Edwin Booth, son of the previously mentioned Junius Brutus and brother to the reviled John Wilkes, is considered by some historians to be American’s greater theater actor. Edwin help usher in a new era of naturalistic acting as a reaction to his father’s more histrionic style. Mostly he performed in the works of Shakespeare, as the most literate works of the time.
The writer George Plimpton, in an interview, told a story in which he believed Edwin uttered the greatest ad-lib in theater history.
It seems that the play required Edwin to be shot from behind. Except, his costar could not get the prop gun to fire. After an agonizing minute or two, the anonymous actor strode forward and kicked Edwin in the ass. To which Edwin replied, “My God, the shoe is poisoned!” and he fell dead.
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Showing posts with label story. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Thursday, February 05, 2009
Performance Trouble?
Wally Cox, comedian and character actor, was most famous for his role on television as Mr. Peepers. He was also the roommate of Marlon Brando in acting school. His career as a stand-up comedian is less noted.
One night he is working the Dunes in Las Vegas. He bombs. Not just a little bomb, a big bomb, the biggest of all stinkerooneys. The bomb is so bad that the Dunes management arranges to have Wally carried out on a stretcher, so they can cancel the remaining engagement due to illness.
True story.
One night he is working the Dunes in Las Vegas. He bombs. Not just a little bomb, a big bomb, the biggest of all stinkerooneys. The bomb is so bad that the Dunes management arranges to have Wally carried out on a stretcher, so they can cancel the remaining engagement due to illness.
True story.
Saturday, August 09, 2008
Go Google Yourself
Sure googling yourself can be the ultimate act of narcissism, but you might just find some thing very odd, or cool, or scary. That is if you are patient enough.
(I don't know if he is a relation or not.)
Sunday, December 23, 2007
Christmas 2006
As I have related before every year I do a limited edition custom Christmas card. The year after I put it on my blog as a Merry Christmas to all my readers. This is the first story of all the cards. See the previous posts for my other cards, all poems. Hope you enjoy it. -- Bill
The Night Of...
He is old. Impossibly so. Old as long as he can remember, as long as anyone remembers. He must have been young once, everyone was young, once. So many years have passed since his youth that the very memory of it is a memory. He is fat, also. But he is sure that wasn’t always so, that he remembers.
They called him “big boned” and a “corn-fed country boy.” A man who was big and strong, like of legend and song. Long ago, not when he was young but certainly less old, he, ax in hand, chopped down half a forest. The owner told him to take what he needed and he did, not a stick more. It was an old growth forest, even then, some said biblically old. Then, alone, he hauled the timber mile after mile to build a business and a home. Well, a house, it wasn’t a home until she came, but that is another story.
Life yielded to time, muscle to fat, and the morning to a series of long, deep inhalations of air, short violent exhalations of the same, and an assortment of grunts and groans. Getting up was made more difficult by the shift in hours this time of year. He tried to work nights year round. It didn’t work. So, as the busy time of year approaches, he shifts his hours, going to bed earlier and waking up later until he can work the night through.
He awoke to the smell of coffee. At least, his wife saved him the jarring buzz of an alarm. Even though, he continued to lie, thinking. Wondering if he will ever not wake up. Just how long was he expected to do this? More often these last few years, he wondered why he did it any more. Had he outlived his usefulness?
Countless others were already performing his job anyhow. Yet, they missed the subtlety, the artfulness he liked to believe he brought to the job, often replacing quality with quantity and the punitory with ignorance. Perhaps he could find a replacement, turn operations over to someone younger, and train them in the traditions. Meanwhile he will continue to do as he has always done, as he was chosen to do, until he knows different.
He had to get moving, this night was the culmination of a year’s worth of work, around the clock, and massive product deliveries. He sucked in some air and held his breath as he maneuvered his considerable bulk upright and to the edge of the bed. “Whew,” out goes the breath. He just lets his bare feet dangle for a moment over the floor. It will be cold. Everything is cold here. He tried different types of insulation, increasing layers of clothing, forced air, radiant heat, and a Franklin stove in every room. It didn’t help. The cold always found a way in. You had to get used to it.
