even a buffoon
with puttied nose may find zeal
for what is beyond
Sunday, May 13, 2018
Saturday, May 12, 2018
Religious Freedom
D. Todd Christofferson
D. Todd Christofferson
The cult of personality respects no rule of law.
The dictator is always right -- his wishes have no flaw.
Religions, on the other hand, teach nations to regard
Rules above the whims of man -- why is that so damn hard?
Friday, May 11, 2018
Who Remembers the Door to Door Salesman?
Rats and flies are a big summer problem
in some urban areas, but I remember a
time when they seemed like small potatoes
compared to that nonpareil nuisance –
the door-to-door salesman.
Long before telemarketers invaded our
privacy, husky young men rang the doorbell
constantly during the summer months, asking
the lady of the house, with a grin as insincere
as a political endorsement, “is your mother home, missy?”
Who now remembers the Fuller Brush man?
These pesky invaders liked to show up
during my mother’s favorite soap opera in the afternoons. Usually banished outside to play for
the afternoon, I often watched their progress as
they went from one door to the next until they
reached our door. They never got anywhere
with old Benny on the corner – he was a crusty bachelor. Then there was Mrs. Henderson,
who let everybody in but never bought
anything; she was just lonely widow.
Then the Antons; he had a railroad pension
and never left the house for fear his wife
would spend a quarter on something he
hadn’t pre-approved – he always
brought a BB gun to the door. Then
the Matsuuras. They had a little brass
plate displayed over their doorbell:
NO SOLICITING. That didn’t stop
the Fuller Brush Man. Mrs. Matsuura played
possum, not answering the doorbell, but the
Fuller Brush Man was persistent, if nothing else.
Finally she would come to the door, glare at
him through the screen, and wind up buying some toothbrushes.
Then it was our turn. I liked listening to his
spiel, especially the part about the brushes
being made out of 100% boar bristles.
I used to dream about boar bristles, about
how brave men had to hunt down the
ravening boars in some bamboo grove
in Borneo, and then pluck the bristles out
by hand, one by one. My mother always gave
the Fuller Brush Man the bum’s rush,
but I promised myself I’d get me a boar’s
bristle brush someday. I finally did, as a
teenager, to comb my luxurious hippie
locks – until my mother made me get a crew cut.
Ladies came to our door, too. They sold Stanley
Home Products – mostly cleaners and
detergents. Mom had her own opinions
about how to keep the house clean, and they
didn’t include Stanley Home Products.
The Avon Lady, however, was a different
kettle of fish. First of all, she was always a
local; in our neighborhood it was Mrs. Satterlee,
who not only lived just two blocks from us
but was also my third grade teacher. Her
credentials were unimpeachable. Mom
got all her lipstick and eyeliner from the
Avon Lady. And for my tenth birthday
the crummy Avon Lady convinced her to get
me soap on a rope, curse her entrepreneurial spirit!
The Watkins man parked his truck in the
middle of the block; he didn’t have to go
door-to-door – all the housewives flocked
to him for their almond flavoring and pepper.
Mr. Anton, the railroad pensioner, also
patronized the Watkins man – buying
several bottles of pure vanilla extract at a time.
Mrs. Anton was no hand at baking or cooking;
it was whispered that he drank the stuff
straight from the bottle, since it was 90 proof alcohol.
There was an old Ukrainian lady, dressed in
gypsy kerchief and a dozen petticoats, who
hobbled from door to door, selling wooden
nested dolls, hand-carved by her invalid
husband and painted by herself. She appeared
around Easter. Everyone bought a doll
from her. My dad said she rode around
in a Cadillac, and the dolls were all made in Japan.
Life insurance was sold door-to-door.
The Encyclopedia Britannica. Competing
dairy companies sent their milkmen
door-to-door to drum up business,
promising free butter and eggs for
a week if we switched from Ewald’s to
Land O Lakes. Magazines. Cookies. Candy.
Driveway repair services. Sewing machines.
Vacuum cleaners.
Some summer days my poor mother
opened the door to half a dozen
door-to-door peddlers between 9 a.m.
and 5 p.m. Then, to top it all off,
the paperboy would show up right
at dinner time for his subscription
money. She told my dad we were
moving to Lower Slobovia if one more
salesman showed up.
This particular pest is now extinct, I believe.
Living in a Senior Housing Complex, with a
locked lobby, I haven't been bothered by one
in years. But, like the Bubonic Plague, they
could return -- if we don't behave ourselves!
Butter and Honey
Second Nephi. Chapter Seventeen. Verse 15.
The Gospel is butter and honey;
Not fighting and searching for money.
