1983: The Year I was Ronald McDonald in Wichita, Kansas.

 my memories fade but my emotions sharpen. as i grow older.

remembering the year i did Ronald McDonald in Wichita, Kansas, brings few concrete stories. it was 1983. adam was just a baby. 

i had to fly to milwaukee to train under a guy named aye jaye.  he had to okay my ronald mcdonald performance before i could be officially hired. two days of him teaching me the makeup and the mantra. there was an official script, which i had to follow exactly without deviation. (which i never did.) what i remember is him telling me to always use the restroom before performing, cuz i might be in public for hours on end with no break possible. and his drinking wan fu wine before each appearance. for reasons i no longer remember. he had little white ceramic bottles of it all over the van he traveled in when performing. his voice grated on me. i eventually came to despise him and called him a pissant the last time i spoke to him on the phone. 

we first lived in an apartment, then we bought a house in Wichita during my year of ronald mcdonald. the house had a particular poverty smell to it -- all slummy houses have the same sour smell. something to do with the gas meter having a loose fitting.

i was never able to put on the makeup very well. i often had to wipe it all off with baby oil and start over again because i couldn't get the big red grin or the arching eyebrows just right. luckily i only worked a few days a month. the rest of the time i stayed home with amy and the kids. i wrote a script for a tv sitcom about a wall street broker who runs away from his firm to become a circus clown. i sent a copy of the manuscript to my old clown partner Steve Smith. he wrote back thanking me; telling me it wasn't very good. 

the biggest memory i have of that period has nothing to do with ronald mcdonald. since i had so much spare time on my hands i got a part time job as a janitor at the Eisenhower National Airport. i worked 8 to midnight, emptying trash cans in the administration office into a big canvas sack on wheels and then wheeling it out to the outdoor dumpster. there was never anyone there. i had the place to myself.

one windy night most of the trash cans were full of white styrofoam chips. the office staff apparently got a lot of packages that day. when i took the big canvas sack out to the dumpster and started to tip it over the wind caught the little white chips and sent them spiraling up into the air. in enchanting circles that went up higher and higher. then came silently down like snow. i was fascinated by this. i watched this artificial blizzard for nearly an hour. until it petered out. then i ran back inside to ransack more trash cans -- any trash cans with those little styrofoam chips. i found plenty. so i repeated the procedure three more times that night. by the time midnight rolled around, the entire field behind the administration office was filled with restless white styrofoam chips, slowly circling each other; lifting up and settling down into drifts. it was a beautiful and compelling sight. 

and it was a huge mess that i was completely responsible for. i didn't realize it at the time, but i had just created my first piece of installation art. i briefly considered trying to clean it all up, then thought "Nah, the hell with it" and went home. as far as i know there was no uproar over it the next day. at least nobody ever approached me about the matter.

but that was when the was seed planted. installation art. ever after whenever i saw an empty space i would feel like i wanted to fill it with something strange and wonderful. i filled the basement of the old Arts building at the University of Minnesota with balloons. i put shaving cream into people's shoes at bowling alleys. how many blank doors have i plastered over with haiku on note cards! and of course there was my watershed moment when I stood on Capitol Hill, dressed up in my old clown rig, holding a sign that read:  "UNEMPLOYED CIRCUS CLOWN. PLEASE HELP PUT ME IN CONGRESS WHERE I BELONG." i narrowly avoided arrest and eventually became a great favorite of chinese & japanese tourists, who insisted on taking photos with me. now that i think of it, my can pyramid during come-in at Ringling Brothers was a sort of installation piece as well. it was certainly very far from any traditional clown gag ever done before or since.

as the shades of eternity lower over me i begin to regret not pursuing that errant impulse more. until i could turn it into a career. into fame. being hired and paid for my work all over the world like banksy or kurt schwitters.

if you're wondering, here's a pretty good definition of what installation art is:

