Goat entrails for emergency truck repair?

The truck blows fuses at night, again. Fixed it the first time with electric tape and a bigger fuse. But not now. I chant, spread goat entrails on the hood, burn candles. With intermittent outages of my instrument panel and trailer lights, I try new remedies in many scenic parking lots. My 3 hour drive covers 50 miles.

Hello, motel. The hallway echoes every step, every word, every door closing. Hello, sunshine and an 8-hour drive with a deadline. Hurrah, show business.

I act like I’m driving. Not too bad. But during my only stop, I turn my head and my eyeballs don’t catch up for a couple of seconds.

Epilogue: I was killed in a fiery crash on the interstate. Or did I dream that? When I drive tired, it’s easy to confuse details (like “Have I driven through Pittsburgh yet?”).

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How do you style your hair? With a hand grenade?

“HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA,” the insult clown says. “Look, the guy’s laughing along, even though his father tragically was a Brillo pad. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.”

The clown doesn’t pause. “Hey, little girl holding the big man’s hand. Do you feel like a blimp handler in the Macy’s parade? HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.” (“Hey, little girl. What’s it like to ride an elephant?” That comment got another clown ejected because the “elephant” was the fair board’s president.)

“Your nose is so big, you could smoke a cigarette in the shower, and it wouldn’t get wet. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.”

His commentary on the carnival crowd continues almost constantly, always followed by the braying, caustic “HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.” It always lasts exactly four seconds. I know because I heard the laugh for 4 days at a fair.

Welcome to “rage in a cage.” That’s what his off-duty t-shirt says. On duty, he’s a clown in a dunking booth with bars so tightly spaced nothing can hit him. Well, maybe a slender blow dart from an irate Amazonian tribesman. No carnivals in the rain forest for him. (“Hey, shorty. Why do you carry that shrunken head? So you’ll have a combined IQ of 50?”)

The clown’s psyche runs a much greater risk of injury. But for playing the bad guy, he grosses almost $75 hourly on a busy night. Bandits with briefcases make more. So do Triumph the Insult Comic Dog, Lisa Lampenelli and all those other zinger flingers you hate, love, or hate to love. Except this clown is accessible to the common crowd. He’ll insult you. He’ll insult anyone he sees, though easy targets are the fat, old, inept, ugly, etc.

I’m briefly,faintly jealous because he has so much potential material. My puppet only makes mild comments couched in compliments: “I love that tie-dye shirt. You could spill anything on it and no one will notice. Did it start out as a white shirt?” Or, “Sir, you either have a very cute child or a very odd wart on your shoulders.”

Effects of insults: Adults usually take the clown’s insults with a “ha ha” or a mild “oh, yeah?” attitude. But who knows what kids really think? The clown says to a tween-age guy, “Why are you wearing all green? Are you a leprechaun? What about that John Deere hat? You probably smell like a deer.” No visible psychic harm occurs. The clown even lets the kid throw an extra ball.

To a tall, pretty tween-ager standing with her older sister, he says. “Hey, little girl. What’s with your hair? Your sister should have taught you how to comb it — though she’s no success story.” The tween-ager gets an extra ball, too, but as she walks away, she combs her long hair with her fingers. A block later, she’s still combing it sporadically.

The clown says he’s played everything from a nun’s retirement home to Bike Week so his repertoire varies. (If a heckler tries to nail him, he leaves nothing but a bloody puddle of slaughtered ego.)

And he isn’t even the worst of the breed at fairs. One insult clown regularly needs a police escort when he leaves the grounds.

What’s the clown like outside his cage? Let’s just say modeling is not a career option for him. He probably caught many of the insults he now throws. He’s also wary and wired. I feel wired, too, even after 30 minutes of making wacky commentary and compliments with a crowd. But this guy is high voltage. As for wariness, it’s probably an occupational hazard. When I try to go backstage to chat, his cohort cracks the curtain, gives me the Arctic eyeball and is monosyllabic until I convince everyone I’m harmless.

Here’s how the clown’s business works: His chatter draws a crowd, or at least attention. People pay $5 for 5 baseballs. They must hit the bullseye hard to dunk the clown. Ten seconds later, he’s back on his perch: “High and dry. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.” (He’s not dry, but he has a wetsuit under his clothes.)

A youtube clip: Judging from his laugh, here’s my guy persecuting two pretty women: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Nna6s4wsuCE

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Just another day: demolition derby, waterfalls, cleats, mean clown, pierogies, etc.

Actual good news from Disaster Dave. Here’s his good day, sometimes they happen:

Saw 11 waterfalls on a 6-mile hike in spectacularly nice weather. (Won’t describe something you can’t get.)

In a nearby town, finally found inexpensive, high-top, turf cleats (it’s a big deal, trust me).

While watching fireworks at the fair, had homemade pierogies from a church’s food stand. (Won’t describe something you can’t get.)

Great demolition derby: Cars had speed and traction on the lightly watered track (it’s a big deal, trust me). Three flash fires. Drivers with an unusual urge to crash head-on. One car blows smoke rings through its hood pipes.

Nice conversation with the dunking tank’s Insult Clown (more on that later).