Those who decide
Not to abide
Will find that their treasure is runny.
Thursday, May 10, 2018
Selling Insurance to Circus Clowns
That's me, bottom right. 1971.
Clown alley was a semi-autonomous state
within the larger world of the traveling
circus. What goes on in there, who
comes to visit, and why a sudden geyser
of water might erupt onto innocent heads
outside of the alley, are all matters of high
policy not usually discussed with outsiders --
including management and the local constabulary.
While no formal passport was ever issued or
required to enter the Ringling clown alley,
all visitors, by mutual consent, were to be
scrutinized outside of the alley by one of
the veteran clowns before gaining admittance.
This went for sweethearts, bill collectors,
reporters, pizza delivery boys, relatives,
and insurance agents.
Although I was a committed zany during my working
hours, squirting seltzer and flinging pies with deadly
humor, when I was out of makeup and out of the alley
I was a serious young man. For one thing, I was
haunted by the memory of my Grandmother Torkildson.
Before I left to join the circus she had come to our
house and pleaded with my mother for a room in her house,
or even a cot in the garage, as she had so very little to pay
for rent and food. My mother, with tears in her eyes, had
to turn her down – our house was cramped as it was, and my
father, who attended the Simon LeGree school of Hard
Knocks, did not approve of any relatives besides children
moving in. I did not want to wind up like that, and
thought the best way to avoid such a melodramatic
end would be to salt my money away in the bank and
invest it prudently. To that end, I was always ripping
ads out of magazines and newspapers for mutual funds
and whole life insurance, sending away for their pamphlets.
One fine day, when the show was playing Philadelphia,
I was told a visitor awaited me outside the alley, having
passed muster with one of the older clowns. I thought
it might be a girl I had met at church the previous
Sunday, so I smoothed down my bushy hair (which
I was also using for my clown wig), spritzed myself
with some Old Spice, and hurried out, only to be met
by a shambling figure swathed in a tan raincoat, even
though it was a warm sunny day in the City of Friends.
Turns out that this palooka was with a Philadelphia
insurance company which had received one of my
inquiries. He had been assigned to track me down
and pin me with an insurance policy. He introduced
himself as Dewey Moede with a damp and flabby handshake.
Not knowing any better, I invited him into the alley.
Pulling up a folding chair, he began his spiel while
I applied the greasepaint in preparation for the day’s
merrymaking chores.
He asked my age, where I was born, did I smoke, how
much did I drink, and was I married. He then did some
tabulations on a sheet of graph paper and produced a
document that he told me indicated I would live to the
ripe old age of eighty and that if I began investing in whole
life right now, to the tune of five dollars per week, by
the age of seventy I would have enough to live a life of ease and
comfort in a broom closet in Miami Beach. Provided there were
no hurricanes. Or, if I preferred, I could immediately invest
twenty-thousand dollars in an annuity, which I would not
start to collect on until the age of sixty-four, and could then
look forward to three square meals a day, if I didn’t mind two
of those meals being cheese and crackers.
While I found his logic interesting, I couldn’t quite see myself
committing to five whole dollars every week. At the time
my salary was ninety-dollars a week, and I was already putting
ten of that away in a savings account each week.
I was about to voice my hesitation when there was a loud bang
behind us. It was just Spikawopsky, making black gunpowder
squibs and testing them out to make sure they were efficacious.
I explained this to Mr. Moede, because he seemed suddenly
rather nervous. I told him we went through at least two
dozen exploding squibs each show, and I had never lost more
than a few singed eyebrow hairs. He began fiddling with his
graph paper again. While he did, I went outside of the alley
to help Swede Johnson with the new flamethrower we had
installed in the stove we used for the baker’s gag. A nozzle
blew powdered coffee creamer over a candle flame –
creating quite a spectacular tongue of fire, about five feet
long. It was Mr. Moede’s misfortune to come hunting me
just as Swede squeezed the bellows after I had lit the
candle. The resulting roar of fire caught the insurance
agent completely off guard, and before I could explain
that the flame was relatively harmless – producing minor
blisters only – he was galloping up the exit ramp of the arena,
tossing aside crumpled graph paper and blank insurance forms
like confetti.
Oh well, I thought to myself, there’s always more insurance
agents – and Sunday School girls – in the next town. . . .
