The Beloved Rodeo Clown

Part 15 of 30

The Mam & Pap

Royal Splendid Traveling Rodeo

All hail the rodeo clown! Who doesn’t love the rodeo clown? Everyone goes to the rodeo for the excitement of the animals, the buckin’ broncos, the bulls humping their way around the ring, a cowboy astride his steed leaping through a ring akin to a fiery inferno, and the little dogies, on the run, going astray in the ring and needing the secure discipline of their ropes lashed together as quickly as possible.

Then there’s the possibility you might get lucky with one of the darling rodeo queens. I've always been pretty realistic, but once in a while one messes with you like she might mean business. When generally she doesn't, or it might even have been a guy behind you she was winking at. Then, continuing our survey, naturally there’s the delicious food, a little dogie patty fried to perfection on a bun. There’s your closeness to the earth when a stomping bull stirs up the dirt and you get a full snoot of it in your lungs, one of the rodeos’ biggest health-hazards but still kind of fun. And somewhere down the list of our favorite things, rounding out the list, are the clowns.

I personally do like the clowns more than dirt in my lungs, because I think I really might choke to death. And I know in my heart that there’s someone redeemable under that patchwork of makeup that never quite makes full sense. Why do they do it? It'd be interesting to try it myself, drinking all day and then being expected to do the delicate work of assuming an entire second face. You’ve already got multiple gut-wrenching complexes, it'd be very tough to fulfill too many other expectations. But you’ve already been suspended for “the last time” for fraternizing with the audience, even cozying up to them in line to the point of satisfaction with your eyes rolled back in your head. Of course you have challenges, who doesn’t? I’ve heard of priests who’ve strayed over the line, priests! And if they can be forgiven and get a hundred chances to make restitution -- sometimes so expensive it's an international incident -- who says rodeo clowns shouldn’t get 500!

Everyone — I know it’s arguable — goes into their field of work, their vineyard of endeavor, with the best intentions. Some of these string-pullers behind the scenes were calculating how many of such and such — let’s say cooks — will we need? After a while they get all the cooks they need, who periodically die of food poisoning and need to be replaced. So even though the number needed was temporarily attained, others need to aspire to cooking to replace the fallen. It’s similar with rodeo clowning. There may be plenty today, but if a few of them go totally loco and there’s a massacre, where are you going to find a thousand new rodeo clowns in a second? You can’t just snap your fingers, it doesn’t work that way. The pipeline always has to have applicants, those ready to step in on a moment’s notice to climb in a barrel and be bruited about the ring by a completely mad bull.

It’s grunt work to that point. But once the bull has been safely dispatched back to his pen, it becomes a moment of recognition, appreciation and love for the clown. He or she pulls a flower out, leans into it and smiles, as if to say, “I saved the day, ahhhh!” Another sees him extending the curtain call a little beyond its due and blasts a big gun, a bang and confetti is spewed everywhere, the clown’s way of saying — and this is their own particular language — “Let’s get back to work, you’re hogging the stage when there’s other worthwhile acts to come!” The audience roars with laughter.

The Most Oversexed People

I'm closing out the festivities for the year with my version of everyone's favorite party game -- feel free to quote it at your New Year's orgy -- Who are the Most Oversexed People?

Oh yeah, this makes me warm just thinking about it... I'm looking around, hoping no one notices me at my table. I'm typing this in the public library. It might be hard, even embarrassing, trying to account for my flushed look or the uneasy shifting in my chair, trying not to bump into the lower part of the desk. Keep it up like this, I could make next year's list. But, no, dirty old men didn't make this year's list. There's something wrong with their trying too hard, one surmises; they're overlooked out of spite

I've been thinking a long time who would make the list, so I'm sure I've got it right. By the way, the list is in no particular order, because all of them are oversexed. With the notable exception of Auctioneers. Auctioneers are by far the most oversexed people. Enough foreplay, here's the list:

Dads who take their kids out too much -- Yes, I know what you're thinking, There's no one more adorable than Dads who take their kids out too much. I know, that's the point! Why do you think they do it? Certainly not out of a great maternal instinct suddenly kicking in. You could argue they want to be a good role model for the kid, they want to spend quality time with the kid, or a dozen different idiotic things that depend on innocent motives. Don't be fooled! Dads have two basic interests, fooling the wife and impressing the ladies. Of course the wife always has her suspicions. At some level she knows her husband's devious mind. She knows he's into these fantasies. But even she can be fooled when he voluntarily, even eagerly takes little Johnny out on a snowy night. No innocent man would ever do that. That's one husband who's purely oversexed and looking for more. He doesn't mind being a little cold if it means he'll be snuggling up real soon with a hot neighbor gal.