Often site-specific, and occasionally occurring in public spaces, the boundaries of what constitutes installation art have been blurred since its very inception as an artistic genre. Though installation art varies widely it can best be thought of as an umbrella term for three-dimensional works that aim to transform the audience’s perception of space. Sometimes temporary, sometimes permanent, installation artworks have been constructed in spaces ranging from art galleries and museums to public squares and private homes and will often envelop the viewer in an all-encompassing environment or within the space of the work itself. Installation art developed primarily in the second half of the twentieth century (though there were clear precursors) as both minimalism and conceptual art evolved, culminating in installations in which the idea and experience was more important than the finished work itself.  

 i have one final installation piece i dearly want to put up. i want to fill the front yard of a house on a busy street with nothing but hundreds of those blow-up Bozo punching bags. like the ones i had as a kid. 

since i don't own a house and probably never will again, i am patiently waiting for a patron of the arts to intercede on my behalf. maybe buy me and amy a nice little house on a busy street. and pay for all those bozo punching bags. they cost 30 dollars apiece on amazon. plus i'll need someone to blow them all up. 

Dear Kids. Sunday. December 4. 2022

 so i woke up with the jimmy legs this morning. couldn't stand to stand still or sit down for long. i wanted to walk to church but i didn't think your mother was up to it, so we drove the old black Kia.  it needs oil or something in the gearbox, according to amy, cuz it's starting to get herky jerky. i'll remind her of it on Monday.  and don't say fat chance. my memory works as well as it ever did.  whoops. guess i better write it on the calendar.

both your mother and i bore our testimonies in fast & testimony meeting. your mother's was very sweet and loving. mine was in a big booming voice, my radio newscaster voice. i just said the basics, didn't fool around with any stories or travelogues. from the faces of some of the kids in the pews i bet i scared 'em a little bit.

back home we watched a youtube book of mormon church video for sunday school. we haven't gone to our ward sunday school in over a year. uncomfortable cold folding chairs and i'm afraid the teachers are often overwhelmed and distracted college students who don't get enough sleep and are so earnest they forget their teacher training -- do they still have that class?  i haven't taken it in twenty years. haven't taught a class in over twenty years, either.

so back home after watching the video we both tried napping but amy had to get to work on some crocheting and i was too hungry. we broke our fast with grits, sausage, rice krispies, canned diced tomatoes, and some green powder your mom mixes into the blender and drinks every morning. i try to look the other way when she swallows it.

then it was off to choir practice. only 5 people showed up, and three of them were kids.

then back home, and the jimmy legs were worse than ever. so i decided to mix up a batch of whatchagot soup and take it door to door until it was all gone.

into the pot i threw 2 cans of cream of chicken soup. a container of leftover spaghetti squash. can of green beans. can of corn. can of diced potatoes. fried up some onions  to put in the whole mess, and added two cans of Swanson's breast white meat chicken. let it simmer a half hour, the got the cart out of the community room and your mom and i went door to door. we served ten people from that one pot, and in return got a dollar bill, a big can of Crisco. 4 dozen eggs. a bag of sugar. a bag of flour. and a carton of butter. so we made out like bandits.

now it's five o'clock and the first presidency christmas message will be airing in another hour. i'm resting my tootsies in the recline and your mother is in the bedroom on the desktop working on family history files.

later tonight we'll draw the blinds, lock the door, and watch a couple more episodes of The Blacklist. we're on season 7, and the whole shebang has turned into a comic book. i think they're going to go to mars by season 9.

our health is passable. your mother eats cookies and ice cream and manages to look like Anne Margret.   Me, I'm still the pillsbury doughboy. 

we rejoice to think that daughter daisy is moving out here next week, i think it is, and will be joining ed. i hope all you kids know that you are always in our prayers and in our hearts, and can never hear your voices or see your faces without our hearts racing like mad with happiness.

guilt. guilt. guilt. guilt. guilt. guilt. guilt. guilt. guilt.

 

did you see our latest reel video on youtube?

https://www.youtube.com/shorts/Yg-miXN0Qic 

 

just 2 poems i wrote this week:

 

World, you have your secrets --

deep and guarded well.