At the very least, you must co-exist. Most days the cold receded un-noticed to the background like the static of a needle on an old record album. He heard the music and shut out the noise. On this day that would not happen and he set his feet on the floor acknowledging the shock with a couple of halting breaths. Once feet hit the floor, it was better to move than linger. In his red flannel long johns, he padded his way to the washbasin. If the coolness of the floor didn’t fully awaken him, the splash of cold water did. The mirror reflected back a tired stranger, in dire need of some grooming. Under the spell of an immutable deadline, he ignored the basics. A brush and a comb will have to do. Tomorrow, he’ll tend to his wild white and scruffy white beard.
Next to the basin sat a chair and in the chair mother arranged his work clothes. At this age, he called his wife mother, not that she had any children of her own, still she was mother to so many. These clothes were an improvement over the old ones. He used to wear stiff leather breeches and an equally stiff leather coat. Over that went a cloak made from the hides of two full-grown grizzlies. The whole arrangement was warm, but difficult to work in. He loved the old ways and begrudgingly accepted his new work uniform, foisted on him by marketeers and consultants. It is the only thing they ever did he liked.
Now, he worked on two pairs of woolen socks. Over his flannel underwear, he put on a red sweatsuit. Then, he slipped on a pair of fuzzy shearling pants, dyed red. Layers—that was the key—layers provided warmth and mobility. Suspenders kept them from falling down.
Gore-tex, air exchange systems, and fine waterproofed leather keep his feet warm and dry. The large buckles and cuffs on his boots are a nod to tradition than necessary function.
At least partially dressed, he could have breakfast. The days of skirt steak and half dozen eggs are over. Coffee, grapefruit, and a warm bowl of oatmeal are now the breakfast of choice. A concession to his sweet tooth being maple and brown sugar flavored oatmeal.
It is almost time.
On go the matching coat and a large patent leather belt to keep it in place. He pulls his hat down tight. Every year guaranteed that he’ll experience bad weather at one time or another. Finally, his well-worn deerskin lined gloves are loyal old friends.
A floorboard creaks as he heads to the door and reminds him of all the things he has neglected these last hectic months. No time for that now. His itinerary will be waiting for him programmed into the new GPS system. Everything will be ready. He gave control of those things to others. He will make up for his negligence later, but for now; he kisses his wife on the cheek and whispers a quiet “thank you.” She’ll worry. All these years he never had a problem, but it doesn’t change her feelings. Before he opens the door, he pauses to clear his throat.
The door opens to cheers and the spring in his step returns. He spreads his arms to encompass the cheering mass. His eyes twinkle as he smiles and laughs. His employees always see him off with a pep rally. There are pats on the back, “good lucks,” “boss,” and the odd tear. He tries to hide the welling up in his eyes. He liked the job. The listing. The compassionate balancing of accounts. The act of distribution. Every year this scene made him more and more emotional, the old fool. A gift of a heated ergonomic car seat will make the trip extra comfortable this year. There is one thing left to do.
And in a booming voice, he calls out, "Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On Cupid! On, Donder and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall! Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"
The Night Of...
He is old. Impossibly so. Old as long as he can remember, as long as anyone remembers. He must have been young once, everyone was young, once. So many years have passed since his youth that the very memory of it is a memory. He is fat, also. But he is sure that wasn’t always so, that he remembers.
They called him “big boned” and a “corn-fed country boy.” A man who was big and strong, like of legend and song. Long ago, not when he was young but certainly less old, he, ax in hand, chopped down half a forest. The owner told him to take what he needed and he did, not a stick more. It was an old growth forest, even then, some said biblically old. Then, alone, he hauled the timber mile after mile to build a business and a home. Well, a house, it wasn’t a home until she came, but that is another story.
Life yielded to time, muscle to fat, and the morning to a series of long, deep inhalations of air, short violent exhalations of the same, and an assortment of grunts and groans. Getting up was made more difficult by the shift in hours this time of year. He tried to work nights year round. It didn’t work. So, as the busy time of year approaches, he shifts his hours, going to bed earlier and waking up later until he can work the night through.
