Crack, crack!

One Easter, when Mark, David and I were little, my Grandpa gave us each a duckling. They were fuzzy and yellow and cute as the dickens as they skittered about our yard on Bishop Place. I suspect that Grandpa gave them to us more for his own enjoyment as he watched them from his house across the alley. They were the plain white variety and therefore safe from any threat of his 12 gauge.

As they grew, they became sort of a pain in the ass. They were noisy. They would molt. Our yard wasn’t fenced so they would follow my Mom down the block to the store. They would poop in our wading pool. They were awful.

One day, we came home to find the ducks staggering wackily around the yard. “Quaaack, quooook, quuuuzhk!” they squawked. Their necks were wobbling and one  had one wing dragging on the ground. 

“What the..?” Mom said and ran across the alley to get Grandpa, the duck expert.

They came running back and Grandpa took a gander at them. Then he burst into a great big belly laugh. “What’s going on?” Mom asked. Grandpa pointed at our garden at the mound of poppy stems—stems that were completely devoid of any blossoms...or opium seeds.

“Your ducks are as drunker than hoot owls!” he guffawed.

Those quack whores.

Roland

He was the living, breathing version of Elmer Fudd—about 5’2”, 60ish, with sad eyes and a kind, droopy face. He even had that silly, gravelly voice. His name was Roland. I don’t know where Mom and Frank found him. I think they brought him home from the bar one night as another one of their souvenirs. He seemed harmless enough.

Back in the thirties, Roland was a graphic designer and illustrator. One day, he bought over some of his pen and ink portfolio to show us. I wasn’t too impressed at the time, even though I was a budding artist, but what I would give to have those illustrations in my money-grubbing hands now.

Roland loved to dance. At my parents’ house parties, he was constantly asking Mom to cut a rug. My guess was that his small stature would plant his face squarely into Mom’s bosom.

One day, he said to her “Hey, Kaffy, can the boys come over and wassle?” Mom said “Sure,” not batting an eye at such an odd request. ”Gweat. I’ll bwing them back in a while.” So Mark and I went to Roland’s house—a big white bungalow on the bank of the Jordan River. We got out of his too-big-for-him sedan and stood in the driveway thinking it was all pretty weird.

“Would you boys like some wazberrries?” he asked. We said no. We just wanted to get this wrestling Battle Royale out of the way.

We went to his dark, knick-knack filled living room. Roland moved the coffee table out of the way and took his stance—knees bent and arms outstretched like a gwizzly bear. Mark was the first to go and had him pinned in a matter of seconds. Now, Mark was no gladiator, but neither was Roland. I just stood there in a bit of disbewief.

Next it was my turn. Roland struck the pose again, but now huffing and puffing. I lunged at him and had him pinned in a matter of seconds, too. It was actually pretty pathetic. His red face and frightened eyes pleaded for me to get off of him like this was all a really bad idea.

I climbed off. He shook our hands. “Well, I guess I should get you boys home, he said, dusting himself off. “Are you sure you don’t want some wazberries?” 

“No,” we said. We just wanted to get back to Pueblo Street and get that Looney Tunes afternoon out of our heads.

Double Date

Back when I was straight (or at least trying to convince myself as such), I went on a date with my friend Joyce to see Hall and Oates in concert. They were playing at the BYU Marriott Center. Corey “Mr. Sunglasses at Night” Hart as the opening act. It was bound to be a great evening, and it better well have been since we had to drive an hour to get there.

We descended the cool concrete steps of the arena into the sea of blue plastic seats. Joyce sat to my right. Some BYU guy sat on my left with his girlfriend to the left of him. The lights went dim. The music started.

After way too much Corey Hart, Hall and Oates came on to the stage to the wild applause of the crowd. They kicked off with their opening number. We sat down for the show and my knee brushed the knee of BYU guy. No biggie. It happens that way.

They sang “Rich Girl” but changed the words “bitch girl” to something more appropriate for their G-Rated audience. It so happened that one of them was not-so-G-Rated as the leg brush soon turned to a game of footsie. Joyce and BYU Guy’s girlfriend both listened happily and obliviously—clapping and singing along to “Maneater.”