Worked an entire 4 hours.

And it wouldn’t be a day without (near) disaster: 5 minutes late to the first show (thank you, overly ambitious hiking plans and highway bridge painters). Then the mobile unit’s batteries died — persuaded kids to push it two blocks. But the puppet had to jabber 50 minutes in the mobile, then 25 minutes during the show. Thumb-tastic.

Drove home to a symphony of Appalachians, full moon and clouds.

Danger Mouth: Politics, Sex, Religion

Disaster Dave says a day with three brand-new situations rattled his ad lib expertise.

Driving his mobile unit past the county Democrats’ pie booth, Dave is hungry. So the puppet says, “Hey, Democrats. Got any apple rhubarb pie? (No answer.) What, you’re not accustomed to talking to puppets? After the Bush years, I figured you would be. (That last remark hesitated only briefly before vaulting the moat of common sense.)

Dave has no idea about the remark’s effect in this Republican area because he accelerates through the crowd, leaving a short trail of  profuse blathering about the puppet’s true, apolitical leanings.

A few minutes later, he encounters a strolling magician. So Dave, with his eye-catching mobile and loud PA, decides to publicize the guy standing unobtrusively in the crowd. “Hey, folks. Check out Mr. Magician here. He’s a lot of fun. He’s got more tricks than … (time slows, heads turn, the puppet’s mouth hangs open) than … I can’t finish that joke in a family setting.” A few laughs from the crowd. Time to accelerate again.

Then, answering “Are you real?”, Dave spouts the spiel he borrowed, with permission, from me. “I’m a real puppet. Are you a real person? (pause) Prove it. (pause) Yes, folks, it’s an existential philosopher puppet.” The way we do this little smiler, it opens a space for other kids’ questions. But one child starts trying to prove she’s more real than the puppet. So the puppet (Dave, too happy to find responsive kids after outbreaks of shyness at previous events) and the child discuss comparative anatomy and whether puppets have souls. (Dave says they don’t.) Then she asks, “Do you have a god?” The puppet replies, “No, er, ah, I have a brain made of cotton so I don’t have a god. But if I did, I’d be a big fan of Jesus, but er, ah, uh … (Dave and I both tidied up his answer; so it’s 99% more coherent than the original, which had rambling verbiage and an “er, ah” for each juggled issue of personal theology, political correctness, the intellectual and spiritual capabilities of 9-year-olds, and the urge to move to familiar, guaranteed knee-slappers.)

NASCAR GPS: Turn left, turn left …

I run two GPS units simultaneously because they’re both squirrelly schizo in their own unique ways. Welcome to the skewed world of the GPS in my Samsung Instinct (Sprint) and my Rightway RW200 (first GPS by a new company).

Rightway also sells a Dale Earnhardt Jr. model. “Turn left, turn left, turn left …”

Some maps on my RW200 are so old that search results recently said, “See clay tablet in the library at Alexandria.”

The imaginary roads are also “diverting.” From downtown, the “quickest route” to my house sends me down a street behind my house. Suddenly the GPS says to turn. And that’s correct. Just drive through my neighbor’s backyard and a ravine. Voila, I’m in my own backyard, the spot on my baronial estate that’s closest to downtown. Too bad the driveway is on another street

Another antic: The phone’s GPS often begins with, “You are now off track.” Through gritted teeth I tell it, “I know. That’s why I turned on the GPS.”

Weaving among signal-blocking skyscrapers in downtown Chicago, the RW200 finally freezes with three maps layered onscreen. Or maybe it’s a guide to the 4th dimension.

Then the phone GPS says, “We’re doomed! Throw me out the window! Try to save yourself!”

Actually, it says something like, “You are seriously off course. The GPS is exiting.” I never hear the exact announcement because I always start declaiming the questionable traits of the GPS.

Demolition Derby of the Senses

After driving the BAT (big-ass truck), piloting a subcompact is like a carnival ride. Thin-skinned tin zipping through quick turns. Running low to the ground accentuates the speed as unaccustomed bumps and noises compete for sensory attention. Add the joy of fast lane changes, uninhibited by tons of truck and trailer.

The BAT by itself is a lumbering, rumbling diesel dualie (double rear axles), 6 feet longer than the biggest pickup truck (full double cab, long bed with a trailer hitch). It has more blind spots than 1) the Sun Staring Society, 2) a new litter of three-eyed puppies, 3) the ______ (political party) policy on __________ (issue), 4) a woman in love with Charles Manson. Big side mirrors — partially covered by convex, funhouse mirrors— provide the only clues about obstacles beside, behind and sometimes above the 6.5 foot tall perch. When the truck cuts across old ruts or a field recently converted to a parking lot, only a percussion band on a trampoline could produce more cacophonous bouncing.

Add two GPS units shouting or mumbling conflicting directions (I run two simultaneously because blind elves with inner ear problems operate both), a book on CD and an onslaught of thoughts. In comparison, rush hour in a subcompact seems so calm.

Desire & Panic

Two towns in PA: Desire & Panic. When you’re in Desire, you’re close to Panic. True there and often real life.

