Autobiography. Chapter one.

WHAT I REMEMBER – OR – OUR CLOWNS ARE NOT TO BE LAUGHED AT.

My Autobiography.   By Tim Torkildson.   Started on Friday November 24. 2023.

“Cherish all your happy moments; they make a fine cushion for old age.”

Booth Tarkington

Chapter one.

It’s the day after Thanksgiving. I’ve just had a plate of leftover turkey, mashed potatoes, and stuffing. With a slab of cranberry sauce. Washed down with a Mountain Dew.

I ate it on the patio of our daughter Madelaine’s house, in Woodbridge, Virginia. She flew us out here earlier in the week for a two week stay. Having just turned 70 in September, and being grossly overweight and suffering from bad knees and bad feet, I never thought to do any extensive traveling again, prior to her invitation. The credit for this lovely miracle so late in my life is due to the encouragement and help of the lady I like to refer to as Wonder Woman – Amy Lynn Snyder Torkildson.  My wife for 15 years, and now my wife again for the past 3.

When I told her today I was starting a rewrite of my autobiography (for I have written one before; some thirty years before, entitled Clown Notes) she shook her head quietly and either said or thought so hard that I heard it: “You’ll never go through with it.”

And if precedent is anything to go by, she’s right. I start strong and then stop even stronger. But I’ll be tinkering with this thing the rest of my life. A man needs a hobby; tinkering with a memoir, like tinkering with an old car, accomplishes little but eats up the time in a dignified manner.

And since I may never finish this thing, I’ll put the conclusion to it right here. It’s a Japanese death poem, from a book of death poems compiled by Yoel Hoffman.

The 3 lines are by Hakurin:

Well, then, let’s follow

The peal of bells to the

Yonder shore.

**********************************************************

Amy wants to watch horse movies tonight on the Freevee Channel. So I continue my tinkering. 

The character of the Editor, who interrupts this narrative with questions and criticisms, is a literary device to break up the thick slabs of narrative with some dialogue. In my previous autobiography, Clown Notes, I made up conversations. Which caused readers to keep asking “How can you remember exactly what they said all those years ago?” Which irritated me. So this time around I’ll use the Editor.

My first memory is of a horse installed in our garage on 18th Avenue Southeast in Minneapolis.

Both my parents told me years later it was a palpably idiotic idea, and never happened. None of my siblings remember it either. So it never happened?

“Do you remember when Daisy was born at home, and all you kids were there when the midwife delivered her”
I once asked Madelaine.

“I wasn’t there, dad. I was at girl’s camp that week” she told me firmly.

So another memory shot to hell. The persistence of memory, in my case at least, then, is the persistence of error. 

It wouldn’t surprise me if most of my memories are an amalgam of episodes from the books of H.G. Wells, Lewis Carol, Balzac, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. For as a child I lay on my bed reading while my childhood ran out. Holding a book felt good. Felt right. When my parents began yelling at each other I’d flee to my room to grab the first handy book, then begin to read until the noise downstairs became part of the book’s dialogue. 

Editor: “This is rather a pedestrian observation. Did you dabble in any pornography? That would lend more interest to your story.”

Me: “No I did not. I liked pure and exhilarating stories and pulp fiction along the lines of Tarzan. I never even looked at a Playboy magazine until I was in my 40s. If you want to be helpful go search the aether for a book called The Lemonade Test, which I read when I was in 3rd grade and tormented by bullies, which tells of a chemical that turns bullies into nice kids. I’ve never been able to find it on the internet. That story moved me to tears.”

Editor:  “You sure this isn’t just another one of your make-believe memories that has no basis in fact?”

Me:  “No, I’m not. But you need to leave now. You ask too many impertinent and disturbing questions.”

Other books left a lasting impression on me in my teenage years:

W.C. Field. His Fortunes and Follies. By Robert Taylor.

Mr. Laurel & Mr. Hardy. By John McCabe.

Buster Keaton. By Rudi Blesch. 

Notes on a Cowardly Lion. by John Lahr. 

I recall the writing in those four biographies as being both robust and sometimes sentimental. Celebrating clowns is godly work.

I cut my teeth on S.J. Perelman. His finicky humor turned my vocabulary into a tumorous growth. 

I never got along too well with Mark Twain. I enjoyed reading about his life more than I enjoyed reading his books.

********************************************

When I was six I poked a wasp’s nest with a stick. They swarmed over me as I ran down the block screaming. I’ve been running ever since. Most often fueled by a bottomless rage which needs to be bled dry every day like an overloaded radiator to avoid ridiculous explosions of petty wrath.

Such as peeling potatoes for the Thanksgiving lefse this year. Scraping some skin off my index finger with the peeler, I gave vent to a foul expletive. One I would never purposely use. Yet I said it because I was surprised with a minor cut, and my daughter Madelaine heard me say it. That’s not the way I want her, or anyone, to remember me. So let’s drain the outrage this instant, shall we? Just for another day.

