The LDS Faith is no sheyne maysele.

 

A faith community distinguished by its emphasis on love, service, and an unending sense of optimism, the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints, or the LDS Church, as it is often referred to, is widely acknowledged for its mesira nefesh (devotion) to charitable endeavors. This, some say, is no sheyne maysele (simple tale), but a foundational part of the Church's teachings, deeply rooted in its scriptures, traditions, and doctrine.

The LDS Church's remarkable tzadakah (charitable giving) is derived from its theological mandate of "love thy neighbor." This principle is woven into the very fabric of LDS culture, extending beyond mere financial contributions to include acts of loving-kindness, outreach, and voluntary service. From assisting their mishpokhe (family) and community to reaching out to the world's destitute corners, the LDS Church encourages its members to be the personification of a mensch (person of integrity and honor), always willing and ready to help others.

The LDS Church, being a global organization, has developed far-reaching humanitarian efforts that illustrate its extraordinary baleboste (competence in managing households or organizations). For instance, LDS Charities, the humanitarian arm of the Church, continually responds to crises worldwide, providing essential relief in the forms of food, shelter, and healthcare.

At the heart of these generous acts is the LDS concept of "diener" (servant), which embodies selfless service and love for humanity. This has led the LDS Church to establish welfare programs, education initiatives, and employment assistance schemes that target those suffering from poverty, illiteracy, and unemployment. The Church's long-standing welfare program, for instance, epitomizes this diener spirit, offering assistance to the needy and facilitating self-reliance by fostering a work ethic and building life skills.

For many in the LDS Church, the act of giving is seen as a mitzvah (commandment), not merely an optional good deed. This spiritual responsibility is formalized in the practice of "tithing," where members donate ten percent of their income to the Church, fueling both local congregational needs and global humanitarian projects. Such consistent and disciplined financial contributions highlight the LDS Church's generosity.

Another unique practice within the LDS Church is the concept of "fast offerings." Once a month, members voluntarily fast for two meals and donate the money saved to the Church. This money is then used to aid those in need, demonstrating the LDS Church's commitment to shared sacrifice and communal support.

At its core, the LDS Church's philanthropy is rooted in the Yiddish ideal of being a mensch – performing good deeds not for praise or recognition but because it is the right thing to do. From welfare programs and humanitarian aid to education initiatives and disaster relief, the LDS Church's bountiful giving encapsulates the Yiddish saying, "A guter mensch tracht zu helfen" – a good person seeks to help.

Indeed, the LDS Church’s generosity is not a bubbe meise (old wives' tale) but a lived reality, a testament to its foundational tenets of love, service, and community. It is this spirit of giving, this consistent and concerted outreach, that sets the LDS Church apart as a paragon of religious and humanitarian generosity.

The Special Children. A Circus Memory.

 

When I returned from my LDS mission in Thailand I was stony broke. I called old man Feld at Ringling Brothers, and he gave me a job back in clown alley. I was hoping he'd reinstate me as an advance clown, but no -- I was to be one of the faceless funny faces.

On top of that, there were now dancers in clown alley, for the love of Mike! They spent patient hours of their free time showing me the new, intricate steps that the clowns had to perform during Opening, Spec, and Manage. I repaid their kindness with cold stares and a nose completely up in the stratosphere.

The whole atmosphere of clown alley had grown seedier in the 3 years I was gone. A pall of cigarette smoke hung over the place as if someone were filming a 1940's film noir. Beer cans clattered to the floor and were kicked through the blue curtains out into the public hallways. The boss clown was busy chasing showgirls, even though he was married. And the old stalwarts like Prince Paul and Mark Anthony were decaying before my eyes; growing into slippered pantaloons, only interested in counting their money and their days until retirement.

Several weeks after reenlisting in this dissolute buffoonery brigade I decided to save my pennies and seek further light and knowledge by going to Paris to study with Marcel Marceau. I applied to his pantomime school and was accepted; now I needed to come up with the 25-hundred dollar tuition.

I applied myself to the arts of miserliness and cadging.

