Growing up a class clown: The burdens of a professional circus performer

(written by Sara Phelps for Deseret News)

Either by random chance or cosmic design, Tim Torkildson had his first opportunity to be a clown in kindergarten, and after that he was never the same.

He swiped his brother Bill’s pajamas and smeared his mother’s lipstick on his face, looking more like the victim of a head-on crash than a merrymaker.

Not having any scripted action besides the teacher’s admonition to “do something funny," Torkildson pranced around the classroom, stuck out his tongue at the indulgent group of parents and then stood as still as Lot’s wife — struck with the utter beauty of laughter and the dim premonition that the cost of generating such merriment could be terribly high.

"I cannot remember a time in my life when I did not want to make people laugh," Torkildson said.

He put cellophane tape over the projector lens when the teacher showed movies. He learned to make an immense number of embarrassing noises. He assiduously studied old Marx Brothers and Three Stooges movies on TV. He blew bubbles through his straw into his milk carton until it foamed over, and then slathered the foamy milk over his face so he could shave it off with a plastic butter knife.

The summer after high school graduation, Torkildson found an article about the Ringling Clown College within the pages of Life magazine. In a few months, he hitchhiked to Florida and enrolled in the program.

"I wanted to be (funny), but I wasn’t," Torkildson said. "I needed the training and the exposure that came with working with professional clowns."

Completing the Ringling Clown College program was no easy task for Torkildson. His family was embarrassed by his career choice, and he felt rejected by many of his fellow clowns. Despite this opposition, Torkildson became one of the top performers in his class, and graduated as one of only 12 students with an offer to perform with the Ringling Brothers Circus.

As his college days came to a close, Torkildson began to notice a classmate, Tim Holst, who stood out from the other students.

“This was the first time I’d ever been away from home,” Torkildson said. “I could do anything I wanted and I was considering my options. I noticed that Tim Holst … didn’t swear, didn’t drink (and) didn’t smoke.”

Torkildson realized perhaps there was greater purpose in his attending Ringling Clown College; perhaps he was more than just a juvenile jokester. He took the missionary discussions and was baptized soon after as a member of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

After a few years of working as a professional clown, Torkildson put his career on hold to serve an LDS mission in Bangkok, Thailand. Here he developed a love for spicy foods and even performed some of his clown routines for locals.

"I spent two-thirds of my mission performing as a clown," he said. "The church did not have a very good image in Thailand, (so) the mission president did a number of things to generate good public relations. One of the things I did was free clown shows. We would go visit hospitals, schools and jails. I would be introduced as a missionary for the church, and that is as much publicity as we did."

Torkildson was lucky enough to get his job back with the Ringling Brothers Circus after he returned home, but being the class clown came at a price. Though he spent years in the circus making families clap and cheer with excitement, his wife and eight children were not so enthusiastic about his career.

"I sensed that my wife was falling away from me," he said. "This frightened me so … I gave up the circus (and) I worked for the Utah State Tax Commission as a tax collector. I went from making people laugh to making them cry … but I did it because I wanted to stay at home. It really didn’t help because by that time the marriage was dead. As soon as it was over, I quit that job and I went back to the circus. Obviously I was sad, I was heartbroken … I had lost my family."

Torkildson finished out his career working as a clown, eventually becoming the ringmaster and then running publicity for the circus. However, arthritis kicked in and traveling with the circus became too difficult to continue.

After moving on from the circus and working several different jobs, Torkildson found himself struggling to make ends meet.

"Once my active clowning career ended, I felt a real sense of deflation, and it took me years to redefine myself as someone who has worth outside of his ability to make people laugh," he said. "I wound up living in a homeless shelter. I ran out of options. That happened just a year ago."

A good friend of Torkildson's took notice to his situation and invited him to come stay with his family in Provo. Torkildson lives there today, works part-time and expects to be in his own apartment by the end of the summer.

Now that he lives in Provo, Torkildson is closer to his children and grandchildren, and longs to spend time developing those relationships that may have suffered during his circus days.