Terror on the Midway, or at least a little jumpiness

Disaster Dave reports more than the usual number of skittish kids at his recent festival.

Even some of the bigger ones hide behind their parents when his puppet does what the festival business calls a “strolling act” on the grounds. Hiding may be shyness. But when children’s faces become stark or bug-eyed, that’s fear. (If they merely turn away, they may be just too cool to talk with a puppet.)

“Ah, yes. Terrorizing the populace. My work here is done.” Usually Dave uses that joke when a baby freaks out. Older scared kids just get a drive-by wave.

Dave thinks people who choose to live in Amish areas might be as reclusive and skittish about strangers as the Amish.

The number of times you see a child, flanked by two adults and held by both hands, is directly related to the overall number of nervous kids at the festival. That’s Dave’s hypothesis. Now it’s on the Internets. So it must be true.

Note, in case a festival’s administration reads this and thinks they recognize Dave: As usual, there also has been a solid majority of nice, friendly kids. The puppet and kids do the Vulcan mind meld, songbirds serenade, playful woodland animals frolic around them, the usual stuff.

(Note to first-time readers: Disaster Dave is a performer who only tells me his negative news. For obvious reasons, he wishes to remain anonymous.)

Road hazards: the Amish and deer

The Amish and the deer populate the twisty roadsides at twilight.

Want to feel like you’re from the future? Pass an Amish buggy in your car, Disaster Dave says. (He’s my performer friend who only sends me reports of trial and terror.)

My apologies for 3 posts on successive days. I promised I wouldn’t post daily.

Day of Disasters

Actually, it was 3 near-disasters. But that headline isn’t as catchy.

Here’s a report from “Disaster Dave,” a traveling performer who only tells me tales involving trouble; so he asks to remain anonymous.

Two minutes into a rare chance for a long, relaxing bath, RIIIIINGGGG!!!! It’s the motel manager, “You’re flooding the restaurant underneath your room!” The long soak turns into a quick splash under the armpits (probably a disaster for the people encountering Dave later). Dave says, “I think a waterfall in the restaurant would have added atmosphere.”

After dodging Amish buggies (yes, Amish buggies) on a twisty, hilly, narrow road, he arrives at the festival where he’s performing. While running the mobile unit his puppet “drives,” it starts to rain. The splattered windshield and gray light don’t help when he must attempt a tight U-turn on a hillside path. Strewn, lumpy hay vaguely defines the sloping edge. As his tight turn treds the edge of the hay, one pile directly ahead looks just a little odd. It disguises a sharp drop that would have launched the mobile unit tumbling down the hill.

Later, charging the mobile unit’s batteries unexpectedly electrifies Dave’s nerves. To reach the charger in his trailer/stage, he must slowly push the mobile’s nose between his trailer/stage and a shiny black pickup. The mobile has a manageable 8 inches clearance on either side. But it suddenly decides to roll forward unguided! He wedges his body between the pickup and the mobile and prays fast, something eloquent like, “Help, help, help!” The mobile rolls another foot before deciding he’s been scared enough.

As the day ends, it’s fright time again. His truck lights have been on all day! He must have turned them on when testing for his truck’s latest trick, blowing fuses. But another minor miracle: The truck starts immediately.

“Thank you, God,” Dave says. “I’ve had my share of mishaps in the past, but this is my second near-disaster day in a week, at a time when I’ve been exploring what it means to have a closer relationship with Jesus. When enough coincidences happen, there’s reason to suspect intervention, not coincidence.” This brings up some interesting questions, but not now.

Note to new readers: You have not been lured into an evangelical trap. Most entries skitter between silliness and soaring secular societal insights. But I promised the whole picture of life on the road; so Dave’s story has some spiritual stuff.

Thirteen and beautiful?

Kids, especially tweens, often want to drive the mobile unit that the puppet “drives.” My standard lines include, “No, you’re too young to die” or “No way, look what it did to me. I look like I’m 90, and I’m only 17” or “You’re too handsome to risk your looks in this wreckmobile.”

I’m outside the mobile unit, firing off these one-liners in a small, loud crowd of tweens, who are eventually deterred by my blizzard of blather. As the crowd moves off, a quiet voice, suddenly beside me, says, “Do you think I’m too pretty to risk my looks driving the mobile?” I turn, and there she is. Probably 13, at that cusp where her teenage looks could go horse-faced or high cheekbones. Her wide, questioning eyes seek reassurance, even from a random old guy who had just indiscriminately used compliments as jokes.

My standard answers wilt in this suddenly serious occasion. So I slow down, and I look at her. Is this another kid needing reassurance and acceptance from a father figure? Some such kids have bottomless needs. Next I wonder if she’ll believe me if I say she’s pretty. After all, I had called some guys “handsome” when “humanoid” would have been more accurate.

From the blur of verbiage flying through my brain, I wing-shoot an answer that flops clumsily into place. “Oh, anyone your age shouldn’t take such horrible risks. (Did I just pause too much?) But yes, you’re much too fine a person to drive …”

Later, I try to remember, “Did I ever say she’s pretty?” It would have been so easy. But apparently not.