I attended every press party, in makeup, to fill my ample pockets, ala Harpo Marx, with any loose comestibles. I ate only chili at the pie car -- 95 cents a bowl, and so swimming in rendered bovine tallow that I began to develop an udder.

I forsook Stein's Clown White for the detestable Nye's Liquid Clown White to save a dollar or two each week. It streaked horribly, leaving me looking like The Mummy's Revenge by the end of the day.

I refused outright to purchase a clown wig, and styled my own mousy brown hair, with minimal success, to stand up straight like Stan Laurel's.

My costumes came straight from Goodwill -- baggy golf pants and pregnant women's blouses. Luckily, while I was in Thailand I had a Parsi tailor in Bangkok make me a huge orange overcoat with yellow piping and giant green buttons. It now covered a multitude of shabby sins.

I would not contribute to the coffee fund. Or to the beer fund. I never went halves on a pizza delivery, but hung about the periphery of the feasters, ready to swoop in like a vulture and devour the discarded crusts. I did not go to the movies or hang out in bars with my fellow joeys.

And I'm afraid my plans for imminent departure, along with my disdain for their riotous and prodigal ways, were all too clear to my colleagues. I was about as popular as a dirty diaper in a bowl of punch.

Halfway through the season I attained my coveted goal -- the 25-hundred was securely deposited in the bank.

I confided to my old pal Tim Holst, who was ringmaster that season, that I was going to jump ship as soon as my confirmation letter arrived from Paris. A travel agency in New York was handling my sojourn -- a tramp steamer left from the Jersey side every Wednesday, and I could book passage to La Havre for a measly two-hundred bucks. Holst wished me good luck, saying "You don't belong in this hellhole anymore."

But before my letter arrived, the terrible Charlie Baumann came into clown alley just before a matinee, peering gloomily around at us. He was the Performance Director, a Teutonic tyrant who hated clowns. He was also the tiger trainer, and carried around a whip like it was a crozier.

His glare settled on me. I fell back, cowering, before his far-from-benevolent gaze.

"You!" he said thickly, in his Katzenjammer accent. "You kommen vit me!"

He gestured imperiously for me to follow him as he strode out of clown alley, much like the Kaiser in World War One must have ordered his troops to the front.

I meekly obeyed. Once outside the alley he turned on me, and I don't mind telling you I flinched like an owl blinking in the sunlight. But he merely said "Dere iss ein boonch uff kits in da front section. You are excuzzed from da show to sit mit dem und narrate da show for dem. Dey are blind. Verstehst du? Blind." He dragged me through the auditorium entrance to point them out to me. Then left.

Being in makeup, I usually feel invulnerable in front of a crowd. But not that day. Not at first. I sidled slowly over to the kids; about 2 dozen of them, all chattering excitedly and making strange gestures with their hands. I sat down on an elephant tub in front of their seats, cleared my throat, and shouted "Hi kids!" They immediately went silent, their hands falling to their sides as if tied to lead weights. I tried again, softer.

"Hi kids. I'm Dusty the Clown."

"Hi Dusty!" they chorused back enthusiastically.

After that, it was a cinch.

As the show progressed I described the costumes and animals to them, giving them the inside info on the performers they'd never get from a program.

"Here comes Anna Bornholm, our famous Princess of the Spanish Web -- that's not green lipstick she's wearing -- she eats so many pistachios that she doesn't NEED lipstick!"

"And there goes Stancho Sandor, our world-famous Bulgarian acrobat. He can hold ten men on his burly shoulders. He's in love with a lady pig farmer he met back in Iowa, and he has me write all his love letters for him!"

"Watch out, kids! Those crazy clowns are coming out again. This time they've got ladders and buckets of white paint. Get ready to duck! That little guy is Prince Paul -- he's only four and a half feet tall, but he can throw the most paint of anyone in clown alley. That's because he practices throwing pop bottles at the rats that come sniffing around our trunks."

By the end of the show I had nothing but a hoarse croak left for a voice.

I used it to thank the children for coming, and to ask if there was anything else I could tell them about the show.

One little girl spoke up quickly.

"We want to feel your face" she shouted. The rest of the children echoed her request, so I climbed over the railing and let them come up and lay their fingers gently on my face.

