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Last batch of random photos of South by Southwest music fest. About the Missouri (?) tattoo: That state’s little dongle at the end doesn’t make it interesting enough for a tattoo (for” interesting,” see Texas). And the color? The big-bearded guy listening to electro-pop didn’t look like a red-state Republican. But I didn’t ask questions. I try not to talk to people fervent enough for that tattoo (and skulls, above it).

Stay tuned for the Bangles at SXSW. They’re all around 50 and still rocking, with a funny splash of irony.

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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.

Sick on the Road (sidewalk, grass & ____)

In my last post, notice how I camouflaged the word “camouflage” by spelling it “camoflauge”?

Meanwhile, back at today’s episode: No, it’s not just some old guy reciting his ailments. It is I, the world’s most important person, especially when I’m sick, presenting the life-or-death wrestling match with my intestines.

Any epic global conflict involves alliances, and this battle was no different. My stomach, always eager for attention, betrayed me with its threats to spew.

For my allies, I chose denial (it was like having Lichtenstein protect your flank). Then I enlisted whining, a tactic sure to make even the vilest germ exit in disgust.

The worst part of this gut-wrenching tragedy? I faced it alone, in a motel room barren of  Pepto Bismol, crackers or an RN fascinated by each utterance from my every orifice.

Fortunately, my guts did not resort to heavy hurling or volcanic diarrhea. The twin jets could have suspended me in midair. Instead, my guts felt more like a misfiring biplane than jets.

But “the show must go on.” Screw that. I was pondering whether to live or die. But I managed to perform all but one of six shows.

Blog was MIA because …

Big contest to transform this blog into a column at McSweeney’s Internet Tendency (mcsweeneys.net). 10 winners but not this epic. How could it compete against columns about a transvestite, a part-time hooker, a masseuse, and Afghanistan war stories? (It could compete against the other six winners, but the still-wonderful McSweeney’s (in case they read this) didn’t think so. Carnie Puppet’s curator was saving blog entries to feed an ever-voracious column. Now they’ll be unleashed on you. Spread the word.

Sometimes it pays to be different (scraggly, old & still alive vs. young, straight & marked for death in the pine plantation).

Sometimes it pays to be different (scraggly, old & still alive vs. young, straight & marked for death in the pine plantation).

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From Granpa Cratchet’s Facebook: Which vehicle has the most air? Whichever one Granpa is in. On the puppeteer’s right hand, Granpa Cratchet sits in the “cockpit.” The puppeteer’s costumed left hand steers. He looks through burlap behind the puppet (no, he can’t see great). Toes operate the gas, brake, water squirters and various sound effects. Granpa’s biggest fan, inside the vehicle, is only a few inches across. There’s one for the puppeteer’s upper and lower body. See bigger photos of the puppetmobile at oldcoot.com.

From Granpa Cratchet’s Facebook: Which vehicle has the most air? Whichever one Granpa is in.

On the puppeteer’s right hand, Granpa Cratchet sits in the “cockpit.” The puppeteer’s costumed left hand steers. He looks through burlap behind the puppet (no, he can’t see great). Toes operate the gas, brake, water squirters and various sound effects. Granpa’s biggest fan, inside the vehicle, is only a few inches across. There’s one for the puppeteer’s upper and lower body. See bigger photos of the puppetmobile at oldcoot.com.

Tumblr insists on posting this picture upside down, and I don’t have time to troubleshoot. It’s the latest incarnation of the Puppet Bike. (It was new to me.) Two people perform in this thing. Makes me feel better about my mobile stage. The best part for the owner? The owner lets other performers use it and takes a cut of the income from tips. (More info at puppetbike.com)

Tumblr insists on posting this picture upside down, and I don’t have time to troubleshoot. It’s the latest incarnation of the Puppet Bike. (It was new to me.) Two people perform in this thing. Makes me feel better about my mobile stage. The best part for the owner? The owner lets other performers use it and takes a cut of the income from tips. (More info at puppetbike.com)

A horse-drawn casket? Really? The dead person has gone to eternity. Why make the funeral last that long?

What could make the process longer than motoring slowly through horse poop? I know! Singing “The Lord’s Prayer” verrry slowly. (We already know the words. Pick up the pace! Only Jesus an eternity to listen, and I’m sure he appreciates the effort, but even he’s likely to become bored. After all, he wrote it.)