Editor:  “Where does this bottomless rage come from, Tim? Your readers want to know that.”

Me:  “After half a dozen therapists, I still don’t know. A combination of vivid imagination, uncontrollable ego, and sense of frustrated entitlement, maybe. Anyway, no one wants to read that kind of psycho-babble. And I don’t want to write any of it, either!”

Editor:  “I’m sensing a pattern of denial here, Timmy. Whenever you face an unpleasant reality about yourself you shut me out rather than confront it, explore it, and perhaps come to terms with it. Or you dismiss it with a joke.”

Me:  “Shut up. And don’t call me Timmy!”

**************************************************

When I google myself, here are the first three headlines to appear:

Utah Poet Trades Prose For Cash.

Our Newsroom Doesn’t Have A Poet Laureate, But This Guy Comes Pretty Close.

School Blogger Tim Torkildson Fired After Boss Confuses Homophones With Homophobes.

So if I don’t intervene on my own behalf, those headlines will define me, tell the world who I am and who I was. Which I don’t like. I’ve lived a long life, slightly askew. And I want to narrate and interpret it myself. Which reminds me, I should request a copy of my Patriarchal Blessing. I lost my last copy years ago . . .

And through the magic of the internet and Church archives . . . I now have a digital copy in front of me.

I am of the lineage of Ephraim. By blood or adoption. Amy says Ephraim is the tribe of leadership.

Quoting from the Church website, under Ephraim:

Ephraim was given the birthright in Israel (1 Chr. 5:1–2; Jer. 31:9). In the last days their privilege and responsibility is to bear the priesthood, take the message of the restored gospel to the world, and raise an ensign to gather scattered Israel (Isa. 11:12–13; 2 Ne. 21:12–13). The children of Ephraim will crown with glory those from the north countries who return in the last days (D&C 133:26–34).

According to Wikipedia, Ephraim translates as “I will be fruitful.” That part, at least, I can vouch for. Eight children is a quiverfull, by any standard. Amy and I planned to have a dozen kids when we first married, and that purpose never wavered despite illness and poverty. We never made it because we divorced after 15 years together. By the time we got back together again the fruitful days of our youth had vanished. If you’re looking for hindsight regret for our decision to have so many kids you won’t get it from me. I’m grateful for all of our kids and love each one of ‘em. Amy bore the brunt of the toil and heartbreak of raising a large brood. She has every scintilla of gratitude and love I can muster for this. When the books are finally balanced at Judgement Day she will be recognized and acclaimed by all as an amazing heroine. She is truly my Wonder Woman.

*************************************

Quoting from my Patriarchal Blessing:

“You are to be a leaven for righteousness wherever your lot is cast, and you will not move about the world except under the design of your God and Father . . . “

This statement I take to explain in part my wanderlust between the ages of 18 and 65, when I never wanted to stay rooted very long in any one place. 

Editor:  “So were you led by God, or did you simply stray to so many different places because of your own restlessness?”

Me:  “Good question. I think I’d like to sleep on it.

And so to bed.

That was an excellent nap. I slept wearing my thick winter coat, which weighs five pounds and was made in China. Amy said she bought it online for two dollars.

Now to my transient state of mind. In my younger times I lacked the virtue of wu wei – the taoist belief in the value of non-action. I thought, mistakenly, that every issue must be forced and that my thought and will should be paramount. And that what I wanted must be what God wanted. If I wanted to move to what I thought were greener pastures, then it had to be the right, the only, inspired path to take.

From the web page The School of Life, these words capture how I want wu wei works to work in my life today: 

Wu wei is closely connected to the Daoist reverence for the natural world, for it means striving to make our behavior as spontaneous and inevitable as certain natural processes, and to ensure that we are swimming with rather than against currents. We are to be like the bamboo that bends in the wind or the plant that adjusts itself to the shape of a tree. Wu wei involves letting go of ideals that we may otherwise try to force too violently onto things; it invites us instead to respond to the true demands of situations, which tend only to be noticed when we put our own ego-driven plans aside. What can follow is a loss of self-consciousness, a new unity between the self and its environment, which releases an energy that is normally held back by an overly aggressive, wilful style of thinking. 

Today I hold dear the stillness and modesty of our little apartment at Valley Villa in Provo. And because there is a temple just four blocks away, I feel I have come to my final home, where mystery and joy blend to create a warm light in my mind and heart. 

Editor:  “Aren’t you forgetting that mostly you’ve become extremely sluggish and lazy due to sitting around all day pretending to be in deep thought? That’s really why you want to make your sedentary lifestyle into a virtue. Remember one of your favorite lines from Balzac: ‘He sat in his study, as dumb as a carp.’

Me:  Stifle it, Edith.