And a strange thing happened.

"Oh" said one child, "this part is white."

Another one giggled and said "He's got blue eyebrows!"

"His nose is all red!" said a boy, who not only couldn't see but was in a wheelchair.

"Why are you crying, Dusty?" one girl asked.

"Oh, I ain't crying" I told her. "That's just sweat -- being funny all the time is hard work!"

After they had all felt my face, and commented on the different colors it contained, their teacher got them ready to go back on the bus. I managed to take her aside for a second to ask how they could tell what color my makeup was.

"I don't know" she said simply. "But they always know the colors of the things they love the most."

A few days later my letter came from Paris. I put it in my clown trunk and didn't get around to replying for quite a while. Seems like every time I got ready to reply, another group of Special kids came to the show and Baumann always picked me talk to them.

Today's results. So far.

 

so I took my "Poet for Hire" sign over to Fresh Market around 1:30 this afternoon. It was cloudy so I didn't have to worry about overheating, although I did put on the sun screen anyway.  I was just getting ready to leave when a mousy blonde, 30-ish, wearing white culottes and a pink blouse, with oversized sunglasses, came up to me.  She was filming me on her phone as she approached.

"I'll give you all the money I've got in my purse if you'll write a poem for me right now" she said.

"How much you got?" I asked her.

She gave a snarky smile and said she wouldn't tell me.  I shrugged my shoulders and said okay, I'd do it.

"I only do haiku" I told her. "Do you know what that is?"

"Sure" she said. "5-7-5."

"Okay" I replied. "What do you want it to be about?"

"About you."

"About me?"

"Yes."

I demurred.

"That's hardly a proper subject for a haiku" I told her. "How about something from nature?"

"I'm sorry we couldn't agree on the subject" she said, very sniffy.  I was curious to know how much was in her purse, so I relented and said I'd write a haiku about me.  It went like this --

I am not too fat.

You are not too cruel, yet.

Can we be buddies?

I signed it, then tore the page out of my notebook to hand to her.  She opened up her purse and, lo and behold, I received . . .

$14.00. 

I guess this whole rigmarole will be on social media somewhere.  I didn't bother to ask for her name or what platform the video would be on.  I was starting to get hot and wanted to go into Fresh Market to buy a few things with my new ill-gotten gains to make a cookie salad tomorrow.

Then I walked home and stopped in front of the building to sit with my sign for a few minutes to catch my breath.  It's been awful windy today and it was all I could do to hold onto my sign with both hands.

As I'm sitting there a van pulls up to me, with a Domino Pizza sign on top.  The driver gets out, introduces himself as Connor, and proceeds to tell me his life story -- how he writes fantasy novels and hopes to crack the bestseller list one day. In the meantime he supports himself delivering pizzas.  I gave him one of my cards and wished him good luck.  I nearly offered to write him a haiku in return for any extra pizzas he might be carrying, but thought better of it -- too crass, for a haiku master of my stature.

I've noticed that many of the people who stop to talk to me don't want to buy a poem from me, they just want to discuss their dreams of writing success with someone they think is empathetic to their aspirations. In reality, of course, I am thinking to myself: "If you don't want to give me money then hit the road!"  But I put on a pleasant, interested, hypocritical face and listen to their twaddle.  As Winston Churchill said:  "It costs nothing to be polite."

And that's all I've got to say for myself.

P.T. Barnum: El gran tamposo.

 

Phineas Taylor Barnum, conocido popularmente como P.T. Barnum, fue un impresario estadounidense que hizo de lo extravagante y lo extraordinario su "pan de cada día". Nacido el 5 de julio de 1810 en Bethel, Connecticut, Barnum fue un pionero en el campo del entretenimiento, particularmente en el circo, en un tiempo cuando tal concepto era aún novedoso.