“Your Kiss is On My List” led to a match of pinky wrestling and by the time they got to “Sara Smile,” BYU Guy and I were standing, holding hands, swaying with the rest of the crowd, unbeknownst to the girls at our sides. We sat back down, feeling guilty yet titillated. I can’t go for that—No Can Do!

When the concert ended, my new friend and I just looked at each other with a plaintive parting gaze as he disappeared into the crowd.

“She’s Gone” played in my head as Joyce and I—along with a strange, newfound desire to enroll at BYU—drove home.

Blue Ribbons and Diving Mules

Our family stood at the side of our house with binoculars in hand. When it got to be my turn to look, I would peer through the lenses to see them—the paratroopers with colored smoke a-blazing signified that the Utah State Fair was in full swing. In a matter of days the Perry-Munson clan would be crashing the party.

We would wander through the commercial booths marveling at the man who would melt a penny with a blow torch to show the quality of his fiberglass insulation. We’d throw a dart in hopes of winning a small bag of potato chips and fill a plastic tote bag with all sorts of brochures and calling cards. We planned to read up on coal stove and gazebo companies later, but by the time we got to the midway, the bags ended up in the trash.

The midway was amazing. Where else could you see the World’s Tiniest Horse, a Two-Headed Baby and a Diving Mule all within the span of a half an hour? A man with a jet pack would sail overhead to the wild applause of the astonished crowd.

The carnival games were rigged but we had a good time with them anyway. One year, my siblings and I won at least one goldfish apiece, much to the chagrin of Mom and Frank who asked “just what in the hell we were going to do with all of them.” They all ended up in our backyard pond but died a week later when Mom cleaned it with too much Clorox.

Then there was the Bandstand. It was the little stage in the middle of he fairgrounds where you could see all sorts of burgeoning talent. Our junior high Special Ed teacher, Mr. Gnadt juggled chainsaws one year. Another year we watched a little group of unknowns  called the Oak Ridge Boys. But the bandstand’s big moment in history came in 1971 when mom, in true Gypsy Rose Lee fashion, dragged me kicking and screaming up to the stage to be part of the freckle contest. I still remember Cupcake the Clown proclaiming that I was that year’s winner. I won a crown, a trophy and a front page story in the next morning’s Salt Lake Tribune.

The Grandstand was the crown jewel of the fairgrounds—the stage where all of the big acts would play. Candy Candido was the manic, mustachioed emcee every year. The older segment of the audience thought his shtick was a hoot. We kids just rolled our eyes at his lameness. The Starland Vocal Band—a one-hit wonder—played there one night and made the mistake of singing “Afternoon Delight” at the top of their program. Sensing there were no more hits on the way, the crowd evacuated in a quiet and orderly fashion. I still remember one of the singers pleading for us to “please stay.”

One year, Hank Snow was the headliner. Mom and Frank loved him and brought along an album for him to autograph. A security guard said “No way.” As the guard stood at Hank’s trailer door, Mom told us kids to go off and create a ruckus to distract him. We did and Mom ran up the trailer and got Mr. Snow’s autograph.

My favorite part of the fair was visiting the Fine Arts building with my friend Brian. There is nothing more fun for a snobby artiste than mocking other “less-thans.” Fawns in pine trees, Picasso-esque portraits of grandma with two eyes on the side of her head, an eagle riding a cougar were just a sampling of the masterpieces that would give us the church giggles so bad we had to run from the building and guffaw until our guts hurt. 

Those were the glory days. I’ve only been to the fair once in the last twenty years or so. That evening, when a few of my cosmopolitan friends sauntered through the livestock barn, a cow was lying on her side, mooing in agony. Her body was heaving and her eyes were rolling in the back of her head. Obviously, she was about to give birth. In awe, we stood there for the better part of fifteen minutes until we grew bored and headed for the beer booth. Later on, our curiosity got the best of us and we returned to the barn. Farmer Joe was sweeping hay in the stall, whistling like nothing had happened. We asked if Bossie had had her calf. He replied “Oh, that? She had him this morning. She was just trying to expel her placenta.” Well, a half dozen dry-heaving queens is not a common occurrence at such a bucolic affair. We ran screaming “ewww!” all the way to the zucchini building.

