Successfully avoiding normalcy
Once again, one of our corrrspondents evaded the pall of normalcy. He reports:
At 10 pm, I’m standing on top of my truck, cutting pine branches. They’re for a visual joke that also involves a stuffed toy pig. I ask the audience what I’m holding. A porky pine. Of course.
Two hours later, I’m creating a small lagoon of spilled diesel in my hotel’s parking lot. Splashing around like a kid with a garden hose, I finally manage to siphon out 10 gallons because … I’ll spare you the rest of the long, torturous tale involving varied combinations of these words: fuel pump, mechanics, idiots, repeatedly fail, repair. End of story: I must stop for fuel far morr often, and I’m constantly attrmpting to see the future, i.e., the upcoming locations of open stations that sell dirsel. My crystal ball (the GPS) provides clues, not solid answers.
The Homicidal Tree & Disaster Dave
Disaster Dave gave a tree a hickey with his trailer, hauled by his cumbersome truck that maneuvers like my fat, elderly aunt trying to dance the quickstep.
Easing into a very tight turn out of a parking area cramped with cars illegally parked, there was the tree. Or rather, there it wasn’t. The tree’s unexpected girth hid behind a big bush. Dave didn’t care if his trailer pruned the bush a bit, but the tree leaped out to chew the trailer’s fender.
For once, Dave was glad he faced a crisis alone. No witnesses and no recriminations beyond the guilt and anger barking in his head. (Later, he would have trouble quieting the ruckus because this wasn’t his first wreck. He’s edited traffic signs, electric utility boxes and phone poles. Inching out of a parking spot one night, with his windshield covered by smeared gray dust from a fairground, he nudged the bumper of a gray car that was almost invisible because it was camouflaged with the same gray dust. His truck’s bulk rocked the car like a steroid-stoked wrestler bumping a wheelchair, but there was no damage, at least nothing Dave could see through the dust.)
As a connoisseur of the demolition derbies commonly held at county fairs, Dave appreciated the minimal force the tree used to inflict the dramatic aesthetics of his fender’s twisted metal. But he didn’t have time to ponder the scene. As usual, he was doing tourism on a deadline between fairs; so pounded the jutting fender into submission with his ever-handy crowbar (a very satisfying experience) and exited before the tree attacked again.
(The location of this epic encounter remains anonymous for fear Earth First might seek revenge for his arboreal assault. Rest assured the incident didn’t mar the Gardens of Versailles or even an old lady’s lawn. It occurred on a skinny gravel road in the country, where an owner might claim unseemly value for an extraneous tree.)
Disclosure: This is Dave’s tale, and he believes facts sometimes interfere with a good story. Keep that in mind if you’re tempted to locate any of the scarred waypoints of his bumper-car travels across the nation. However, it is Disaster Dave, who drives with the finesse of a machete doing brain surgery.
Whiskey, Revelation & Demolition
An epic wherein our hero encounters criminal football, kilts, haggis and whiskey:
Like many fairs, the Dublin (OH) Irish Festival had a demolition derby, except all the crashes occurred during Aussie & Gaelic rules football. (Yes, On a day off, I attended a fair.)
What are these sports, and what’s the difference? They both resemble rugby, but maybe with more running. Aussie football was invented by criminals; it uses a football-shaped ball. The less interesting Gaelic football uses a round ball, which has more dependable bounces so there’s less tackling, blocking and general mayhem to recover an errant ball. BTW, there are female and co-ed teams — it’s considered impolite for a 220-pound guy to flatten a woman.
Amidst uncommon numbers of redheads, Celtic tattoos and kilts, the fest also had haggis and a whiskey tasting. (What is haggis? See below.)
At the fest, I learned that most Bushmills whiskey is underwhelming. But I did formulate a life-guiding principle (without the aid of whiskey): I will not wait in line for haggis. There’s a lot of “haggis” and other stuff that’s not too bad but not worth the time.
Browsing the kilt stores gave me new respect for my son’s friend, Coen, who wore a kilt almost constantly for awhile, A kilt costs at least $50; even costlier is the camoflauge kilt (one of Coen’s favorites) — it didn’t disguise the fact he was wearing a kilt. My favorite: the $150 leather Utilikilt (with all its pockets and loops, it’s like Batman’s tool kit as a skirt).
Footnote: Haggis is made of boiled, minced organs, suet, oatmeal and seasonings. Scotland has a distillery every 15 feet so they don’t care what they eat.
World’s Bravest Big-Head + jokes at the end: Daniel the Lion works without an escort. And the costumed cavorter performs gymnastics! For entertainment value, he’d beat a tiny Olympic gymnast any day. Click the photo to see him in action.