"Anytime I can be with my children or grandchildren, that is extremely fulfilling for me," he said. "I haven’t experienced that with my children for many years, so it’s like a holiday."

Torkildson's clowning days may be over, but he'll never stop trying to make others smile.

"Writing is the thing I enjoy the most … I have a lot of fun memories of Thailand and the circus, and I write about those things," he said. "Physical comedy is impossible for me to do, so I’m grateful I have a new outlet to be able to write and through the Internet be able to share that with people."

Through his trials, Torkildson is grateful for the influence of the LDS Church and how it has helped him stay hopeful toward the future.

"I feel that my best work is still ahead of me, and the reason I feel that way is because of my living testimony of the superb reality of the Savior and of his church, The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints," he said. "I feel that each day is a gift and that it is my responsibility, and privilege, to find the wonder and awe in it, and to respond to that wonder and glory with all the creative resources at my command. … And one way or another, it’s still going to be about laughter. I’m still going to be entertaining people. That’s my life."

In France they're asking -- where's the butter?

At the weekend, French daily newspaper Le Figaro published a long how-to piece on baking and cooking without butter. The article was emblematic of France’s current butter crisis, where demand has overtaken supply, resulting in the price of the dairy product skyrocketing by 60 percent in one year and dairy sections of some supermarkets screaming empty.

From France 24.

Marseilles is in a quandary, and Bordeaux is up in arms;

Butter is not reaching them from Gallic dairy farms.

Ministers are worried that their own portfolio

Will be taken from them for a lack of oleo.

“Bon Dieu!” The bakers cry out, cuz their pastries all are dry --

Parisiens spurn the croissant and instead eat ‘la french fry!’

Avignon’s deserted, and Grenoble is aflutter,

As the desperate citoyens go searching for some butter.

Macron’s going crazy, asking Merkel for a hand

In bringing barges full of ghee into his restless land.

It won’t be long before they once again storm the Bastille --

Chanting “Down with margarine -- we want the stuff that’s real!”

There was a young lady of Nimes

PARIS — When a fledgling alternative press published Gabrielle Deydier’s plaintive memoir of growing up fat in France, there was little expectation that the book would attract much notice. Frenchwomen are among the thinnest in Europe, high fashion is big business, and obesity isn’t often discussed.

“To be fat in France is to be a loser,” Ms. Deydier said.

So no one, least of all Ms. Deydier, expected “On Ne Naît Pas Grosse” (“One Is Not Born Fat”) to become a media sensation.

from the NYTimes 

There was a young lady of Nimes
Who was rather broad in the beam.
But that’s no excuse
To call her a goose,
Or limit her intake of bream.

Sojourns of the Trumpsmen. Canto Fifteen. Megan J. Brennan

CANTO FIFTEEN. MEGAN J. BRENNAN.

At last the trumpsmen had it made, on Mount Olympus lolling,

While their matchless leader spent his time with tweets and squalling.

The gods of old they had displaced, a new game they were playing --

while all the people down below were suffering and praying.

But offering oblations did not give the people rest --

These deities thought sacrifice was nothing but a jest.

Yet in the midst a Trojan horse lay waiting to surprise

These hoity toity ankle biters with their silly lies.

The Postmaster, Miss Megan, who did oversee the mail,

Rode about Olympus on her ponderous great snail.

Eldritch and meticulous, she went her quiet way

And didn’t care for how her colleagues liked to spend the day.

She sought out one who held religious views on politics,

And had retired in disgust from all the shabby tricks.  

In the templed mountains of the West he now did sit --

Amidst the peaceful Danite bands, who liked to call him Mitt.

Miss Megan made obeisance to the mighty Mitt, imploring

Him to take his sword and justice swift begin restoring.

But Mitt was quite reluctant to re enter the arena

Where ev’ry man must grovel and then stay the low hyena.

But pressing him with tears and sobs, Miss Megan wrung his heart,

And so with clean white shirts galore Mitt Romney made a start.