Kept by agents fearsome;

pledged to serving hell.

But God will be revealing

iniquity and spite.

No secret or deception

but comes into the light!

 

 

bottle of mincemeat

in the back of the cupboard --

older than driftwood.  

love, heinie manush.

 

Letter to the Kids. Sunday. November 27. 2022.

 

 My Dear Kiddies;

the mottled mountains

holding up blue vaults of snow --

our cable is out.

 

the door swings both ways --

lets in cold, lets out the heat --

damp leaves stuck to boots.

 

I told the beggar "No handouts unless you chop some wood." 

He turned his wheelchair right around and left my yard for good. 

 I gave him ev'ry chance to work, 

 but some folk simply like to shirk.

 

 

Enthusiastic Biden, Democrats spur ban on military grade assault weapons

(WSJ)

 

I wanna buy an Uzi or an AK-47.

Shooting up my neighbors would most certainly be heaven.

I am not a psychopath or crudely maladjusted;

I just like to see a lot of things get shot and busted!

Does that make me liable for the things that I must do

because my brain is missing something like a little screw?

 I have the right to firearms; this cannot be denied.

The Constitution, after all, just cannot be defied!

So do not take my fingerprints or have me fill out forms.

There is a diff'rent drummer keeping me from all the norms.

Patriotic sentiment does guide my ev'ry thought;

so gats are what I think the Founding Fathers would have bought.

Soon I'l have a howitzer to train upon the masses.

I'm hoping that Joe Biden will still let me buy field glasses.

 

 And so those are a sampling of the poems I've written this week. do they give you an insight into my thoughts and heart for the past 7 days? i dunno. but despite various artistic disappointments this week I still feel compelled to write 'em. You might say it is no longer a hobby, but a vice.

 

your mother and i spent thanksgiving roasting a turkey and serving it in the community room here at valley villa, along with dressing and instant mashed potatoes, and an apple crisp. i didn't think very many people came, but your mother, who is a born bean-counter, says that we fed 13 people, so i guess we did okay. 

Today, Sunday, I dumped five cans of pinto beans and a can of diced tomatoes into the slow cooker, then added a pound of fried chorizo and some spices, and we will served chili, along with brown rice, for dinner at noon today. i have no idea how many will show up. yesterday we served leftover turkey with stuffing and gravy and had six people at our door. but today? could be two if we're lucky. doesn't matter -- i like leftover chili, and it'll last in the fridge all week, just getting better. 

we're still binge watching The Blacklist on netflix. last night we started at 5 and went until 11:30, with one break for scripture study. your mother then stayed up another hour to wash dishes and bake cookies. yet we managed to be up at 7 this morning to make church at 8:30. 

right now your mother is working on family search stuff and doing some indexing on the side. she enjoys that kind of stuff and gets real satisfaction and sense of purpose from it. me, i can't stand it. i'm at the point where i am done with paperwork of any kind. i won't take any online surveys, even if it means somekind of bonus like a free pizza coupon.  your mother also likes to clean up my old google.doc files. what enjoyment she finds in that I cannot say . . . 

here's our latest video posted on facebook. it only lasts 30 seconds.

https://www.youtube.com/shorts/uG2O4q4zcL8

 

when i finish this epistle i'll see if i can get us scheduled for some initiatory work at the temple this coming thursday.  we try to go every thursday; last week it was tuesday, and it was kind of a waste of time foryour mother, in my opinion, cuz the queue was so backed up she had to wait 30 minutes and then only got to do one name. i always get to do at least five names. 

 I wonder if i should put a can of corn in the chili to stretch it out?

the weather has been cold and mostly sunny, with a few cloudy days.  the sun is out today and I'm hoping your mother and i can take a walk this afternoon after serving lunch. there's something about walking down a quiet residential street on a Sunday afternoon that resonates with me in a very happy and calming way. the exercise helps me think back to the wonders in my life:

your mother

my health

being a circus clown

being a missionary in thailand

being a radio announcer

having eight kids

pickled herring

 

you mother just sat down next to me to crochet a yarn cap. i love to watch her hands work and see the serene concentration on her face while she works. how do i convey how much it means to me to be a part of such a small domestic scene? i guess i can't. all i can do is tell you it makes me very happy.

the dadster.