He awoke to the smell of coffee. At least, his wife saved him the jarring buzz of an alarm. Even though, he continued to lie, thinking. Wondering if he will ever not wake up. Just how long was he expected to do this? More often these last few years, he wondered why he did it any more. Had he outlived his usefulness?
Countless others were already performing his job anyhow. Yet, they missed the subtlety, the artfulness he liked to believe he brought to the job, often replacing quality with quantity and the punitory with ignorance. Perhaps he could find a replacement, turn operations over to someone younger, and train them in the traditions. Meanwhile he will continue to do as he has always done, as he was chosen to do, until he knows different.
He had to get moving, this night was the culmination of a year’s worth of work, around the clock, and massive product deliveries. He sucked in some air and held his breath as he maneuvered his considerable bulk upright and to the edge of the bed. “Whew,” out goes the breath. He just lets his bare feet dangle for a moment over the floor. It will be cold. Everything is cold here. He tried different types of insulation, increasing layers of clothing, forced air, radiant heat, and a Franklin stove in every room. It didn’t help. The cold always found a way in. You had to get used to it.
At the very least, you must co-exist. Most days the cold receded un-noticed to the background like the static of a needle on an old record album. He heard the music and shut out the noise. On this day that would not happen and he set his feet on the floor acknowledging the shock with a couple of halting breaths. Once feet hit the floor, it was better to move than linger. In his red flannel long johns, he padded his way to the washbasin. If the coolness of the floor didn’t fully awaken him, the splash of cold water did. The mirror reflected back a tired stranger, in dire need of some grooming. Under the spell of an immutable deadline, he ignored the basics. A brush and a comb will have to do. Tomorrow, he’ll tend to his wild white and scruffy white beard.
Next to the basin sat a chair and in the chair mother arranged his work clothes. At this age, he called his wife mother, not that she had any children of her own, still she was mother to so many. These clothes were an improvement over the old ones. He used to wear stiff leather breeches and an equally stiff leather coat. Over that went a cloak made from the hides of two full-grown grizzlies. The whole arrangement was warm, but difficult to work in. He loved the old ways and begrudgingly accepted his new work uniform, foisted on him by marketeers and consultants. It is the only thing they ever did he liked.
Now, he worked on two pairs of woolen socks. Over his flannel underwear, he put on a red sweatsuit. Then, he slipped on a pair of fuzzy shearling pants, dyed red. Layers—that was the key—layers provided warmth and mobility. Suspenders kept them from falling down.
Gore-tex, air exchange systems, and fine waterproofed leather keep his feet warm and dry. The large buckles and cuffs on his boots are a nod to tradition than necessary function.
At least partially dressed, he could have breakfast. The days of skirt steak and half dozen eggs are over. Coffee, grapefruit, and a warm bowl of oatmeal are now the breakfast of choice. A concession to his sweet tooth being maple and brown sugar flavored oatmeal.
It is almost time.
On go the matching coat and a large patent leather belt to keep it in place. He pulls his hat down tight. Every year guaranteed that he’ll experience bad weather at one time or another. Finally, his well-worn deerskin lined gloves are loyal old friends.
A floorboard creaks as he heads to the door and reminds him of all the things he has neglected these last hectic months. No time for that now. His itinerary will be waiting for him programmed into the new GPS system. Everything will be ready. He gave control of those things to others. He will make up for his negligence later, but for now; he kisses his wife on the cheek and whispers a quiet “thank you.” She’ll worry. All these years he never had a problem, but it doesn’t change her feelings. Before he opens the door, he pauses to clear his throat.
The door opens to cheers and the spring in his step returns. He spreads his arms to encompass the cheering mass. His eyes twinkle as he smiles and laughs. His employees always see him off with a pep rally. There are pats on the back, “good lucks,” “boss,” and the odd tear. He tries to hide the welling up in his eyes. He liked the job. The listing. The compassionate balancing of accounts. The act of distribution. Every year this scene made him more and more emotional, the old fool. A gift of a heated ergonomic car seat will make the trip extra comfortable this year. There is one thing left to do.