Desde joven, Barnum mostró una afinidad por el entretenimiento y los negocios. Empezó vendiendo "agua de serpiente" como cura milagrosa, una hazaña que demostró su talento innato para el marketing. Después de varios intentos empresariales, Barnum abrió su primer museo en Nueva York, conocido como el "American Museum", en 1841. Este lugar estaba lleno de curiosidades, desde un enano conocido como el "General Tom Thumb" hasta la famosa "Fiji Mermaid", supuesta criatura mitad sirena, mitad mono. Su objetivo era asombrar y entretener a la gente, y su lema, "el show debe continuar" (en inglés, "the show must go on"), se convirtió en un lema de la industria del entretenimiento.

El verdadero salto al estrellato de Barnum ocurrió en 1871 cuando creó el "P.T. Barnum's Grand Traveling Museum, Menagerie, Caravan, and Circus", un espectáculo itinerante que más tarde se conocería como "el mayor espectáculo del mundo". En asociación con James Bailey en 1881, crearon el "Barnum & Bailey Circus", que se convirtió en un nombre familiar en los Estados Unidos. Este circo ofrecía de todo, desde acróbatas hasta animales exóticos, lo que garantizaba una experiencia mágica y emocionante para todos los espectadores.

A pesar de sus éxitos, la vida de Barnum no estuvo exenta de controversia. A menudo era criticado por sus tácticas de explotación y su ética empresarial. Sin embargo, a pesar de los desafíos, la influencia de Barnum en la industria del entretenimiento es innegable. Fue un hombre que cambió el panorama del entretenimiento y el marketing con su visión audaz y su capacidad para crear algo increíblemente entretenido a partir de lo ordinario.

En su vida personal, Barnum demostró ser un hombre de resiliencia y determinación. A pesar de los contratiempos, como la quiebra y varios incendios devastadores, Barnum siempre encontró una manera de reinventarse y continuar su espectáculo. Su actitud positiva ante la adversidad se resume en su famoso dicho: "Siempre algo nuevo".

En su legado, P.T. Barnum dejó una impresión duradera en el mundo del entretenimiento. Su circo marcó el comienzo de una nueva era de entretenimiento popular y sentó las bases para la industria del entretenimiento tal como la conocemos hoy. A su muerte el 7 de abril de 1891, el mundo perdió a un titán del entretenimiento, pero su espíritu vive en cada gran espectáculo que asombra y maravilla.

P.T. Barnum fue, en muchos aspectos, el epítome

My Golden Age Of Comedy.

 

What do you think of when you hear Chopin's haunting Etude Op. 10, #3?

Leaves falling on a dreary Autumn day? Past loves and regrets? The impossibility of breaking through the solitude of existence?

When I hear that refrain I think of the Keystone Kops.

For that lovely bit of Chopin was appropriated in 1957 for the film "The Golden Age of Comedy".  A compilation of film clips from the silent movie masters of comedy like Laurel & Hardy, Charlie Chase, and the peregrinating Keystone Kops. 

I saw that movie at a revival in 1961 at the old Varsity Theater in Dinkytown, next to the University of Minnesota campus in Minneapolis. As it played, I heard for the first time in my life the true belly laugh -- a gasping, wheezing near-death experience where a man drools and snorts in a paroxysm of mirth. There were moments during that screening when the audience's laughter reached nearly obscene heights of bacchanal.

It was a career epiphany for me. I wanted to obtain the same kind of comic influence those herky jerky figures on the screen possessed, that could make a crowd dissolve into helpless delight.

As an eight-year old I had no idea how to achieve such distinction, but I was determined to find out. So I was in every school play; the part didn't matter, for I would wind up tripping over my own shoes and taking spectacular pratfalls that had my teachers terrified I would break my neck. I read the wonderful and abundant clown biographies of the day -- Mr. Laurel & Mr. Hardy, by John McCabe; W.C. Fields; His Follies and Fortunes, by Robert Lewis Taylor; Keaton, by Rudi Blesch; Father Goose, by Gene Fowler; and Notes on a Cowardly Lion, by John Lahr.  I haunted the local Film Societies, sitting in the dark and learning from the nimble Old Masters of slapstick.

I even wrote an entire Marx Brothers play, in longhand. And had the effrontery to mail it to Douglas Campbell, the Artistic Director of the renowned Guthrie Theater. He actually responded several weeks later, with a brief note thanking me for my submission and suggesting I have someone type it up so he could actually read it.