Gathering high legions of investors and fierce brokers,

Mitt Romney led them all against the Oval Office jokers.

The churning of great battle echoed through the nooks and crannies,

Heartening the bourgeoisie (but scaring all their grannies.)

At last the trumpsmen uncle cried and slunk away in anguish,

The mark of Cain upon their brows as in exile they languish.

And what of Romney and his host of fellow plutocrats --

Will they now wield the power, or hang up their righteous hats?  

The future is diaphanous, a thing of shreds and tatters.

The conscience of the people is the only thing that matters.

FINIS

Sojourns of the Trumpsmen. Canto Fourteen. Stephen K. Bannon

CANTO FOURTEEN. STEPHEN K. BANNON.

There was a man, a mighty man -- Steve Bannon was his name.

Of all the Trumpsmen he alone had never tasted shame.

Swift and cunning, Bannon is like Hermes was to Zeus;

A wingman who protects his boss from those that would traduce.

In fact, the mighty Bannon did resolve that his great chief

Needed some place grander than the US for his fief.

Casting round his doughty eye, Steve Bannon soon descried

The perfect place for trumpsmen to salute their joy and pride.

The real estate in question was Olympus Mount, where myth

Had built a vaunting edifice with augury and pith.

The thought was father to the deed; Sir Bannon climbed anon

Straight up to where the demigods sat stifling a yawn.

“Ho, spirits of the depthless void!” he called to them aloud.

“Who’s in charge of this here mangy hocus-pocus crowd?”

The Thunderer rose up in wrath, to smite this mortal gnat

Who dared profane their sacred halls with trifling chit chat.

But ere he could unloose a thunderbolt Sir Bannon spoke,

And what he had to offer made the demigods all choke.

He told them with a honeyed smile that sweet would be the prize

For those who let his Chieftain settle there amidst the skies.

Commanding arms and opulence beyond their untamed dreams,

He could grant their wishes anent avarice and schemes.

In return they would surrender all their fey domains

And be bound with very light and unobtrusive chains.

And each one who relinquished all their godlike liberty

Would become a talking head on national TV.

The demigods consulted like a swarm of restless bees --

And finally agreed, if they could keep gratuities.

And thus it came to pass that all the trumpsmen and their boss

Ascended to Olympus, far above the common dross.

While all the mythic idols, who had once held mankind’s heart,

Were relegated to a desk job somewhere in Breitbart.

It only goes to prove that when a man is good with words

He can make a serpent dance or silence all the birds.

A boss who has a counselor like that ought to beware --

He might be left out in the rain with just his underwear.

(to be continued)

Sojourns of the Trumpsmen. Canto Thirteen. Sonny Perdue.

CANTO THIRTEEN.  SONNY PERDUE.

Whilst traveling through Europe, talking agriculture stuff,

Sonny of Bonaire was met with prejudices gruff.

The European Union told him they would rather starve

Than into US chicken ever stick a knife to carve.

Our chickens, drenched in chlorine and with altered DNA,

Were deadlier than cyanide and must be kept at bay.

In fact the tillers of the soil back in the USA

Grew nothing except poison that would kill you right away.

Sonny of Bonaire became enraged at such great slander.

And Ares, god of war, just kept on cranking up his dander --

Until, upon returning to America in haste,

He decided Europe now deserved to be laid waste.

Using drones and missiles, Sonny madly sent abroad

Corn syrup bombs and allergens inside the green pea pod.

Radishes with road rage were unleashed on France and Spain;

And chicken feet marched into Rome, which caused a lot of pain.

Soybeans with DNA that made them go psychotic

Were introduced to parliaments, where they became despotic.

Carcasses of beef and pork, with zombie germs endowed,

Spread across the countryside of Europe like a cloud.

As a final stroke, atomic cornstalks fell upon

The Netherlands and then were aimed at ostentatious Bonn.

Even NATO could not stem the tide of GMO’s

That threatened all of Europe and that withered ev’ry rose.

Sonny of Bonaire went back in triumph to those folk

Who had treated US produce as a nasty joke.