I wore undies on my head — but I wasn’t happy about it

After frantically finishing three days working on my stage trailer, it’s the night before I open. Time to fully rehearse the new show! It’s 10 pm, by the glow of Christmas lights on a prop, and yes, undies on my head — because my hat is MIA, and I never enter the trailer without a hat (it’s early warning radar that I’m about to hit my head in the trailer built for someone 2 inches shorter). Any brighter lights would lure the hordes of mosquitoes surrounding the trailer (My first audience!? Lots of buzz about the show.)

To be fair, I’ve done some, similar elements of the show before. And this isn’t Shakespeare. But it does involve using 15 puppets in approximately 20 minutes. (One of my pre-show spiels: “See 1 man using 15 puppets! Can he keep his own personality intact? —- It would help if he had one to begin with!”) For the record, the opening shows went fine.

Note to my biographers;-) 1) Yes, this entry is out of the tour’s chronological order. 2) No, I never wore an undies turban during actual shows. Not enough head protection, and just too weird, especially when dealing with kids. Ewwwww! 3) No, I did not remove my underwear and put them on my head. It was a pair from the suitcase in my nearby truck. Please note this fact at my sanity hearing.)

Truck missing? Yes & no. It occasionally misfired or died at interesting, sometimes deadly times (e.g., turning left). I wish it was missing more, like vanished, stolen, gone. In two earlier years, I’ve had two trucks shot out from under me: frozen transmission and a fiesta of fuse blowing. But this time I made it to a Ford dealer, who made some modifications to improve performance (see above).

Truck missing? Yes & no. It occasionally misfired or died at interesting, sometimes deadly times (e.g., turning left). I wish it was missing more, like vanished, stolen, gone.

In two earlier years, I’ve had two trucks shot out from under me: frozen transmission and a fiesta of fuse blowing. But this time I made it to a Ford dealer, who made some modifications to improve performance (see above).

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Hot Air King vs Flying Wallenda

Do you know a little old lady? Imagine her sitting atop a tall pole. Would she be unbalanced?
Not Carla Wallenda, 74. She doesn’t even need plastic surgery to be a successful pole dancer. She’s 110 feet above the ground. Who cares if her face develops a new wrinkle? Just so the act doesn’t — no room for mistakes when you’re at the top. (Back on the ground, she wears bifocals — see photos & article at http://bit.ly/a8HvdC)

  How can my act compete with that? Her stage is in the middle of the midway. My stage is sequestered in the most distant corner of the fair, behind the barns, in a “steam village” of fake old buildings that have been there for years. I guess the organizers wanted to put all the hot air in one place. 

  It’s okay. I’m an only child. I’m used to playing by myself.

  But some people actually attend my grand dramas, despite the fact that the fair’s announcer has announced the wrong times for my shows three days in a row, even after I made three phone calls and a memo, which also gave him some lines to use other than stuff like this big finish to one announcement: ” … oh, it’s a puppet show. Maybe you should take your kids to that.”

The blondes know: You only need one pasty in the land of long underwear (SFW)

The first time someone said, “Welcome to the UP,” I thought it was a brand of port-a-potty. But no. It’s the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, a land where summer is just an excuse to launder your long johns, quickly, before winter arrives. On the southern shore of Lake Superior, I drove on a state road with a speed limit for snowmobiles! Uff da! (It’s a Scandanavian expression that usually means almost any negative emotion. It’s big in the Upper Midwest. Wikipedia says it’s also spelled “uff-da, uffda, uff-dah, oofda, ufda, ufdah, oofta or ufta” — I feel better about the controversy over spelling “y’all.”)

But the UP is the place if you want blondes and pasties. No, I did not visit the Strip ‘n Whip club. A pasty (past - e) is a big empanada, a baked “fried pie,” classically with meat and vegetables — hope you like rutabagas. One makes a meal & costs $3 - $4.50. English (Welsh?) miners would heat them on a shovel down in the mine. So you’re not getting fancy flavors.

As for blondes: At the Swedish Pantry in Escanaba, a third of the lunch crowd was blonde, and a third had gray hair (probably former blondes, judging from their dining companions — often adult children). But it’s not just that restaurant.

The puppet tells a bunch of blonde jokes, but they were already altered to poke fun at himself. Two favorites: “My new hobby is climbing chain-link fences to see what’s on the other side. It took forever to eat breakfast because the orange juice said “concentrate.” So I did, for four hours.”

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