Clowns -- I grew up liking clowns. Before movies wrongly portrayed them as psychos and killers, the exact opposite of a few clowns I've known. But even I know that to classify clowns as oversexed is 100% accurate. Let's set aside the negative spin they've gotten as killers and psychos. The only thing I'm interested in is how oversexed they are. I think it's obvious. Look how defensive they are. Face paint and costumes are clearly an attempt to hide their true person and motives. Talk about wearing your diagnosis on your sleeve! The big flouncy costume, the face pain, the tiny hats and flowers; you have to be aware there's a real person hiding under all that. No doubt someone with the vilest instincts who'd act on those instincts given half a chance. To me it's all sexual. They back you into a corner -- which with flowers and a nice meal might be welcome -- then you find out... They have only one thing on their oversexed little mind, sex. And maybe spawning a few someday-clowns.

Police -- I keep my eye on the police. I've been watching a lot of videos involving the police, car chases, and other arrests. And I notice one unifying thread with our protectors in blue, As long as the camera's running, They do it by the book. That is, they're perpetually on the straight and narrow way. There's a protocol and they aim to keep it. There's a pecking order with the force, and the slightest variance from what is expected, demanded, is enough to demote them so far down they'd need to personally solve three or four bank robbery cases a day to ever again see the light of day. Whenever you have that kind of pressure, you counteract it via the instincts. Number One of which is sex. I don't know what it'd be like to be a police officer's spouse, and I don't want to find out. I'm pretty sure it involves a lot of mock arrests, continually "reading their rights," and a lot of searching for the evidence, usually including strip searches. The police have one thing on their mind during the day, the strict law. But at night, it's all lawlessness, forbidden fruit up the yin yang.

People Who Point At Others -- This one is more nebulous, people who point at others. But in a way I see the same rationale I had with the police. It's the old psychological lore, that those who are "moral to a fault" themselves have plenty of faults. Like in the song Harper Valley PTA. My own pointing out of other people's faults is coincidental and only done for educational purposes.

Nude Cherubs -- See that little New Year's fellow in the buff? He's got clothes, he just chooses not to wear them. In this case he's a little too close to the clowns. By intention!

Auctioneers -- Then there's auctioneers! Know what I mean? If I made a list of the most oversexed people for the last 50 years, no doubt auctioneers would hold the Number One spot every year. I could write a dissertation on the subject, but I'll try to keep it brief. Ask yourself what auctioneers are good at. First, no one appraises value and desirability like an auctioneer. They have an eye for the good stuff. They know the psychological ins and outs of selling what they've got. They might have a broken desk for sale, but they've been through its drawers and they know there's still lots of good use. Second, they're fast talkers. Just try to resist an auctioneer's charms, they'll plead, wheedle, and beg, a whole eight pages of begging squeezed into seven seconds. They just open their mouth and in the next breath you're in bed, and the auctioneer has rung up the sale. Daddies, keep your daughters out of auction barns.

Enhancing Your Dreams

My life of lucid dreams began when I started wearing glasses to bed to catch more detail. From there, it progressed. Still today, REM activity actually continues through most of the morning. If you see a guy fluttering his eyes at you, that's me!

The glasses were enough for a while, but I wanted more. I started sleeping with a chair, thinking that if I could sit during dreams I'd be able to take in more. Indeed, things were less hectic. I was suddenly less a participant than a spectator. That was fine, but dreams are meant to be participatory and not so tame. So I went "full gator," sleeping with a stuffed alligator, which made things very wild very fast. I was chased and cornered more times than I can remember. I almost ended up with my own show on Animal Planet, in my dreams, but thankfully woke up in time.