Today, I have plans to return one more time to the fair. Rumor has it that its days are numbered. My friends have reminded me what a fun, kitschy, deep-fried event it can be. Alas, my freckles have faded so there will be no trophy this year. I have no need for a coal stove or a gazebo. Let’s see if the carny can at least guess my weight. 

Somewhere between a Vietnamese potbelly and Big Bill, the Poland China Hog.

My Favorite Things

This week, a meme has been circling around the internets asking to list our favorite books. Since I haven’t been able to read a book in nine years (and even before that it was pretty hit and miss), my list was pretty so-so. So I’ve decided to list my Top 10 in categories that I do know something about—that I’m passionate about. It might bore some of you. Others may be compelled to share some faves of your own (or trash the ones I’ve chosen). 

So here they are! ... My Top Ten!  ... alphabetically! ... at least for today! ...

Movies

Bagdad Cafe

Monty Python and the Holy Grail

Moulin Rouge

Pennies From Heaven

The Shawshank Redemption

Sunset Boulevard

The Trip

Whatever Happened to Baby Jane

Waiting for Guffman

Whale Rider

TV

The Carol Burnett Show

CBS Sunday Morning

Evening at Pops—Kern, Gershwin, Porter

Motown 25

The Muppet Show

Picket Fences

The Point

Six Feet Under

Strangers in Good Company

The Urban Elephant

Music

Air on a G String—Bach

Adagio—Barber

In the Still of the Night—Porter

Make Our Garden Grow—Bernstein

Nature Boy—Nat King Cole

Over the Rainbow—by just about anybody

Rhapsody In Blue — Gershwin

Smalltown Boy—Bronski Beat

Unfinished Life—Kate Wolf

Vincent—Don McLean

Musical Theatre

Book of Mormon

Carousel

Company

Evita

Fiddler on the Roof

How to Succeed in Business...

Les Miserables

Madama Butterfly

Miss Saigon
Sideshow

Okay 11... Will Rogers Follies

Albums

Between the Lines—Janis Ian

Close to You—Kate Wolf

Duets—Ripley and Skinner

Gold—ABBA

Greatest Hits—Sons of the Pioneers

A Night at the Opera—Queen

Rachmaninoff Vespers—Robert Shaw

Stardust—Willie Nelson

Stories—Maura O’Connell

Sympathique—Pink Martini

Bonus Tracks: Any of k.d. lang’s early stuff

Art & Photo

Marc Chagall

Charley Harper

Al Hirschfeld

David LaChapelle

Joan Miro

Pablo Picasso

Robert Risko

Herb Ritts

Henri Rousseau

Vincent Van Gogh

Food

Burgers

Bread Pudding

Chicken and Dumplings

Risottto

The Dodo’s Artichoke Pie

Mom’s Pot Roast

Roger’s Ribs

Salmon

Anything Indian

Anything Thai

Drink

Coffee

Earl Grey

Egg Nog

Gin and Tonic

Iced Tea

Lemonade (fresh)

Margarita

Pinot Noir

Sauvignon Blanc

Water

Smells  

Campfire

Clean Sheets

Clove Cigarettes

Coffee Roasting

Fennel

Lilacs

Lumber

New Car

Pinion

Rain

Oh, and here are my Books...

An Unquiet Mind—Jamison

Homecoming—Bradshaw

Little Black, A Pony—Farley

Memoir From Ant-Proof Case—Helprin

Naked—Sedaris

Of Mice and Men — Steinbeck

The Object of My Affection—McCauley

Of Mice and Men—Steinbeck

The Prophet—Gibran

The Stand—King

Where the Wild Things Are—Sendak

Still awake? Leave a comment...