And in a booming voice, he calls out, "Now, Dasher! Now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen! On, Comet! On Cupid! On, Donder and Blitzen! To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall! Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"
Monday, August 06, 2007
Ed and other people I know
This is a first draft, but since I haven't blogged in a while I thought I should post something. The summer has been a serious drain on me energy. I hope you enjoy this anyway. -Bill
Working in a public forum, I meet a lot of people. Most drift in and out of the store and barely leave a ripple in my water. Some become memories. A few just annoy me. There is something about a magic shop that acts as a magnet for every nut bag, jerk or loon.
A class of people exists solely to show me a magic trick. Well, we are not that kind of magic store. It is not the magicians; usually they understand and are content to hang out. It is the amateur who pushes to show a trick.
“You gotta deck? Gimme a deck. I’ll show you a trick. See if you know this one.”
Believe me, I do know that one and every other one they are going to do. As soon as they start describing the trick I can finish their sentences. Of course, they have to continue long past any time a reasonable person would’ve stopped.
Worse is the parent pushing their child to show that trick.
“Hey show him your trick. Do that trick. Here’s a quarter. Do your trick. See if he knows that one. Betcha don’t know this one.”
Really…I guess I got the job because I work cheap. (I don’t.) I might have a little experience with magic trick considering they are my job. If the Chinese ever need me to confess my secrets they now know what to do.
A second species inhabiting Navy Pier is the mall walker. There are several antiqued gentlemen and gentlewomen who visit the mall to pass their golden years. (Days?)
An older Italian man used to come into the store for a visit. This I found hilarious because, although in this country for many years, his English was terrible. He spoke with a thick accent, in a half English, half Italian vocabulary. Only once in a while would I understand a “Fuck” through the garbled talk. But he spoke on and on while I smiled and politely nodded. Until, he started calling the black people he saw monkeys and showed me a picture of Hitler he kept reverently in his wallet. I pulled the plug after that. Was my polite nodding an agreement to his racist ranting? I sure hope not.
Our most regular visitor is Ed. He is nearly 80 years old. Not a real deep thinker, but mostly harmless, and he has some interesting stories. At seventeen, he joined the army and served food on Navy Pier to the soldiers returning from World War 2. He was a drunk, a vagrant, and homeless for many years. He spent a lot of time in theaters, a cheap place to be sheltered, and remembers seeing many legendary performers live. He did a little time in prison again for vagrancy. He goes out to jazz clubs every Friday night, gets his drink on, dances a little, and brags about imaginary girlfriends. Ed was hit by a bus last year, but gets around as well as always. Ed is a survivor.
There is an anonymous man in a wheelchair that rolls by everyday and waves hello.
The other day an 80 year plus black woman, who has also anonymously limped by the store for the past couple of years, finally decided it was time to talk to the magic guy.
“How do I look?”
Well, a novel way to start out I think. She looks the same as she always has, as far as I can tell. I am unusually observant and notice much that happens past my store. The woman is average. Maybe a little shorter than average, but otherwise medium build. Medium brown skin tone. What I did notice was the limp and that one leg was considerably thicker than the other. She moves a little unsteady like she is always off balance.
“Um…you…you look fine.” I reply.
“Oh, I was just wonderin’. So I look okay, huh?”
“The same as you have every other time you walked by the store.”
“Well, I used to be 350 pounds.” She shows me the skin hanging from her arm. “I am going to the doctor and gonna get this fixed and down here,” pointing to her stomach, “this too. All fixed.”
Hmmm, I think this may be trouble.
“I’m alone now.” She continues.” My kids they all met someone out of state and married them. But I get along okay. My clothes, where I live they all think they’re new, but I go to the thrift store on North Ave. and the woman there she saves stuff for me and I go and buy it. And they all think I got me a new fur coat. But I look okay huh?”