*****************************************

I grew up in a 3 bedroom house at 900 19th Avenue Southeast, near the University of Minnesota, in Minneapolis. We had one bathroom for six people. 

There was a swing set and a willow tree in the backyard. My memory insists that there was a mysterious hole in the backyard that appeared during the hasty spring thaw in April. The snow stayed piled up three or four feet all winter, until a sudden burst of heat in mid-April caused it to melt in just two or three days. This was often the cause of terrific spring flooding around the state, and in our backyard a small hole appeared in the soggy ground right under the clothesline – it sucked up all the meltwater so our yard did not become a swamp like all the other yards in the neighborhood.

Where did that hole come from? Where did it go? No one ever wondered about this but me. In my imagination that meltwater was siphoned into a huge underground cave full of forgotten prehistoric creatures thrashing about in icy darkness. I never got too close to that hole, lest I get sucked down and perish in the jaws of an ichthyosaurus. My mother couldn’t understand my reluctance to go near the clotheslines in April. When I told her about the dreadful hole (which always disappeared overnight in early May) she just shook her head. Thinking, no doubt, that I must be a changeling.

I also liked to pry thin slabs of ice off frozen puddles on my way home from school to crash over my head. A la the Three Stooges. The neighbors viewing little Timmy Torkildson happily trying to induce a concussion this way occassionally went to my mother to gently inquire if her little boy were right in the head. She would sigh and tell them to mind their own business, then tell me to leave the frozen puddles alone for gosh sakes. 

Having had eight children with Amy now, I can empathize with my mom for fretting over the odd behavior of the fledgling minds under her care. Although I don’t think that Billy, Sue Ellen, or Linda, gave her quite the amount of jitters that I did. 

My imagination has always needed domesticating.

Editor:  “I notice you using some ten-dollar words in your narrative so far, as well as making reference to things that most people won’t know about. Is this on purpose?”

Me:  “It’s just the way I write. When I was reading S.J. Perelman as a kid I had to stop frequently to look up a word or a phrase in the dictionary. My readers can do the same thing.”

Editor:  “Do you really think any of them will do so?”

Me:  “No. Not really. And if it’s off putting, so be it. I’m writing this thing for my own enjoyment and entertainment. It won’t be fit reading for the crop of ignoramuses coming down the pike.”

Editor:  “But if you want readers to know . . . “

Me:  “This is not a commercial venture, bub. So put a sock in it.”

***************************************************

I don’t know how to approach writing about my dad. He was a heavy drinker, smoked like a chimney, delighted in profanity, and was a dedicated skirt chaser. He never told me, that I can remember, that he loved me. I never told him I loved him. 

Yet he always kept us in our own home with solid food and warm clothes. He was a better provider than I ever was for my family. He’s a wild card in this narrative; I’m not sure at this point where he’ll show up or what else I’ll write about him.

****************************************************

Some of my friends and contemporaries have offered a ‘foreword’ to my life and hard times. This one is from Nathan Draper, a friend from my days in corporate Thailand:

Tim Torkildson came into my orbit in 2003 while I was living in

Thailand and working for a magic juice grift from Provo called

Tahitian Noni International. Peter Willden had invited Tim to come

to Thailand to start life anew. I think that was the general concept.

Riches and fame awaited as he would soon be rubbing elbows, and

chopsticks, with the powerful diplomatic community, teaching their

children the finer points of American literature as they prepared to

enter Harvard, Yale, or Chulalongkorn University. I think he even

got a new business suit to play the part!

When Tim arrived I soon learned a bit about his history as a

Thailand missionary and a former clown with Ringling Brothers. I

didn’t know that it was history, for at that time this line of work had

not really left him. IMO, it never has. The day Tim ran away to join

the circus he had found his calling.

But on this foray to Thailand, a type of “escape from Alcatraz”

maneuver, Tim didn’t stick around long. My naïveté was still in

force when I asked Tim to handle some business matters while I was

out of the country. Upon my return Tim was gone. I wouldn’t hear

from the minion of Minnesota for many more years.

Before Tim skipped town I asked him, or he offered, to interview

me about the most stressful year of my life, 2002, which I’ve

listened to a few times since recording it. Tim would have made an

excellent late night show host if given the chance! I would have

liked to hear him interview Boyd K. Packer!

Over the years I learned several things from being around Tim not

the least of which was the power of language and that everyone has,

or needs, a shtick! Tim had a shtick which comes through in his

writings. He never tires of relating stories of his circus days and

never lets the truth get in the way of a good story, including his run

in with the smallest man in the world who helped him get expelled

from the big top! (I have this story on “tape” and it will debut at

Tim’s funeral!)