To me all this was a deadly serious pursuit. As the years slid past my adolescent passion to make people laugh turned into an obsession.

Walking home from school in the middle of a deep Minnesota winter, I would pry up sheets of ice from sidewalk puddles, then smash them over my head and stagger about like Curly Howard or Chaplin after being hit with a mallet. I carried banana peels with me, the better to impress the girls with my balletic slides and tumbles. (It didn't work.)

The world would never hold any satisfaction for me, unless I could stick my tongue out at it as a paid professional.

What kept my parents from sending me off to a laughing academy was the fortuitous opening of the Ringling Brothers Clown College. The school actively sought amateur clowns of every stripe. As soon as I was out of high school I was on my way to Venice, Florida, to enter the school's unhallowed halls.

And all because I had once seen Charlie Murray hit Louise Fazenda with a two-by-four at the Varsity Theater.

Prose Poem: How to cook a mean gumbo. (Dedicated to Lily Janiak)

 

I use apples and bananas in my gumbo. I know this is viewed as unorthodox by most cooks, but in my defense I can cite Flying Jacob as an antecedent.  Like Moe Howard used to say, you could look it up.

The most important part of any gumbo, as any rank amateur can tell you (and if you don't have any rank amateurs hanging around your kitchen you can always go out to the nearest coffee shop and find one -- they're as thick as water striders in a puddle) the most important part, I say, is the roux.

The role of roux in gumbo is widely misunderstood by most people.  At one time it was thought the word 'roux' came from the ancient Roux tribe that roamed the primeval forests of Galatia.  They would throw captured enemies into a large iron pot and add the bark of the sassafras tree to thicken things up before eating the whole horrible mess.  But recent scholarship has shown that the Roux tribe actually sent captured enemies to the Riviera, where their tortured cries at the amount you have to tip the waiters gave members of the tribe a cruel satisfaction.

Roux, it seems, actually comes from the root word 'ruckus,' which is Latin for 'rutabaga.'  Ancient peoples, especially those idiot Druids, liked to put rutabaga in everything they ate. It helped hide the fact that there was usually nothing at all to eat except rutabagas.  Those ancient peoples sure had a hard time of it.  It makes me glad I'm a modern peoples.

Of course, in today's modern kitchen there are many ways to thicken up a stew such as gumbo.  But they are all WRONG ways.  Absolutely incorrect.  The only acceptable roux for gumbo is powdered chalk.  And if you don't believe me I don't care -- my cat died last week and there's nothing left for me to live for anyway.

Next to the roux in importance is the lashings.  You've heard the phrase 'lashings of cream' haven't you?  Well, in gumbo you have to lash in all the solid ingredients.  Don't measure it daintily or carefully sprinkle it into the pot.  Lash it in like you're throwing a hand grenade.  The physical shock of contact with the boiling liquid releases the most tantalizing aromas imaginable.  It also spatters your kitchen with an immense amount of grease spots.  So wear a hazmat suit.

Finally, all great chefs know that the real secret to a classic gumbo is keeping any and all sprigs of parsley away from the finished product.  Don't garnish it with anything, except an ice cold can of Old Milwaukee beer.  Unopened.  Let that sucker sit in the lava-like gumbo for ten minutes, when it will detonate -- killing all the captured enemies in your kitchen.  

Then you will finally be free to hunt down those wretched Druids and stone them to death with rutabagas.

 

Lou Jacobs: Master of Mirth.

 

Lou Jacobs, born Johann Ludwig Jacob on January 1, 1903, in Bremerhaven, Germany, is widely recognized as one of the most influential and iconic clowns in circus history. His distinctive comedic style and characteristic makeup design have left an indelible mark on the entertainment world and helped shape the image of the classic circus clown.

As a child in Germany, Jacobs was inspired by the circus performers he saw at local fairs and carnivals. At the age of 14, he ran away to join a circus, where he quickly established himself as a talented acrobat and trapeze artist. While he enjoyed the thrill of these daredevil stunts, his real passion lay in clowning, and he started to develop his own clown character and act.