Other times, I wanted things to be more pastoral, with dark blue skies and bright stars, and fairies and satyrs roaming the countryside. I got some books at a book sale, Van Gogh, Yeats, and Greek mythology. I tore out the specific pages to create the scene and had one of the best nights of my life. All except for the satyrs. They're very randy rascals, so if anyone tries this, make sure you make provision for them to have a good partner.

A lot of my favorite enhanced dreams involved going back to my childhood and camping with my family like we used to do. Grandma and Grandpa, Mom and Dad, brothers, cousins, everyone. Naturally, this involved going to bed with a photo album, a lantern, and a chunk of tent canvas. And throw in some fishing equipment. The biggest problem wasn't the fact that I woke up with my pillows at the end of a stringer, but that I associate camping with downpours. Touch the canvas and it leaks right through. I not going to tell much about it, except to say I changed the sheets and put down plastic.

Anyway, in my dreams I've done a little of everything over the years, including running away and working for the circus, like Toby Tyler. Even though Toby's adventures were mostly misadventures, I had more success. But it's true what they say about clowns; I'd rather be chased by satyrs any night of the week!

The weirdest, most elaborate dream I ever had was the entire Apocalypse -- 360 degrees, 3D depth, the entire judgment, God, devils, and white throne. Thankfully, it had a happy ending: I awoke five years later to a blessed morning, having seen a lot of angelic nudity and lots of other cool stuff, the works!

To prepare for this, it took workmen a whole week to construct what looked like a swing set over my bed, with pulleys, chains, and various berths for figures carved by craftsmen. These were prophets, angels, devils, etc. All this apparatus was connected by a team of technicians to several bicycles, the whole works carefully choreographed by a panel of respected ministers, according to their reasonable theological consensus. Lastly, the bikes were powered by members of a trusted Boy Scout troop. I once bought popcorn from them, so I knew they were good.

Despite the noise, I dozed off. Around midnight, I heard the cranks and pulleys churning and the breathing of the Scouts at their bikes. I drifted off again, and ascended through super consciousness into the heavenly spheres, passing through the seam that separates mundane existence from the higher realms. It was fantastic! Not a satyr or clown in sight!

But as the Apocalypse involves tumult, destruction, judgment, and the eventual reconciliation and restoration of the cosmos -- and a lot of close calls with devils -- I had more on my mind than I knew what to do with. It's harder to get back than you'd think. This is where I probably went too far, and, like I said, I ended up sleeping for five years. I was out of it! I don't know if anyone paid the Scouts and the craftsmen. Everything of my normal life was gone. All I knew during that time was the inner world I inhabited.

My family, who otherwise would've been out camping, took care of me, bedridden as I was. And if I hadn't covered the bed in plastic, I can only  imagine the bedsores I might've had. Thank goodness for my wise planning.

The Industrialists' Secret Hotline

That really worked, yesterday, what I did yesterday. It really did the trick. At least it got the trick going and I'm assuming the trick will be completely done very soon, if not imminently.

You may recall, depending on how diligently you're hanging on my every word, that I began building on my viability vis-a-vis the industrialists by some very focused taunts.

This is biblical, my friends, so I think there's something very essential about it. Taunting and name-calling is an ancient means of personal positioning, helping you position yourself back in a place of power. You can think of two very similar passages of taunting from the Bible, Isaiah 14, Isaiah's taunt against the king of Babylon, and Ezekiel 28, Ezekiel's prophecy against the king of Tyre. In each passage we have things that relate to our imagery about evil in its most essential form.

The conclusion I will draw is this: That it is indisputable that I'm in very good company indeed when I taunt the industrial powers as "clowns" and "clownish." And I would draw other conclusions as well, including, that whatever power the prophets and other writers in Israel derived from these highly sourced taunts is the same kind of power we can share today.

The basic way to go about it is to make sure you start from a righteous position. Check! Then you proceed, letting it all hang out. I speak the word of power, then take my defensive position like a junkyard dog. A junkyard dog has all the instincts of a normal dog, but he knows he has an entire junkyard to guard. That's big! He's got all the viability he needs.

