the rejected stone
still grows stronger and larger
in the wilderness
Monday, May 14, 2018
Sunday, May 13, 2018
How to Make and Throw a Slapstick Pie
Throughout the history of silent film comedy there were pies everywhere, whizzing through the air like gooey bumblebees. Their purpose was to smash into the faces of cinema clowns, such as cross-eyed Ben Turpin and walrus-mustached Chester Conklin, as well as straight men like Mack Swain and Bud Jamison, not to mention innocent beauties like Mabel Normand or the statuesque Marie Dressler.
Whether the product came from the Mack Sennett Studio, Hal Roach, or the Christie Educational Studio, hardly any slapstick film during the 1920’s was complete without someone getting a foamy pastry right in the kisser. Audiences expected it, demanded it, and laughed uproariously when it was delivered.
The most famous cinema pie fight of all time was undoubtedly Laurel & Hardy’s 1927 short film,Battle of the Century. Stan and Ollie, along with an entire neighborhood of deranged people, plunder a pie truck of its contents and send them hurling about with hilarious accuracy. No one has ever been able to count exactly how many pies were used in that film, but it could not have been less than several hundred!
How did the movie technicians make those pies? Were they real custard or fruit filling?
No, they were not!
As a former circus clown, I know how those pies were made, and are still made today when clowns want to toss them around under the big top. The old clowns I worked with told me that the formula has been the same for the past 110 years.
You see, if you were to throw a real pie, a pie with a thick filling of custard or fruit, into someone’s face, you’d probably break their nose! The next time you are at the supermarket, just go ahead and lift up a fruit pie. Heavy, isn’t it? Should you hit someone with something that heavy, there could be some real damage. Besides, the filling is not very photogenic – on black and white film it looks rather gray and dirty. It can’t be wiped delicately out of the eyes with just the fingertips, the way Oliver Hardy would do it; it is too thick and pasty for that. Custard and fruit filling does not make the spectacular spatter you see in the old slapstick movies when the pie makes contact with the victim’s face. Besides, do you know how difficult it is to clean up after a direct hit with a generous helping of custard or fruit filling? You can’t do too many retakes using real pies.
At this point you may be thinking, “Oh, right – it must be shaving cream!”
Well, yes and no.
It is shaving cream, but not the kind that comes out of a pressurized can. That stuff won’t keep firm for more than five minutes, especially under the hot lights of a circus tent, or a movie studio. It melts into a thin, runny stream of sweet smelling bubbles. It looks like milk.
To make the goo for a good slapstick pie, a pie that will sail across the room and land with a satisfying ‘plop’ in someone’s snoot, splattering all over the place, you first start with a dozen bars of hard shaving soap. The kind that your grandfather put in a ceramic mug and stirred with a brush for a thick, sturdy foam to lather up his chin. Next, use a carrot grater to grate up all twelve bars into a large galvanized trash can. When all the hard soap is grated into the garbage can, add cold water from any water source handy until the can is a third full. Add one full pint of glycerol. Glycerol is what gives the goo its body and keeps it springy and foamy for up to an hour. If you want, you can add food coloring to change the color. Then whip the mixture with a paint mixer on an extended rod, like the old-fashioned malted milkshake mixer. It will need to be mixed for a good fifteen minutes, after which you will have a whole garbage can full of aromatic and creamy pie filling. You can put it in pie tins, buckets, fill syringes with it – it’s very versatile! This shaving cream filling stings a bit in your eyes, and is not very pleasant to swallow, but it has no permanent aftereffects and is relatively easy to clean up.
So there you have it – the next time you chuckle over some hapless silent film character getting walloped with a pie and spluttering with rage, remember it’s just good clean fun with shaving soap!
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.
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