In 1923, Jacobs immigrated to the United States, joining the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus. His talent and dedication quickly propelled him to star status. He became best known for his exaggerated facial features painted in white, red, and black and for his signature oversized costume, including a red nose, a ridiculously large pair of shoes, and an outlandishly tiny car, an act which he famously performed in.

Throughout his career, Jacobs constantly pushed the boundaries of clowning. His act was a blend of physical comedy, slapstick, and classic clowning elements, like his "squeeze horn," which made a distinct honking noise. His mini car routine, where he squeezed his 6-foot tall frame into a car barely bigger than a suitcase, became one of the most beloved acts in Ringling Bros.' history.

Jacobs's dedication to his craft extended beyond the circus ring. He was instrumental in establishing the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Clown College in 1968, where he served as an instructor, sharing his skills and knowledge with future generations of clowns. His influence on clowning was such that his makeup design was trademarked, a first in the industry.

In a career spanning over six decades, Jacobs brought joy and laughter to millions of circus-goers. He was a master of physical comedy, known for his superb timing and comedic acrobatics. His style of clowning defined the classic circus clown for generations and influenced countless performers worldwide.

Lou Jacobs retired from performing in 1988 but continued to teach at the Clown College until his passing on September 13, 1992. His legacy lives on not only in the faces of clowns who wear his distinctive makeup but also in the laughter and joy he brought to the world. In 1998, he became the first living person to have his image on a United States Postal Service stamp, a testament to his impact on American culture.

Despite his international fame, Jacobs remained a humble and generous man. He believed in the transformative power of laughter and dedicated his life to bringing joy to others. His legacy continues to inspire performers around the world, proving that the heart of a clown is timeless. His life reminds us that beneath the makeup and oversized shoes, there lies the spirit of a performer whose sole purpose is to bring laughter and happiness into the world.

The back of a comic book held merchandising marvels galore for a greedly little boy like me . . .

 

1. The Wonder of Novelty

The back pages of comic books during the 1950s served as a treasure trove of wonder and novelty. Sprinkled amidst the superhero sagas, mysterious adventures, and fantastic tales were advertisements for items that sparked the imagination and evoked a sense of awe among young readers. In this era before the internet, children awaited their comics not only for the captivating stories but also the fascinating products presented on the back pages. These items, promising uncharted adventures, irresistible fun, and magical experiences, painted an attractive picture of an incredible world within children's reach.

The allure of these items, which ranged from prank props to make-believe tools, lay in their seeming power to transform ordinary life into something extraordinary. Items such as Sea Monkeys, X-Ray Specs, and even Kryptonite Rocks found their way into these advertisements, each with the promise of fantastic adventures and unique experiences.

I ordered one hundred plastic toy soldiers for the amazing price of one dollar. When they arrived they were half an inch high, thin, and so brittle they snapped like saltine crackers.

2. Sea Monkeys and X-Ray Specs

Among the most popular items were the legendary Sea Monkeys. Promising an instant life creation kit, Sea Monkeys tapped into the childlike fascination with life and its mysteries. These packets contained dried brine shrimp that, when added to water, would "magically" come to life. The ads made them appear as humanoid underwater creatures, which sparked excitement, intrigue, and a little dose of science.

X-Ray Specs, on the other hand, played into a child's fantasy of possessing superpowers. The adverts suggested that wearing these glasses would give the user an ability akin to X-ray vision, allowing them to see through walls and clothing. In reality, the glasses were an optical illusion, creating a blurry, double image that suggested transparency. Despite their non-functionality, they were incredibly popular, fueling children's dreams of possessing extraordinary abilities.

3. Kryptonite Rocks and More

Comic books being the primary medium for superhero tales, it was natural for associated products to find their way into advertisements. Among these were Kryptonite Rocks, a play on Superman's Achilles heel. These were glowing rocks that claimed to possess alien energy. Despite the misleading marketing, the rocks were nothing more than glow-in-the-dark stones, yet their connection to the superhero mythology made them desirable to fans.