I want to say, “When I am as close to death as you are, I should be so lucky.” Instead I say, “Fine.” It is taken as her cue to continue.
“I’m alone now, but I had a brother he was a boxer. Here in Chicago. But he never got scarred up. No. The women he had around him. They were like syrup. Honey.”
I will be patient. She is a harmless lonely old woman who needs someone to talk to. I nod my head. Smile. And generally ooh and aah in all the right places. Least, I can understand her.
“Well, I’m glad I look okay. I was a nurse in the war and I was giving the doctor a scalpel when a bomb went off and I looked up and there was no one around. They all dove under the table. I was there with patient. I still have a bullet in my leg. They never took it out. They didn’t want to show me the x-rays, so I called my lawyer Bernstein. He made them. I still got it in my leg.”
She lifts her swollen leg up to show an Ace bandage wrapped around it, slightly above the knee.
“But I’m not afraid to be alone. I lived with my mother. And she was alone, but I never saw her with no boyfriends. My brother he went with all the women. I’m okay. I go anywhere. You got to the liquor store over by **** and they will sell you. Give the cash. I put a silencer on my 45 caliber. No one comes up to me.”
“Gulp.” I gulped.
A family comes in the store and I ask if they need any help, hoping they do. They don’t. But they will just look a moment.
“Bernstein, he’s good. He won’t do a dirty deal. I go there and get some papers done. He won’t charge me. He’s got two sons and they’re lawyers too, but he says come to me. They do dirty deals. They are in the same building. Same floor. But he won’t have anything to do with them. He says, ‘go away, stay there.’ Yep, I had my last baby when I was fifty years old.”
“Wow.” I wowed.
“The newspapers came out. And the doctor he had to do a caesarian because he said my womb was too small. And he said I couldn’t have intercourse with a larger man because of my tiny vagina.”
“ ” I blanked.
I did the only thing I could. “Don’t you folks have any questions yet?”
They did.
The elderly woman turned and left in a wisp of an unintelligible mumble.
As she left, I quietly thanked that family. The mom, who was standing right next to the conversation, asks, “I was only half listening. What was she talking about? Her kitchen?”
I laughed, “Sort of…it was a little more… more anatomical than that. So do you guys do some magic already?”
Yes, another day in the store. I can’t wait until Wednesday when we’ll both be back. Maybe I should introduce her to Ed.
Working in a public forum, I meet a lot of people. Most drift in and out of the store and barely leave a ripple in my water. Some become memories. A few just annoy me. There is something about a magic shop that acts as a magnet for every nut bag, jerk or loon.
A class of people exists solely to show me a magic trick. Well, we are not that kind of magic store. It is not the magicians; usually they understand and are content to hang out. It is the amateur who pushes to show a trick.
“You gotta deck? Gimme a deck. I’ll show you a trick. See if you know this one.”
Believe me, I do know that one and every other one they are going to do. As soon as they start describing the trick I can finish their sentences. Of course, they have to continue long past any time a reasonable person would’ve stopped.
Worse is the parent pushing their child to show that trick.
“Hey show him your trick. Do that trick. Here’s a quarter. Do your trick. See if he knows that one. Betcha don’t know this one.”
Really…I guess I got the job because I work cheap. (I don’t.) I might have a little experience with magic trick considering they are my job. If the Chinese ever need me to confess my secrets they now know what to do.
A second species inhabiting Navy Pier is the mall walker. There are several antiqued gentlemen and gentlewomen who visit the mall to pass their golden years. (Days?)
An older Italian man used to come into the store for a visit. This I found hilarious because, although in this country for many years, his English was terrible. He spoke with a thick accent, in a half English, half Italian vocabulary. Only once in a while would I understand a “Fuck” through the garbled talk. But he spoke on and on while I smiled and politely nodded. Until, he started calling the black people he saw monkeys and showed me a picture of Hitler he kept reverently in his wallet. I pulled the plug after that. Was my polite nodding an agreement to his racist ranting? I sure hope not.