  

Enthusiastic Biden, Democrats spur ban on military grade assault weapons

 

I wanna buy an Uzi or an AK-47.

Shooting up my neighbors would most certainly be heaven.

I am not a psychopath or crudely maladjusted;

I just like to see a lot of things get shot and busted!

Does that make me liable for the things that I must do

because my brain is missing something like a little screw?

 I have the right to firearms; this cannot be denied.

The Constitution, after all, just cannot be defied!

So do not take my fingerprints or have me fill out forms.

There is a diff'rent drummer keeping me from all the norms.

Patriotic sentiment does guide my ev'ry thought;

so gats are what I think the Founding Fathers would have bought.

Soon I'l have a howitzer to train upon the masses.

I'm hoping that Joe Biden will still let me buy field glasses.

 

Allison Prang -- A Reporter Who Follows the Money.

 If you have money; if you want money; if you steal money -- you need to read Allison Prang's journalistic essays on the subject of cash, specie, legal tender, gelt. Having cut her teeth writing for Thompson's Bank Note Reporter in Manhattan, she knows her greenbacks.

While studying at the University of Missouri Ms. Prang developed a sixth sense about squeezing blood from turnips. Which she then sold to plasma centers to finance her education. When she graduated with a journalism degree she was immediately hired by the Charleston Post & Courier newspaper. Her advice column, entitled "Scrooge was a Wimp!", guided strapped consumers on stretching their dollars like taffy. Her recipe for Salt & Pepper Soup instantly became a thrift classic, and is now extensively served in public schools and federal prisons. 

At the Wall Street Journal Ms. Prang specializes in broken news. Whenever a story falls apart, she is called in with her pot of library paste to reassemble stray facts and figures back into a compelling narrative. Her expertise in this area has been recognized by the Heinie Manush Foundation, which recently presented her with a frozen turkey. Giblets included.

Her advice to nascent journalists is: "Castigat ridendo mores." 

She is a big fan of Major League Pickleball, and recently purchased a controlling interest in the Florida Smash.

She is currently reading Judge Judy's "Don't Pee on My Leg and Tell Me it's Raining!"

Art Raymond -- A Reporter's Reporter, Man's Man, and Bee's Knees.

 Nobody can say that reporter Art Raymond minces words or beats around the bush. That's because no one dares use any such flatulent cliches around him -- he is dedicated to the resuscitation of the English language, ridding it of all the stale flotsam and jetsam that have accumulated, especially in newspaper stories, over the past century. 

Don't tell him something is 'trending.' He'll beat you over the head with a spud wrench and demand you use the word 'ubiquitous.' Avoid using exclamations like 'Wow!' and 'Booyah!' within earshot of him; he insists that the only proper interjection in English is "by the great horn spoon!"

"It has a robust ring to it" he says, as he polishes his stainless steel alpenstock in preparation for the arduous ascent of Mount Pisgah. Mr. Raymond dotes on rambling about the fallen arches and swollen arroyos of Utah. He has the largest geode collection west of the Kissimmee River. 

How did such a stickler for the King's English ever get into the newspaper racket?

He was shanghaied. 

As a young boy he developed the unfortunate habit of checking out library books and never returning them. When he was brought up on charges of booknapping before the Third District Court of Appeals, the judge gave him a choice:  Either join the Merchant Marines or get a job as a newspaper reporter.

He chose the latter, and has proven to be a stellar scribbler. His recent report on the lime jello embargo won him the prestigious Heinie Manush Medallion. 

His advice to those just starting out in journalism is to heed the philosophy of Lewis Carol's Humpty Dumpty: "Words mean just what I mean them to say."

His favorite food is marshmallow soup.

Jennifer Brooks -- A Working Reporter from Ohio University.