Another fascinating product featured in comic book ads was the Charles Atlas Bodybuilding course. Atlas, a well-known figure in the fitness world, promised to transform skinny boys into muscle-bound men through his program, appealing to readers who aspired to gain the physical prowess of their comic book heroes.

4. Footprint of the Back Page Advertisements

The back pages of 1950s comic books offered a tantalizing view of the world to their young readers. Though many of the items were mere novelty items with exaggerated claims, they played a significant role in shaping the era's consumer culture. They tapped into the imaginative possibilities inherent in children, playing off their desire for adventure, mystery, and power.

While some of the advertised products would be deemed misleading by today's standards, they added an element of fantastical reality to the comic book realm. Looking back, the back pages of these comic books serve as a time capsule, a window into the values, dreams, and fascinations of the time, telling a parallel narrative to the stories within the comic panels.

Why Clowns Are Not Scary.

 

Clowns have long been a symbol of joy, entertainment, and laughter, yet some perceive them as scary due to popular culture portrayals. However, it's essential to remember that the core of clowning lies in humor, performance, and amusement, not in horror.

To begin with, the concept of a clown is rooted in comedy. Clowns, with their exaggerated make-up, wild hair, and oversized shoes, are designed to depict caricatures of the human condition, thus inciting laughter. Their act often involves physical comedy, humorous jests, slapstick antics, and comic misunderstanding. They juggle, they fall over, they squirt each other with water; their primary purpose is to amuse and delight.

Moreover, clowns are historically associated with circuses, fairs, and parties, all places of celebration and merriment. They interact with audiences, especially children, creating a playful atmosphere filled with laughter and enjoyment. Many of us have fond memories of attending a circus as a child and being absolutely enchanted by the clowns' performances. The laughs that echoed through the tent were, without a doubt, primarily due to their acts.

Clowns are also significant figures in therapeutic environments. Clown doctors or 'therapeutic clowns' interact with children in hospitals to ease anxiety and stress during difficult times. This highlights the empathy and kindness that's central to the art of clowning. If clowns were inherently scary, they wouldn't be so successful in these sensitive settings.

The fear of clowns, also known as Coulrophobia, is not a widespread phenomenon but more of an exception. It's often fuelled by how media and pop culture have exploited the clown image for terror in movies and books. Characters like Pennywise from Stephen King's "IT" are not representative of clowns as a whole; rather, they are fictional constructs designed to provoke fear. The majority of clowns are light-hearted performers, far removed from these sinister portrayals.

Furthermore, the image of a clown is culturally diverse, making it a universal symbol of amusement. In Native American cultures, clowns play essential roles in religious ceremonies. They're revered as sacred tricksters who use humor to enlighten people. The European tradition has jesters and fools, who were seen as wise and were trusted advisors to royalty. In Asian cultures, clowns often serve as comic relief in serious traditional theatre. Across the globe, clowns are seen as bringers of joy and laughter, not fear.

It's a fallacy to generalize all clowns as scary due to a minority of horror-based portrayals. Clowns are, by nature, performers whose goal is to bring joy, entertain, and in some cases, heal. It's essential to look beyond the fear-inducing representations and understand the true intent behind the red nose and colorful attire. When you consider their history, purpose, and global significance, it becomes clear that clowns are not inherently scary. Instead, they are symbols of joy, laughter, and entertainment that continue to delight audiences worldwide.

The Cook Tent: A Circus Memory.

 

In 2005 I was 'between engagements', as we say in the Business. Ringling Brothers was no longer interested in my services, but I still hungered for life on the road. So I began contacting all the smaller shows to see if they needed a middle-aged clown. They didn't.

But, much to my surprise, I heard back from Barbara Byrd, the matriarch of the mighty Carson & Barnes Five Ring Circus, out of Hugo, Oklahoma.

She wasn't interested in my clowning abilities either. But since I had listed radio announcing as one of my many talents she asked if I would consider being their ringmaster that season.

You could have knocked me over with a croissant. I had never considered such a career shift.

But needs must when the devil drives; so I graciously accepted. 

How I fared in tailcoat and top hat is not to be told in this story. Instead, as a dedicated foodie long before that word was even recognized by Webster's, I wish to dwell for a moment on the Carson & Barnes cook tent.