Tim writes poetry every day. I never knew people did such things

until meeting him. I admire this nuclear habit which he does for his

own purpose and of his own volition, without the requirement of

compensation. I contend that this art form and offering to god will

get him much further up the celestial staircase than would a calling

of Bishop, Stake President or General Authority. I’d much rather

hear a Timrick or haiku than the latest statistical report by the

heavenly accountants! These lyrical masterpieces will be passed

down through the clouds to the terrestrial realms where we can

enjoy a good laugh, even on Mondays.

If this isn’t enough, Tim has the distinction of being the only person

I personally know whose antics made headlines on The Drudge

Report. If you don’t believe me: Google Homophones and Tim

Torkildson. Eat your heart out Mr. Michu!

This, along with many other headlines from the New York Times or

Washington Post, gave Tim much satisfaction. Indeed, for Tim, all

press, any press, anywhere, anytime was good press. I wonder if he

ever tried to get published in Playboy? I’ll have to ask. Either way,

I’m sure the NYT missed an opportunity to make Tim their official a

poet laureate.

I’ve enjoyed our sarcastic duels over the years, some over burgers

and fries, some with a side of rutabaga casserole (don’t ask). From

my perspective Tim’s life story illustrates the crapshoot in which we

all live. Some days everything goes right, and many days a lot goes

wrong, even with the gods in your corner. Tim has navigated the

events of his life with the ability to laugh at everything! After all we

are all part of the cosmic comedy where everything is made up and

the points don’t matter. I like to think that Tim must have said

“When life gives you lemons, write poetry!”

“Poetry is the great language because poetry is the art of saying

what can’t be said. Every poet knows this.” — Alan Watts

   

##

The Roots of the Israeli-Hamas Conflict

 

 

The recent conflict between Israel and Hamas in 2023 has multiple underlying causes, reflecting the complex and long-standing tensions in the region:

1. **Immediate Causes**: The conflict was triggered on October 7, 2023, when Hamas and other Palestinian militant groups launched a multi-pronged invasion of southern Israel, including a barrage of rockets and ground attacks on military and civilian targets. Israel responded with extensive aerial bombardment and a ground invasion of Gaza【9†source】.

2. **Blockade and Economic Hardship**: The Gaza Strip has been under an Israeli blockade since Hamas's victory in the 2006 Palestinian legislative elections. This blockade has significantly damaged Gaza's economy and is viewed by international rights groups as a form of collective punishment. However, Israel defends the blockade as necessary to prevent weapons from entering the territory【10†source】.

3. **Political Dynamics in Israel**: Former Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu was criticized for policies that allegedly empowered Hamas in Gaza, potentially to sabotage a two-state solution and to weaken the Fatah-controlled Palestinian Authority in the West Bank. Critics argue that these policies have backfired, resulting in increased hostilities【11†source】.

4. **Hamas's Goals and Strategies**: Hamas, designated as a terrorist organization by several countries, is driven by a long-term vision of destroying Israel. The recent attacks were not seen as a miscalculation but rather a deliberate escalation to open a more volatile chapter in their conflict with Israel【12†source】【13†source】.

5. **Escalation of Violence and Tensions**: The months leading up to the attack saw an increase in violence and tensions, including Palestinian attacks on Israelis and Israeli forces' responses, settler violence, and clashes around the Al-Aqsa Mosque. These events set the stage for the October 2023 conflict【14†source】.

6. **International Involvement and Regional Dynamics**: Iran's support for Hamas and Palestinian Islamic Jihad, including training and funding, has been a contributing factor. Additionally, regional dynamics, including Israeli-Arab normalization talks and strained Egypt-Hamas relations, influenced the escalation【15†source】.

7. **Broader Israeli-Palestinian Conflict**: The ongoing Israeli occupation of Palestinian territories and the associated humanitarian and political issues have been a backdrop to the conflict. Several human rights organizations have characterized the Israeli occupation as akin to apartheid, though this is disputed【16†source】.

8. **Warnings and Predictions of Conflict**: Prior to the attack, warnings from Saudi Arabia, Egypt, and Palestinian Authority officials about the potential for escalation highlighted the growing tension and despair among Palestinians, exacerbated by the blockade and lack of political progress【17†source】.

9. **Exploitation of Despair by Hamas**: The blockade of Gaza has created a sense of hopelessness among Palestinians, which Hamas has exploited to convince young Palestinian men that violence is the only viable response to their situation【18†source】.

These factors illustrate the complexity of the conflict, driven by a mix of immediate triggers, long-standing political and economic issues, regional and international influences, and deep-seated grievances on both sides.

The Homophone Incident (in third person.)

 

 

The incident involving Tim Torkildson at Nomen Global Language Center in Utah revolves around a blog post he wrote about homophones. Torkildson, who was the social media strategist for the school, was dismissed from his role following the publication of this post. His boss, Clarke Woodger, the owner of the language school, expressed concerns that the post about homophones might be misconstrued as promoting homosexuality, which led to Torkildson's termination【12†source】【20†source】.