Laugh til You Cry

Well, summer has come to a close. My thoughts harken back to days spent at Lagoon with its gigantic roller coaster, Wild Mouse, Terror Ride and the Million-gallon swimming pool with “water fit to drink.”. Remember the Fun House—that insurance underwriter’s nightmare? It was the best part of the park. My siblings and I would spend the better part of the day there while Mom and Frank played “air-conditioned” Fascination and chugged beer at the Fireman Day pavilion.

Ah, The Fun House—mortal danger from the second you set foot into its chaotic, cavernous walls. Upon entry, you’d start off with the obstacle course, a stockyard cattle maze with NordicTrack-like sliding planks. They led you to the lily pad discs which were round wooden stepping stones that would pivot on posts and most certainly were the cause of many a sprained ankle. There was the rolling metal pipe section where you could roll like airport luggage and the canvas web—another orthopedic delight.

The obstacle course would lead you to the tilted room. It was a darkened room lit with a black light and turned on an angle. This made it hard to walk up one direction then the other direction would send you like a runaway truck crashing into the carpeted wall. Without exception, some husky kid would come smashing into you knocking the wind out of you. In one of the walls, there were small windows filled with neon ping pong balls for added enjoyment.

If you made it through all of that unscathed, you were into the main room. There were lots of great attractions there. Interspersed between them were air jets on the floor that a bored carny would use remotely to blow up girls’ skirts or just annoy the boys.

There was a huge rotating tunnel painted with a red and white spiral inside that would hypnotize you into having fun. The game was to walk from one end to the other in your stocking feet trying to avoid a broken elbow, concussion or a grand mal seizure.

On the far end of the room was the slide. It was made up of two long metal slippery slides that descended three stories. If you survived the stair climb to the top without some big kid knocking you out of the way, you would grab a gunny sack with a foot pocket for use in avoiding cuts and abrasions as you slid to the bottom.

There was a big wooden tub which acted like the spin cycle on a Maytag. You would stand against the perimeter and it would spin so fast that the centrifugal force would keep you against the wall as the floor dropped out from beneath your feet. The force would also keep the vomit against your own face rather than the kid’s across the way.

The most memorable attraction, though, was the spinning floor wheel. It was a huge spinning disc on the floor painted with yet another red and white spiral. Kids would all sit in the center and hold on for dear life as our friend Mr. Centrifugal Force would throw you off into a padded wall sustaining floor burns all the way.

But the Fun House days are gone. Years ago, it was drawn and shuttered. The Haunted Shack is gone, too, as is the miniature golf course. I’m too old for Bulgy the Whale. I’d be a bit more wistful, but frankly, these days I need to pop a dramamine even for Pioneer Village. 

Down Boy

Liberty Park has always been my sanctuary. Fond memories of family reunions and rides on their cranky old carousel still bring a smile to my face.

The past few years I have come to love strolling its one-mile perimeter. I’ll kick pine cones and listen to Scotty’s Greatest Hits on my iPod, while getting some fresh air and exercise. I’ve also come to get a bit jealous of the happy couples and families and dogs getting their park fix, too.

One afternoon, after completing a lap, I sat on a bench to watch the ducks and geese. It was a gorgeous day. A little boy was next to his mom throwing bread to the seagulls and laughing his head off. The pond was twinkling in the sunlight.

As I sat there in my bliss, a barking, snarling dog lunged into my lap. It was a big, mangy German Shepard. I raised my arm to fend him off. Luckily, his mouth was muzzled and he only drooled instead of bit. “Leave It! Leave it!” its tugging owner shouted and managed to pull him off of me. She and her boyfriend (both quite riff-raffy) just walked away without an apology. I watched in disbelief as they walked into the distance. The guy turned around and saw me staring. “Woof! Woof!” he shouted—laughed— and continued walking. I sat there shaking like a leaf until I could gather my wits and drive home.

Although I desperately need the exercise and head cleanse, I’ve only been back to the park a few times since then. The geese and the pine cones are still there. Sadly, the love is not.