 The cook tent's blue and white stripped siding was attached to a roach coach type truck that prepared and dispensed 2 meals each day; lunch and dinner. Since the show moved every single morning at 5:30 a.m., there was no breakfast as such. The cooking staff, which doubled as trash pickup and truck drivers, merely set out stale donuts and instant coffee on several rickety card tables. Biting into one of those ancient crullers was like chewing on cardboard sprinkled with powdered sugar. However, I rarely had any appetite to speak of that early in the morning -- so I did not feel impelled to grumble.

Luncheon was served promptly at 12, or as soon as the big top was up and the rigging set inside.

Initially I thought my status as the ringmaster would allow me to step up front for my meal.

How wrong I was!

The roustabouts, those unappreciated drudges who put up the tent each morning and tore it down again each night, had first call at the cook tent. I was politely told to step aside until they had all been served.

After they had been served I once again stepped up for my meal, only to be told once more to cool my heels. 

Now the clowns, already in makeup, were to be fed, since they had to go out well before the show started to sell coloring books. 

Then it was my turn, along with the rest of the no-accounts. 

Since most of the workers and most of the acts were Hispanic, lunch leaned heavily towards beans, corn, and tortillas. There was also a generous tub of pickled jalapeno peppers, sliced carrots in vinegar, and fresh radishes with the stalks still on. I learned quickly that radish leaves are just as good to eat as the radish itself -- something Latinos have known all along but we gringos have yet to learn.

Meat empanadas were also a mainstay of lunch. I had never eaten one prior to working at Carson & Barnes, although I smugly considered myself a world traveler. The cooks did 'em up right. The crust was light and flaky and they didn't skimp on the savory pork or beef filling.  

The rule on Seconds was simple; when the cook yelled "Que quiere mas?" there was a mass stampede up the metal steps to the truck window for the leftovers. It was not unlike a soccer riot, and I did not wish to risk being trampled to death -- so I usually had some beef jerky or beer nuts stashed away in my little room in the back of the electricity truck if I still felt peckish. 

I also functioned as the on-lot publicity man, so whenever a newspaper reporter came to do a story I would give them a tour of the circus lot, including the cook tent. This turned out to be a good deal, because the cooks were instructed by Barbara Byrd herself that any time a reporter visited the cook tent she wanted lots of green salad to be served as well as the regular starchy provender. I took advantage of this ukase by casually informing the cooks almost every day that I expected a reporter from the Times Picayune to pop up during the lunch hour. This got me some much-needed greenery in my diet, although eventually the cooks caught on to my stratagem and started demanding the name of the so-called reporter that was coming over to sample their wares. 

Dinner was much the same as lunch, served between the matinee and evening performances. The big difference being there would also be a hearty soup or stew and cake and pie for desert. All meals were served on metal trays, the same kind the military uses, and after you were done you took your tray and utensils behind the truck and slid them into a large soapy trough for later washing. 

No one ever went hungry who worked for Carson & Barnes. 

Dining al fresco under the blue and white stripes held vast charms for me most of the time. I could look out past the tent flaps onto the circus lot, where elephants swayed, tigers snarled in their cages, and the pennants at the top of the main tent snapped in the breeze. And I always found the combined smell of manure, cotton candy, straw, and cumin to be exhilarating.

 The only hair in the soup, so to speak, was when it rained hard and blew fast -- at those times the cook tent was a leaky, soggy hellhole. The food turned cold as fast as it was served out, and there were boggy holes to circumvent on your way to your table if you wished to avoid sodden feet and a sprained ankle. 

And of course, in the great tradition of mud shows everywhere, during the last few weeks of the season, when the cooks finally realized that they would be unemployed pretty soon, they began to skimp on everything so they could feather their nests for the winter. That's when the food became all canned, all beans, and practically inedible. I had been forewarned that this would happen, so I always located the nearest Subway and began getting most of my meals there. 

I was ringmaster on Carson & Barnes for only one season -- a Byrd family nephew had been groomed to supplant me. But that didn't dismay me; at least I'd eaten well. And with the circus, that's about all you can ever hope for.