A homophone is a word that sounds the same as another but has a different meaning and sometimes different spelling, such as "witch" and "which," or "carat" and "carrot." Torkildson's post was intended to explain this concept, an important one for English language learners. He stated that he understood the "homo" prefix might cause controversy, but he believed his explanation was straightforward and necessary for those in the early stages of learning English【12†source】.

Torkildson described the situation in a Facebook post, recounting how Woodger expressed a lack of trust in him and concern about the school being associated with homosexuality due to the blog post. Woodger, on the other hand, refuted these claims, asserting that the decision to remove Torkildson was not related to homosexuality but because his blog postings had become confusing and sometimes offensive. He also mentioned that homophones were a concept beyond the understanding of most of the school's students, who were at basic levels of learning the language【12†source】【20†source】.

The content of Torkildson's blog post, as retrieved from a Google cache, was straightforward and educational. It explained the concept of homophones with examples starting with the letter A, such as "ad" and "add," "ail" and "ale," etc. This content, typically taught in English language learning, highlights the unusual nature of his dismissal【21†source】.

The incident garnered significant attention on the internet, leading to widespread criticism of Nomen Global Language Center. Many commentators accused the school of homophobia and ignorance of basic English language concepts. The controversy resulted in Nomen's Facebook page being deleted due to the backlash and negative comments it received following the incident【22†source】.

Overall, the incident highlights the complexities and sensitivities surrounding language and its interpretation in different contexts. The response to Torkildson's blog post reflects broader societal issues and misunderstandings related to language and sexuality.

My Love Affair With Elizabeth Taylor.

 

 

---

### My Love Affair with Elizabeth Taylor

From the moment I first laid eyes on Elizabeth, the world seemed to stand still. She was more than a screen siren; she was a force of nature, her violet eyes sparkling with an intensity that could captivate any man. I was no exception.

Our love story began in the golden age of Hollywood, a time when glamour and romance intertwined with every reel of film. I was an amalgamation of the many men who had fallen under her spell – an actor, a producer, a lover of life and a seeker of its deepest passions. In her, I found a kindred spirit.

Our first meeting was like something out of a classic movie. I was attending a lavish Hollywood party, the kind where the champagne flowed like rivers and the stars shone brighter off-screen than on. There she was, across the room, laughing in a way that made everyone else's laughter seem like a mere whisper. I knew I had to speak to her.

As I approached, our eyes met. It was as if we both recognized something in each other – a shared destiny, perhaps. Our conversation flowed effortlessly, moving from the trivialities of Hollywood life to the depths of our own dreams and desires. She spoke with an honesty that was disarming, her famous eyes revealing a soul that had known both immense joy and profound pain.

Our romance was a whirlwind. We traveled the world together, from the glamorous streets of Paris to the sun-kissed beaches of the Mediterranean. We shared moments of unbridled joy and faced the inevitable challenges that came with a life lived in the public eye. Through it all, our love remained a constant, a beacon guiding us through the storm.

Elizabeth was a woman of many facets. She could be fiercely independent yet deeply vulnerable, a celebrated actress yet a woman yearning for true connection. In her, I saw not just the glamour of Hollywood but the genuine heart of a woman who loved with every fiber of her being.

Our relationship was not without its trials. The pressures of fame, the constant scrutiny of the media, and the ghosts of our past relationships often cast shadows over our love. But in those moments, when the world seemed too much, we found solace in each other's arms.

We shared a love that was passionate, tumultuous, and deeply real. It was a love that taught me more about life, about love, and about myself than I could have ever imagined. Elizabeth was not just a lover; she was a teacher, a muse, and a mirror reflecting the best and worst of who I was.

As our affair drew to a close, marked by the inevitable ebb and flow of life's tides, I looked back on our time together with a sense of awe and gratitude. Elizabeth Taylor was more than a Hollywood icon; she was a woman who loved fiercely and lived fully, and I was fortunate enough to be a part of her incredible journey.

In the end, our paths diverged, each of us moving on to new chapters in our lives. But the memories of our love affair remain, vivid and indelible, a testament to the power of love in all its complex, beautiful forms.

---

Why zombies would make good soldiers.

 

 

The concept of zombies as soldiers is a fascinating and multi-dimensional topic, providing numerous angles from which to analyze their potential effectiveness in military contexts. In a 600-word exploration, we can delve into several key areas that highlight why zombies could be considered good soldiers, focusing on their unique characteristics and the strategic advantages they may offer.

1. **Unwavering Obedience and Lack of Fear:** One of the primary attributes that could make zombies effective soldiers is their unwavering obedience. Zombies, as typically portrayed in popular culture, do not possess self-awareness or consciousness. This lack of sentience translates into an absolute obedience to commands, assuming they can be controlled or directed effectively. They do not experience fear, stress, or doubt, which are factors that can significantly impact the performance of human soldiers. In high-risk scenarios, such as direct combat or hazardous environments, zombies would continue to operate without regard to personal safety or preservation, potentially outperforming human soldiers in terms of sheer tenacity and willingness to engage in dangerous situations.