 Jennifer Brooks always knew she wanted to be a reporter.

Even though her earliest memory of words is when she spilled a bowl of alphabet soup onto her lap as a child. Despite this traumatic incident, she was a remarkably handy child with adjectives and obscure grammatical rules. At the age of seven she invented the word "hampup" -- to indicate a pork chop that curled too much upon frying. By the time she reached puberty she was instructing her teachers at school on the difference between an en-dash and an em-dash. Her Master's thesis at Ohio University was on "I before E, except for months with an R in it."

Upon graduation Ms. Brooks was offered a position with the Laramie Boomerang -- but it was a position not sanctioned in the Twister rule book, so instead she signed on with the Detroit News. And there she began her meteoric rise to anonymity. Her co-workers remember her fondly.  Belinda Bellwether, the current whiteboard monitor at the Detroit News, recalls: "Jenny was just a ball of fire! She got more scoops than Ben & Jerry's. Of course, she wrote everything in Latvian, her native tongue, and we had to translate it into English. But considering the scope and depth of her work, it was well worth it."

Tom Sneffle, who worked with her on the Nashville Tennessean, is convinced she's twins. "No one person could do all that work, eat all those hard boiled eggs, and crochet a life-size Statue of Liberty with steel wool in a matter of months, unless there were two of them. I think the other twin has been pensioned off and is now living comfortably on a chinampa in the Xochimilco."

She was invited to work for the Minneapolis Star Tribune ten years ago, during a period of controversy and turmoil at the newspaper caused by the Canadian Pulp Wars (1994 - 2019.) Her quick intelligence and disdain for wiffle ball led to a brokered ceasefire that is still in place today. She also ended the practice of sending cub reporters out to find brass magnets. 

Her advice to new journalists includes this profound thought:  "Anyone can write a news story, but not everyone can read it."

She is very fond of Ding Ding Tongs.   

Jason Horowitz -- A Journalist Who Was Born Thinking the World is Ham on Rye.

Jason Horowitz was born with the sense that the world is ham on rye.

During a tempestuous career that has spanned everything from Chautauqua to chinquapin-collector, Mr. Horowitz remains true to his personal mantra: "Slice it thick and pile it high!"  Such a man is not to be trifled with.

He was born and raised. Of this we are certain. He went to college. This, too, has been ascertained to be true. He collects antique Horlicks containers. That is completely made up, but it has a nice ring to it, doesn't it?

An expat in Italy for many years, Mr. Horowitz has filed reports on the Pope's Nose; the Lean Tower of Pisa now on a keto diet; pizza bagels; and the Lucretia Borgia Cooking School for Disgruntled Spouses. His work has garnered him standing invitations to Sicilian salt mines and Venetian blinds. He is a frequent guest of the Italian Prime Minister, provided he gets to the party before a new Prime Minister is installed.

Prior to working in Italy, Mr. Horowitz wrote about politics and how to milk a cumulus cloud via blockchain. He holds the record for the number of egg creams consumed in one day at Coney Island.

His last known residence was a phone booth in the Bronx. And he never files his nails, preferring to donate them to charity instead. 

His advice to new journalists is simple and direct: "Never talk through your hat or pay through the nose."

He plays the gramophone in the Charles Ives Town Band, in Danbury, Connecticut.

   

 

Peter Coy -- To this mysterious journalist, "Everything is Economics."

 Some writers seek the limelight, craving its warming glow. Some writers are indifferent to the plaudits of the world, quietly going about their craft without any hoopla. Then there are those mysterious scribblers who actively shun center stage, living as recluses and hermits. 

Such a journalist is Peter Coy, who toils for the New York Times, writing a newsletter on economics.

And there you have all that is actually known of the man!

Where he was born; where he grew up; who his parents were; what schools he attended; what his hobbies and ambitions are; even his current city of residence -- all information on him is as a rebus, with nothing but obscure hints and clues to guide the erstwhile biographer.

In twenty-five years of journalism, his only personal revelation has been three simple words: "Everything is economics."