As Emperor Perdue the First he now rules placidly

Over ruins and toxic wastes where famine sits with glee.

(to be continued)

Sojourns of the Trumpsmen. Canto Twelve. Ryan Zinke.

CANTO TWELVE.  RYAN ZINKE.  

Snapping in the breeze, the flag of doughty Ryan Zinke

Warned the common rabble he was eating a fried Twinkie.

His secretaries washed his hands with lustral water, then

Ryan Zinke set about to sell a lake or fen.

Too many fields and mountains did the government retain;

Twas Zinke’s dream to make of them a noble gravy train.

The money thus engendered would support a junket spree

For all the crowding trumpsmen who met longueurs constantly.

But unbeknownst to Zinke, Circe -- goddess of quick change --

Didn’t like his bartering of ev’ry mountain range.

In disdain she visited his office quietly

To make him part of her immortalized menagerie.

A simple tap of oaken wand, and Zinke was a seal.

Circe scooped him barking up into her giant creel.

Her sorcery swept them away unto antarctic floes,

Where chilblains nipped eternally at ev’rybody’s toes.

There she did release him into salty seas to swish

After black crustaceans and walleyed polar fish.

His life was hard and hurried as he hunted after kippers,

Longing to have hands again, instead of clumsy flippers.

But then a Swedish trawler came a-hunting seals and whales;

They ate ‘em fried, with sour cream, from snout to slender tails.

They netted Ryan Zinke with a mess of flapping skates,

And he was quick to realize he was in dire straits.

Back at the ranch -- in Washington -- the trumpsmen meanwhile snored

Away their days while Ryan’s fate they heartlessly ignored.

They’d heard he had reupped and was now skippering a boat --

Or went out with some floozy in a strangely furry coat.

But Ryan was in trouble, and, not knowing where to turn,

He started swearing dreadfully, which made the Swede’s ears burn.

The captain, he was startled when he heard a seal start cussing --

He ordered the poor creature to be spared the final trussing.

Taken to his cabin, Ryan Zinke did reveal

To the captain staring that he was a magic seal.

Luckily the captain dabbled in the black arts, too --

He broke the spell so Zinke became human through and through.

But Zinke did not go back to the fleshpots of D.C.

He stayed aboard the trawler working nets unceasingly.

He found that he enjoyed the company of kelp and char --

More than any trumpsman at a ritzy oyster bar.

(to be continued)

Babies who want a third gender

From the NYTimes:

“Californians who don’t identify themselves as male or female will soon be able to get a gender-neutral birth certificate.”

A baby who wants a third gender

Will find California a splendor.

The doctors and nurses

May hurl a few curses,

But intersex bairns won’t surrender.

I wanna be a member of a secret order, please -- so I can be initiated till my pants I pees

From the NYTimes:
ALBANY — Last March, five women gathered in a home near here to enter a secret sisterhood they were told was created to empower women.
     The women, in their 30s and 40s, belonged to a self-help organization called Nxivm, which is based in Albany and has chapters across the country, Canada and Mexico.
     Sarah Edmondson, one of the participants, said she had been told she would get a small tattoo as part of the initiation. But she was not prepared for what came next.
     A female doctor proceeded to use a cauterizing device to sear a two-inch-square symbol below each woman’s hip, a procedure that took 20 to 30 minutes. For hours, muffled screams and the smell of burning tissue filled the room.

I wanna be a member of a secret order, so

I can be trussed up and cauterized real nice and slow.

For only through much suffering can men and women gain

Access to the knowledge that real life is such a pain.

And when I am a member I will know the secret signs,

The passwords and the symbols and the mascot porcupines.

It makes me feel so powerful, this gnostic camouflage,

That I’ll embrace their doctrine though it sounds a bit hodgepodge.

Of course if I go spill the beans I know the high command

Will have me tarred and feathered, then my fanny will be tanned.

But why would I betray a group that does me so much good?

(When I get all my dues paid off they’ll let me wear a hood!)