2. **Endurance and Resilience:** Zombies are often depicted as creatures that can sustain significant bodily damage without being incapacitated. This resilience would be a considerable advantage on the battlefield. They could continue operations despite injuries that would typically debilitate or kill a human soldier. Furthermore, their apparent lack of need for sustenance, rest, or medical care simplifies logistical concerns, such as supply lines and field support, which are critical aspects of modern warfare.

3. **Psychological Impact on the Enemy:** The use of zombies could have a profound psychological impact on opposing forces. The sight of undead adversaries, impervious to pain and seemingly unstoppable, could be a significant demoralizing factor. The psychological warfare aspect of deploying zombies should not be underestimated, as fear and moral disruption can be as effective as physical weaponry in weakening an enemy's resolve and effectiveness.

4. **Potential for Mass Deployment and Low-Cost Maintenance:** Assuming a method exists to create and control zombies, they could potentially be deployed in large numbers. Their creation might be more cost-effective than training and equipping human soldiers, considering they require no food, shelter, or conventional medical care. This aspect could allow for a substantial numerical advantage in warfare.

5. **Reduced Political and Ethical Constraints:** Deploying zombies as soldiers might circumvent some of the political and ethical issues associated with putting human lives at risk. The decision to send troops into dangerous situations is often fraught with moral and ethical considerations, public opinion concerns, and political repercussions. Zombies, being already deceased, do not carry the same weight of ethical dilemmas, potentially allowing military strategies that would otherwise be untenable due to the risk to human life.

6. **Limitations and Challenges:** However, it's crucial to address the limitations and challenges in utilizing zombies as soldiers. Control and direction are significant issues; without a reliable method to command them, zombies could be as much of a liability as an asset. Additionally, their presence could pose a risk of infection or other forms of contamination to both allies and civilians. The long-term effects of deploying zombies, such as environmental impact and the potential for uncontrollable spread, must also be considered.

In conclusion, while the idea of zombies as soldiers might seem far-fetched, examining their characteristics and potential strategic advantages reveals a range of factors that could make them formidable on the battlefield. Their unwavering obedience, resilience, psychological impact, potential for mass deployment, and reduced ethical concerns present compelling arguments for their effectiveness as soldiers. However, significant challenges and limitations must be addressed to realistically evaluate their potential in military applications.

Vampire.

 

 

Vampires are a fascinating subject that has been explored through various mediums such as literature, folklore, and cinema. Each of these mediums has contributed to the rich tapestry of vampire lore, creating a diverse range of tropes and themes. Here’s a breakdown of how vampires have been portrayed across these different mediums:

### Literature
1. **Ancient and Medieval Literature**: Vampires in early literature were often depicted as demonic entities or revenants, arising from the dead to harm the living. These stories were less about horror and more about morality and the consequences of sin.
   
2. **19th Century**: With works like John Polidori's "The Vampyre" (1819) and Bram Stoker's "Dracula" (1897), the vampire became a symbol of seduction and sophistication, often seen as a charismatic aristocrat.

3. **Modern Literature**: Contemporary vampire literature often uses the vampire as a metaphor for other themes. For example, in Anne Rice's "The Vampire Chronicles," vampires symbolize existential angst and the burdens of immortality, while in Stephenie Meyer's "Twilight" series, they are more romantic and conflicted beings.

### Folk Tales
1. **Eastern European Origins**: Traditional vampire folklore in Eastern Europe depicted vampires as bloated, ruddy corpses who returned from the dead to harm their living family and neighbors. They were often associated with plagues and unexplained deaths.

2. **Slavic Folklore**: In Slavic cultures, vampires were often undead nobles or criminals who had led sinful lives. They were feared for their superhuman strength and their ability to shapeshift.

3. **Global Variations**: Almost every culture has some form of vampire myth, from the blood-drinking spirits of Asia to the vampiric creatures of African folklore. These variations reflect different cultural fears and superstitions.

### Cinema
1. **Early Film Representations**: In early cinema, such as in "Nosferatu" (1922), vampires were portrayed as monstrous, rat-like creatures. This portrayal was more aligned with the folklore depiction than the aristocratic vampire of 19th-century literature.

2. **Golden Age of Hollywood**: Films like "Dracula" (1931) introduced the suave, charismatic vampire, largely based on Stoker's Dracula. This era cemented the image of the vampire as a sophisticated, yet dangerous, figure.

3. **Modern Cinema**: Recent films have diversified the portrayal of vampires, ranging from horror-centric interpretations to comedic and even sympathetic versions. Films like "Let the Right One In" offer a more nuanced, often tragic view of the vampire.