And that's what I'm looking to regain. I really need (and needed) to supplement my viability deficiencies, and now I can see I'm well on the way. And taunting is such an easy method, with there being others as well. Stinking clowns! Ezekiel and Isaiah went for those very essential images of evil at their heart of their tradition. Today, think about it, we basically have industrialists and clowns -- I know, along with politicians. But nobody likes clowns. Even clowns hate themselves, there being no one as self-loathing as them!

Industrialists, on the other hand, love themselves. So who knows? Maybe in addition to increasing my viability -- giving me greater power to nose around the industrial section of town with impunity -- I can shift their self-perception from that of the self-loving industrialist to the self-loathing clown. It's worth a shot. I hate these clowns!

Now, and this should be obvious, they're not going to go down without a fight. So what I'm assuming is that they're all over this blog, looking for clues as to my next move. And so forth. So I can well imagine there's a lot of hotlines glowing and buzzing in their various quarters and precincts today -- stretching at least into this evening. They're doing a lot of conferring, sharing conference calls for that very purpose. They keep their hotlines like pheasant under glass, red and quivering when a call is placed or comes through.

But they need to save the color red for the little ball on the end of their nose! The clowns!

My "Drive For Pride" Campaign

I was very tired when I was here yesterday. It was all I could do to stay awake. I was feeling some confusion, and the words "would've, should've, and could've" made me feel more confused.

Anyway, I wasn't thinking of any "Drive for Pride" campaign -- it never occurred to me -- at least until I said it. Then I went on typing and forgot it. I was laying on the bed a while later, catching up on some rest, and I started thinking, "Did I say something about a 'Drive for Pride' campaign?" So I checked, and, sure enough, there it was:

What's the use of numbering my "Would've, Could've, Should've" posts? I guess there's really no use. I'm about to launch a "Drive for Pride" campaign ... sometime this week ... and I guess I'm just very proud of the posts, enough that, so far, I'm keeping track.

I'm not even sure what it's all about -- I didn't leave myself many clues -- but if it bubbled up from somewhere in my unconscious and showed up like that, I guess I will indeed have to launch one.

Just reading the paragraph again, it sounds like the "Drive for Pride" campaign has to do with patting myself on the back a little. Numbering things make a series, I don't think anyone would dispute that. A series shows a certain level of thought and intensity. To be able to put together thoughts with intensity and come out with a series requires some ability. And abilities are something we're proud of. How many people do you know who are only able to do one-offs, if those?

But I'm thinking, maybe I should make the "Drive for Pride" campaign more than something just about me. Like maybe some kind of efforts of mine about bringing pride and self-esteem to those around who don't have it. Let's say they hire me to go to schools to give assemblies. My basic theme is pride and self-esteem, with a big banner behind me that says "Drive for Pride." And I've got a clown with me -- female, thinking of the kids' safety -- who twists balloons into animal shapes and can do it fast enough to please a mob of screaming kids.

The "Drive" part is kind of like "Strive," except you're driving toward it instead of striving. Strive implies a lot of potentially vain activity, tensing up your neck, breathing irregularly, being alone like a hermit in a shack. But drive sounds very purposeful and direct, something a group could do together, like a drive for old newspapers. Usually when we think of a drive we're collecting something. I'm trying to get people to seek out and accumulate pride and self-esteem for themselves.

Eventually they've have me on the local news, maybe any local cartoon shows that are still in existence. The balloon lady will be there with me. She has the business of really drawing the kids in while I'm laying on them the seriousness of self-esteem and pride. Somehow she and I will want to develop a careful balance so that they're not just there for the balloons. Like getting the balloons and leaving. What would it do for my self-esteem and pride if there's 500 kids when she's passing out the balloons and only 50 when it's time for my pitch?

I'll worry about that when it comes. Maybe she won't be able to twist balloons fast enough to please them. Maybe I'll pick up the secrets of how to do it, even though my hands aren't as young as they used to be, and I'll be able to cut out the middleman. Or we'll do it together and share the glory.