a very respectful group, and afterwards we had chicken salad sandwiches with shoestring potatoes and coleslaw. They even gave me a bag full of sandwiches to take back to the train for the next day’s journey.

Ricker wouldn’t talk to me on the ride back, except to say the photographer had left early after deciding there was no story. I thought smugly to myself that he would not be bothering me again with any more of his PR stunts -- I was now officially in his black book. But wouldn’t you know it, a few weeks later in he waltzes to ask if I’d like to go do twenty minutes at a downtown library. Maybe he was just a forgiving guy, but more likely he just got desperate. Not a lot of the available clowns could do twenty minutes by themselves.

And that German Junker airplane kit never did get opened, not by me. I gave it to Roofus T. Goofus on his birthday a few weeks later.

President Trump's Sense of Humor

Nowadays, the President’s sense of humor has been examined exhaustively. The consensus seems to be that either he doesn’t possess one at all, or that it is so subtle that most people don’t get it -- except, perhaps a gang of 12 year old boys having a food fight in their cafeteria. He could even be John Belushi funny.

You can Google Trump’s “only joking” statements by the hundreds, which shore up the contention that he is channeling John Belushi during one of his less sober moments.

Some of the best (or worst) examples are Sean Spicer claiming Trump was just funning when he asked the Kremlin to do a hack on Mrs. Clinton’s emails while on the campaign trail. Or how about that embarrassing moment that ended when Sarah Huckabee Sanders (no relation to the Colonel) said “I think he was just making a joke,” when Trump recommended that cops bounce prisoner’s heads off the door jambs of their squad cars.  

Lucky for us, Happy Hicks, who handles White House communications on a sub rosa level, recently told The Washingtonian that Trump, quote-unquote, “has a brilliant sense of humor.”  So did ________________  (fill in your own paranoid leader.)

Most people know by now that in Washingtonese, when you are ‘joking’ you are actually attacking -- as in “Who cut your hair, Helen Keller? Just kidding!”

An interesting sidelight about this whole eventyr is that Trump and his minions have a very selective sense of humor. Or very tedious, might be a better way of putting it. How many photoshopped pictures of the President hitting people with golf balls or having them slammed into with trains does the public really want?

There are no ‘poor taste’ filters on Twitter, although there certainly ought to be. Trump should probably add an emoji to let us know when he’s joking and when he’s actually insanely mad. This might help clear up ambivalent tweets like the one thanking Putin for booting American diplomats out of Russia. A smiley face or a thundercloud with a lightning bolt would have been enormously helpful at that point. But then, maybe Trump is all about being ambivalent and not funny or serious. He wants to keep us guessing. That strategy, if that is his strategy, has certainly kept him in office longer than a lot of Beltway buffs predicted.

It just may be Trump’s perceived ambiguity that keeps us out of World War Three with North Korea. Calling its president Rocket Boy and then threatening to wipe his country off the map are not to be construed as a direct insult and threat, but rather a whimsical outpouring of presidential poetic license.

Yeah, that’s probably what it is . . .

(Thanks to Andrew Rosenthal of the NYTimes for giving me this idea to develop.)

We are all just puppets

We are all just puppets in this world of strife and woe,

Strung up by our karma in a vulgar puppet show.

The cords of passion move us, make us dance a merry jig.

Then folly twitches us into some sudden whirligig.

Lugging baggage from the past, we cannot fly -- but crawl,

Tangled in the skeins of every other lifeless doll.

And if we try to cut the strings they only grow anew,

Choking us with destiny, secured by Elmer’s Glue.

That, at least, is what philosophers so often spout.

Me, I see no reason why a puppet makes one pout.

Pure whimsy is a blessed conceit, as puppets surely are;

They bring a little laughter to a world too oft ajar.