4. **Themes and Metaphors**: Modern cinema uses vampires to explore themes like sexuality, addiction, the fear of the unknown, and the struggle with immortality.

### Analysis and Trends
- **Evolving Symbolism**: The vampire has evolved from a symbol of evil and the supernatural to a complex character that can embody various themes like alienation, desire, and the human condition.
- **Cultural Reflections**: Vampire stories often reflect the cultural and societal fears of the time, whether it be disease, the unknown, or the breakdown of traditional values.
- **Enduring Popularity**: The adaptability of vampire lore to different themes and settings keeps it relevant and continually interesting to new audiences.

Overall, the vampire trope has shown remarkable versatility, adapting to the cultural and artistic demands of each era while maintaining its core elements of mystery, horror, and allure.

Inflation

 

Ladies and gentlemen, can we talk about inflation for a moment? Not the balloon kind, no, that’s child's play. I mean the kind where your wallet goes on a diet, and your money starts to feel like it’s burning calories instead of earning them.

You know inflation's kicking in when you overhear your piggy bank is seeing a therapist for 'emptiness issues'. And your dollars are now entering the witness protection program because they’re worth less and less and don’t want to be recognized.

Remember the good old days when a buck was a buck and could actually buy you something more substantial than a puzzled look from the teenager behind the counter? Now, it seems like every time I open my wallet, the bills inside have thrown a going away party for the ones that left.

Grocery shopping has turned into a game show. You know, “The Price is Right”? Except Bob Barker isn’t there to console you, and every time you guess a price, it’s wrong and it’s higher. I picked up a block of cheese the other day and had to check if it was made of gold. It wasn’t, but I'm considering an investment in dairy commodities.

And have you tried to buy a car recently? The salesperson was like, “How about a nice compact?” And I'm like, "Sure, but where's the car?" Because I swear, the price they're asking, you’d think they come with a built-in butler and a spa.

Then there’s the gas station. I saw the numbers rolling so fast, I thought I was winning something. I was waiting for the bells to ring and someone to come out with an oversized check. But no, it's just me, donating to the “Oil Company’s Children's College Fund” one tank at a time.

Utilities aren’t any better. I got my electric bill the other day and I thought it was a phone number. I tried calling it, and some guy answered with, "Thanks for paying off my yacht!"

Eating out has become eating “in” because when you look at the menu prices, suddenly, your home-cooked meal of canned beans and toast looks like a Michelin-star feast. I asked a waiter for a wine recommendation and he said, “Honestly, sir, with these prices, I recommend sobriety.”

Even the dollar store is under existential threat. They’re about to be called “Five Dollar Stores” and you can forget about finding treasures in there. It’s more like a safari where you’re hunting for anything that’s actually a dollar.

And in this economic climate, forget about the tooth fairy. Kids are waking up to IOUs under their pillows. The tooth fairy's facing bankruptcy, saying, “At these rates, keep your own teeth, kid.”

But let’s end on a good note. They say laughter is the best medicine, right? Which is great because it’s the only prescription we can afford now! Just remember, folks, when you finally find that sofa change, hold onto it tight. Because at the rate we’re going, it might just be your retirement fund.

A Clown at Brown Institute. Part One.

 

 

After my epic battle with Michu the World’s Smallest Man on the Ringling Blue Unit I was blacklisted for several years. Or, more precisely, I decided to voluntarily withdraw from the big top milieu for a few seasons when I saw how the wind was blowing vis-a-vis my continuing employment. Management was cold and distant towards me. And Tim Holst, my galant pal, now Assistant Performance Director, laid it on the line for me one night.

“Tork” he said, “you better look for some other line of work. I’ve been plugging you with Baumann and Mr. Feld these past few weeks, but they won’t budge. They think you’re mental, and I think my own job could be in the donniker if I keep sticking up for you all the time.”

I quickly told Holst to cease jeopardizing his own career to take care of mine; I could get along without Ringling or circuses in general. I was sick of them. There was a whole ‘nother world out there breathlessly awaiting my stellar talents. I’d make out just fine. When the season ended and I was not offered another season’s contract I went back home to Minneapolis to mull over my options.

At one time as a child I had thought of becoming a concert violinist after watching Jack Benny on TV. That owly old guy seemed to do okay on the fiddle. And I was now an adept on the musical saw, as well as the Irish tin whistle. But I lacked the gumption to practice. Rote of any kind was DDT to my soul. That let out just about anything that required a university degree.

So I sat in my wooden rocker to think some more. Rocking is the only way I can generate any sustained thought. I began rocking as soon as I could sit up. My mother took me to the doctor when she couldn’t stop my constant swaying to find out if this was incipient cretinism. She was always afraid she was birthing cretins after the she saw how my father was turning out. The pediatrician assured her it was only a phase and would soon pass. But it never did. I am rocking in my beat up old Deseret Industries thirty-dollar recliner as I write these sentences on my Chromebook.