I Get a Snow Job at The Brave New Workshop
In 2000 my sense of humor declined to the point that instead of going out with the circus as a clown that year I took a job as a bill collector with Green Tree Financial, in Saint Paul. They collected mostly on unsecured credit card debts for motorcycles, furniture, and mobile homes. Looking back, I think I was trying to punish myself for real and imagined past indiscretions. It was one of the most horrible jobs I’ve ever held in my life, and, try as I might, I couldn’t get fired from it like I had from so many other jobs previously. I bought a Bozo Bop Bag to set up in my cubicle, beating the tar out of him after almost every minatory phone call I made. My boss told me that was an inappropriate way to handle my frustrations and to get rid of it immediately. I defied him in front of the whole office, saying he’d have to fire me first. He didn’t, and Bozo stayed with me in that gray featureless cubicle until I finally managed to get my mojo working again and go back out with the circus.
Feeling that I was immersing myself in a vat of cold vinegar, I took steps to resuscitate my flagging funny bone. I enrolled in improvisation classes at Dudley Riggs Brave New Workshop -- an improv theater group that has been around since 1958. Riggs himself was an old circus performer, working the trapeze with shows like Hagenback Wallace and Sells Floto. After I started classes I only met the guy once, in passing, and never got the chance to let him know I had a solid three-ring background. It’s just as well -- I was far from a stellar pupil at The Brave New Workshop.
“Stop falling down so much!” my instructor Melissa Peterman would implore me, almost in tears. I liked to end every improv exercise with a spectacular pratfall -- it always got a big laugh. My fellow students were considerably younger than me, and seemed fixated on sex; it turned up, one way or another, in every improv exercise we did. And I refused to go along with the dirty stuff. When it looked like a scene I was in was going to end up in a sweaty boudoir session I’d literally change the subject, fer instance:
“Let’s do it on the kitchen table, right now!” my improv partner would say, with many a suggestive wink and leer. To which I would respond by breaking into a chorus of “When You and I Were Young, Maggie.” This did not sit well with the faculty, who upbraided me constantly for breaking the Prime Directive of improv -- always agree with your partners onstage and go along with whatever scenario they start.
A big reason I kept going with improv, even though my teachers were less than enthusiastic about my abilities, was that students could try out for the live stage show, and if they succeeded they would become part of the professional ensemble -- that got paid real moolah. But my auditions were not auspicious. We were advised to throw caution to the winds, to push the envelope, when we auditioned. So when I went up onstage for my tryout I brought along a large black plastic trash bin, in which I sat and read knock-knock jokes from Boys Life magazine. Strangely enough, this did not impress the faculty or theater management.
My one success while attending The Brave New Workshop wasn’t even onstage. It was on the radio. One day, after a glum round of improv scenes in which I floundered and finally expired like a beached oarfish, I sat in the Workshop’s basement canteen sipping insipid hot chocolate from a vending machine that had an attitude problem, when an idea flew into my head and took immediate lodging.
“Cooking with snow” I said to no one in particular. The conceit of a cookbook made up of recipes with nothing but snow intrigued me to the extent that I brought my Walkman tape recorder to classes the next day and simply asked everyone, including instructors, one by one, “What is your favorite snow recipe?” For once, my idea went over big -- and everyone improvised recipes for snow steak, snow pie, snow pancakes, fricaseed snow, and snow soup. I edited the tape down to the five best responses and sent it into KUOM, the student radio station for the University of Minnesota -- at the suggestion of Workshop manager John Sweeney. It was an immediate hit, and snippets were played throughout the day for a full week. This didn’t make me any money, as KUOM classified my submission as a ‘humor contribution.’ Like my old pal Tim Holst always said to me: "Tork, whenever you smell money you run the other way!" But I felt that at long last my real, true sense of humor was finally blooming again. In a burst of manic self confidence I called up an old friend on the Clyde Beatty Cole Brothers Show out of Leland, Florida, and he got me a clown job before you could say “Bob’s yer uncle.” I gave notice at Green Tree and was back on the road within a week. I gifted my Green Tree boss with the Bozo Bop Bag. I hope it developed a leak.
And my Cooking with Snow idea? Well, once I was settled on the road again I planned to write all the recipes out, with a little padding of my own, and start offering the manuscript to publishers far and wide. I contacted everyone who had contributed a recipe to ask for their permission to include it in my upcoming bestseller. They were glad to give me the nod -- as long as they got a cut of the profits if the book ever got published.
I said to hell with it, and forgot about the whole thing. Imagine my chagrin when, a few years later, I read an article in Bon Appetit magazine, entitled “How to Cook with Fresh Snow.” Then NPR offered a tongue-in-cheek ‘Cooking with Snow’ class, and The Guardian newspaper had a column about cooking with snow in their Life and Style section.
That’s when I started constantly talking to myself in a shrill, hoarse voice as I walked down the street. But since cell phones went totally mainstream at the same time, nobody really noticed me.
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