Some have speculated that Peter Coy is not a professional journalist at all, but merely an algorithm developed by M.I.T. to predict economic patterns. These algorithms are fleshed out by an A.I. program to read like prose.

Others speculate that Mr. Coy withdrew from society after a torrid love affair went wrong. And that when he goes out in public he veils his face with black crepe, while dolefully whispering "Excelsior!" Such a figure has been sighted at Barney Greengrass, noshing on smoked whitefish.

Still others claim the man known as Peter Coy is a Cold War spy emeritus, who has been allowed to slip into the quiet grayness of an economics maven -- impersonating a harmless drudge and pencil pusher to throw his old Iron Curtain adversaries off the scent.

But no one can say for certain just what this mystery man is all about - what moves him, scares him, delights him, or puts him to sleep.

Recently, a cult named "Discover Peter Coy" has developed in midtown Manhattan. Members wear cowls and ring cow bells in a vain attempt to summon Mr. Coy, in the belief that he will then grant them debt relief from student loans and Mastercard charges. Federal authorities believe these zealots are also involved in the recent FTX debacle, and are using Peter Coy's name as a smokescreen for their nefarious economic depredations.

 Whatever the truth may be about Peter Coy, there is no doubt his newsletter is real. And very popular. It is followed avidly by the Chief Usher and his underlings at the White House. At the Minnesota Nice Cafe in Bemidji, Minnesota, Coy's newsletter is served as a lagniappe, along with the coleslaw.

 

John Reinan -- A Reporter Who is Never off His Trolley.

 If you happen to be riding the retro Lake Harriet Trolley some beamish day, you may notice your driver has that skulking, dyspeptic look that newspaper journalists develop after 20 years of peeking through keyholes and eating too many White Castle sliders in haste.

Your driver, in fact, is that distinguished member of the Fourth Estate, John Bestertester Reinan. In his spare time he enjoys driving the trolley around scenic Lake Harriet -- clanging the bell and collecting wooden nickels. 

Reinan comes from a long line of nickel-hoppers. His maternal great-grandfather, Oscar Lumbago Orca, had a mania for collecting Buffalo nickels. His hoard grew so large that it fell through the floor of his home in Embarrass, Minnesota, destroying several prime barrels of applejack. 

Mr. Reinan was born in Fergus Falls, Minnesota, in 1955, and has never looked back. His father worked as a highbinder for Ottertail Power Company for fifty years -- before being permanently sidelined by static electricity. His mother was a homemaker and Edna May Oliver look-alike, who supplemented the family budget by appearing at movie halls throughout the area. Young John helped out by selling bibs to theater patrons who asked for too much butter on their popcorn.

Mr. Reinan excelled in penmanship and woolgathering in high school, and thus won a literary scholarship to Saint Olaf College in Northfield, Minnesota. While just a sophomore he was awarded a lifetime supply of Green Stamps for his constantly chanting "Fram! Fram! Krismenn, Krossmen" until all his teeth fell out.

After college Mr. Reinan went to work for the Nome Nugget in Alaska as an inkwell cleaner. He was soon promoted to dust mop wrangler. Having angered the Chilblain Cartel with a scorching expose on their manufacture of counterfeit ChapStick, Mr. Reinan was forced to flee the state and find refuge in Florida, working at the Longboat Key Observer. But the call of the eel pout and a long standing addiction to lefse finally drove the young reporter to relocate in Minnesota, where he has successfully parlayed a career as reporter for the Star Tribune into an urban legend. 

Many strange tales are told of his work in bringing to light what really happened in Nye's Polonaise Room on the night of January 15th, 1993. The wig he wore during his undercover stint is on display at the Pavek Museum.

An avid angler, Mr. Reinan is at home on any body of water -- frequently threading his way through the bayous of Lake Minnetonka in search of the elusive lutefisk. 

His advice to nascent journalists just beginning their ink-stained pilgrimage is:

"Keep your nose clean and your thoughts pure so you'll die of boredom before senility sets in."