For sure, he beats most big-head characters. Most just woodenly clomp around. A Granny with a walker is a NASCAR racer compared to them.
Out of costume, Charlton Jordan told me his athleticism saves him from attacks by psycho children. “I can always get away from trouble. … Anyway, escorts can’t keep up with me. I wear them out.”
Sicko soccer children: Daniel does need an escort at soccer events. “Something about all that running and kicking maybe gets kids wired; they just come at me,” he says, pummeling his body.
His costume of street clothes helps his mobility, but his agile mind is the reason he’s active. He constantly thinks of things for the character to do. (That may be the difference between a pro performer and a cop trying to physically and mentally survive wearing a McGruff the Crime Dog suit.)
Daniel doesn’t talk, but his website says he presents programs on confidence, fair play and other positive topics. Don’t know how he manages that. Daniel could talk because Charlton has a good voice. But many characters should keep quiet. After I complimented a 10-foot-tall, Transformer-style robot on the fairgrounds, a nasal, high-pitched twang replied, “Uh, thanks much, man.” That’s the other problem. Most characters don’t have anything to say. In test runs of Disney’s Muppet Mobile Lab, even an original Muppet puppeteer didn’t have enough ad lib B.S.
Out on the fairgrounds, my potential audience is always going somewhere. My mobile puppet can usually hold them for about 5 minutes before some move along. I could push the time longer, but I know I’ll probably stop again within amplified earshot; so I don’t use big chunks of my material in one spot.
Just let the costume do the acting, Jack Nicholson told Michael Keeton, who was worried about emoting enough in his Batman costume. Daniel’s floppy hair keeps him almost constantly animated, but he adds a lot more action. Enough to teach self confidence? Don’t know. Don’t care. He’s a hoot.
Non-talking characters fear me on the fairgrounds. They quickly exhaust their limited pantomime responding to my verbosity. Then they just stand there dumbly until one of us wanders away. Daniel did a little better, registering shock, indignation and mocking as I ran through the following barrage (the next day, he jumped in front of the car and G-rated mooned me).
The jokes: “Oh no. I thought my prescription drugs were working. Does anyone else see a giant lion? Daniel, what’s with your hair? Do you have a part-time job as a dust mop? No, it’s actually great hair. I’m just jealous. This stuff on my head isn’t hair. It’s fungus. Kids, wash your head once every 6 months whether you need it or not! That’s me, spreading health facts to the masses! Everything I say: 99% fact free. Kids, always be nice to giant lions. That’s another health tip. Seriously, Daniel, you’re the handsomest big-headed lion wearing a mop that I’ve ever seen …” (Notice how I suddenly resemble the insult clown. Some targets are safe.)
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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.
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.)
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.
Carnie puppet surfaces
I will be unsatisified with this post later. It’s 10:45 pm. I haven’t eaten supper, and my toaster oven cooked the rice oddly. “Boil” is not a concept the oven recognizes, as in “boil rice.” I’m hoping half-cooked rice will not make me swell up like some Hotei “happy Buddha” statue.
And thus begins the first blog entry tracking the glamorous tour of Carnie Puppet and friends. (Don’t worry. I won’t whine all the time.) So far, it’s been several days each at the rich suburb outside Chicago, the forgettable town in Wiconsin, and the small town in IL, where everybody is soooo nice. This county fair’s president said, “We want you to have a good time, too.” Before fainting from shock, I told him, “As long as they don’t throw BIG rocks, I’ll have a fine time.”
The fair folks did help me set a personal record: connecting my electricity 5 minutes after the first scheduled showtime. And of course nothing for the stage worked. After the requisite amount of frantic flailing to appease the audio god, I got sound, but not in the right speaker. And the torrential wind produced by a major prop was just a gentle breeze. The fair had hooked me to a bad breaker box. Wheeeee.
All this beats my previous record: Getting electricity, for the first time ever for the stage, 15 minutes before show time. The left speaker was dead. All the sound board settings wrong. During the show, I tried to plug a major prop into dead outlets twice before I hit electricity. That involved plugs that need 4 switches each to gain the precious electron flow. Sort of breaks the electrifying pace of the show. (I did not wire this ancient, often-modified trailer/stage.) So the puppet had to ad lib a lot. But isn’t life just one giant ad lib?
Why haven’t I posted earlier? One fire-ant bite won’t make you nuts, but 100 bites will. A million technical fixes and details at the start of the tour sucked my time. Plus I’m fighting New Cable Disease: Anytime I get access to new (motel) cable channels, I regain consciousness after hours, drool hanging off my chin, my thumb autonomically, compulsively clicking through the channels.
Stayed tuned. A flood, well maybe an amble, of posts to come, including the $150 meal with microscopic portions, featuring the edible cigar.