In fact, when I have to stand still I tend to sway back and forth like an elephant. This used to drive choir directors at church crazy. The director would majestically indicate we should all rise to begin warbling “If You Could Hie to Kolob,’ and I would immediately spoil the spirit of the whole thing by bumping shoulders with my fellow basses. My singing neighbors learned to give me a wide berth if they didn’t want to go home to Sunday dinner with contusions.

The Vietnam War was just over and the National Guard had more money than they knew what to do with to recruit new cannon fodder. I was offered a two-thousand dollar sign up bonus, training in any field I wanted, and completely free medical and dental care for life. But I was healthy as a horse and didn’t look good in khaki -- it highlighted my lichen-colored eyes.  

During my years with the show I’d done literally hundreds of radio interviews, and it seemed to me that it didn’t take much brains or talent to spout platitudes over the airwaves. I could do that kind of stuff with my eyes closed and one hand tied behind my back. Compared to the backbreaking physical work of the circus, it looked like a nice cushy sinecure with regular hours and the lure of possible fame as another Wolfman Jack. So I applied to Brown Institute of Broadcasting, down on Lake Street, for the training necessary to backtime a record and get my Third Class FCC Engineer’s License. In those antique days you couldn’t work on the air without a federal license in your back pocket.

Brown Institute was housed in a former carpet store. It was one of the more successful vocational schools that the Twin Cities was famous for. It was started in 1946 by the Browns, a married couple who owned some small market AM stations in western Minnesota. Concerned over the lack of trained announcers, they began classes in voice, music appreciation, how to avoid getting arrested for Payola, how to gather local news, and how to run the board and record commercials. By 1955 their school was churning out dozens of DJ’s, sportscasters, and newscasters each year for a market that was expanding like crazy with the advent of FM radio.

The real money was in sales, and my Brown advisor, Mike Kronforst, strongly suggested I take the additional one week course in how to sell radio advertising. But I pooh-poohed his advice. I had my sights set on doing the news, since my voice held a pleasing baritone timbre that impressed me no end. There was no reason I couldn’t soon be mesmerizing the nation with my urgent bulletins and incisive editorials like Walter Cronkite.

Classes ran from 9am to 2pm each weekday. Since everything in radio is timed down to the nanosecond, punctuality was of particular importance, and the school offered a ten percent tuition refund to any student who finished the nine month course without a single tardy mark. Since I walked to  school from home, I figured I was a shoo-in -- but missed it by seven minutes one lazy spring day when I dallied on East River Road to lob rocks at the Mississippi carp schooling near a gushing drain pipe. Some Minnesota mornings are made for sheer lollygagging and nothing else.

Mike Kronforst was also one of the key instructors at Brown. He took me in hand to discourage my tendency to turn the most mundane PSA into a dramatic reading more appropriate for a circus midway pitch.

“Flash! This just in: The First Lutheran Church will hold a potluck supper AND bingo this coming Thursday night! Tickets for this monumental event are knocked down to an incredible FOUR DOLLARS PER PERSON!! You can’t afford to miss this stellar occasion -- the most important social gathering since Cleopatra held salacious court in ancient Egypt!!! All proceeds go to the Altar Cloth Fund. Hurry! Hurry! HURRY!!!!!!!”

“Now Torkildson,” Mike would remonstrate with me patiently “stop trying to sound like a carnival barker. You’ll wear out your voice and wind up croaking the weather like someone inside a hollow log. Don’t improvise like that. Let’s try it again, and this time keep your voice level and lose about a dozen decibels, okay?”  

He eventually got me to deliver news, weather, and sports in a more reasonable facsimile of a silken voiced professional radio announcer. But not before I had exasperated him with a variety of buzzers, whistles, and other raucous sound effects I dug out of my clown trunk to punctuate the pork belly futures out of Chicago.

I graduated in the spring of 1980 and immediately went down to WCCO Radio in downtown Minneapolis with my audition tape, ready to pinch hit for Steve Cannon or Howard Viken -- two of the top Twin Cities radio personalities. In years past I'd appeared as a Ringling clown spokesperson on WCCO's Boone and Erickson Show several times, trading banter with the two insouciant radio clowns. The receptionist thanked me for my visit, assuring me that a station vice president would personally study my resume before making me an offer. I haughtily told her to make it snappy, because my next stop was KSTP over in Saint Paul, and it would be strictly first come first served.

A few weeks later Kronforst tried to let me down gently. I hadn’t heard back from anyone.

“You can’t start in a big market without any broadcast background, Tim. Start out small market, get some experience under your belt and then try again. There’s an opening out in North Dakota for a news director -- let me call them and see if I can get you in.”

He was as good as his word, and in a few days I was on the Amtrak to Williston, North Dakota, where I began my broadcasting career at KGCX Radio -- 93.1 on your FM dial.

(to be continued)