Our most regular visitor is Ed. He is nearly 80 years old. Not a real deep thinker, but mostly harmless, and he has some interesting stories. At seventeen, he joined the army and served food on Navy Pier to the soldiers returning from World War 2. He was a drunk, a vagrant, and homeless for many years. He spent a lot of time in theaters, a cheap place to be sheltered, and remembers seeing many legendary performers live. He did a little time in prison again for vagrancy. He goes out to jazz clubs every Friday night, gets his drink on, dances a little, and brags about imaginary girlfriends. Ed was hit by a bus last year, but gets around as well as always. Ed is a survivor.
There is an anonymous man in a wheelchair that rolls by everyday and waves hello.
The other day an 80 year plus black woman, who has also anonymously limped by the store for the past couple of years, finally decided it was time to talk to the magic guy.
“How do I look?”
Well, a novel way to start out I think. She looks the same as she always has, as far as I can tell. I am unusually observant and notice much that happens past my store. The woman is average. Maybe a little shorter than average, but otherwise medium build. Medium brown skin tone. What I did notice was the limp and that one leg was considerably thicker than the other. She moves a little unsteady like she is always off balance.
“Um…you…you look fine.” I reply.
“Oh, I was just wonderin’. So I look okay, huh?”
“The same as you have every other time you walked by the store.”
“Well, I used to be 350 pounds.” She shows me the skin hanging from her arm. “I am going to the doctor and gonna get this fixed and down here,” pointing to her stomach, “this too. All fixed.”
Hmmm, I think this may be trouble.
“I’m alone now.” She continues.” My kids they all met someone out of state and married them. But I get along okay. My clothes, where I live they all think they’re new, but I go to the thrift store on North Ave. and the woman there she saves stuff for me and I go and buy it. And they all think I got me a new fur coat. But I look okay huh?”
I want to say, “When I am as close to death as you are, I should be so lucky.” Instead I say, “Fine.” It is taken as her cue to continue.
“I’m alone now, but I had a brother he was a boxer. Here in Chicago. But he never got scarred up. No. The women he had around him. They were like syrup. Honey.”
I will be patient. She is a harmless lonely old woman who needs someone to talk to. I nod my head. Smile. And generally ooh and aah in all the right places. Least, I can understand her.
“Well, I’m glad I look okay. I was a nurse in the war and I was giving the doctor a scalpel when a bomb went off and I looked up and there was no one around. They all dove under the table. I was there with patient. I still have a bullet in my leg. They never took it out. They didn’t want to show me the x-rays, so I called my lawyer Bernstein. He made them. I still got it in my leg.”
She lifts her swollen leg up to show an Ace bandage wrapped around it, slightly above the knee.
“But I’m not afraid to be alone. I lived with my mother. And she was alone, but I never saw her with no boyfriends. My brother he went with all the women. I’m okay. I go anywhere. You got to the liquor store over by **** and they will sell you. Give the cash. I put a silencer on my 45 caliber. No one comes up to me.”
“Gulp.” I gulped.
A family comes in the store and I ask if they need any help, hoping they do. They don’t. But they will just look a moment.
“Bernstein, he’s good. He won’t do a dirty deal. I go there and get some papers done. He won’t charge me. He’s got two sons and they’re lawyers too, but he says come to me. They do dirty deals. They are in the same building. Same floor. But he won’t have anything to do with them. He says, ‘go away, stay there.’ Yep, I had my last baby when I was fifty years old.”
“Wow.” I wowed.
“The newspapers came out. And the doctor he had to do a caesarian because he said my womb was too small. And he said I couldn’t have intercourse with a larger man because of my tiny vagina.”
“ ” I blanked.
I did the only thing I could. “Don’t you folks have any questions yet?”
They did.
The elderly woman turned and left in a wisp of an unintelligible mumble.
As she left, I quietly thanked that family. The mom, who was standing right next to the conversation, asks, “I was only half listening. What was she talking about? Her kitchen?”
I laughed, “Sort of…it was a little more… more anatomical than that. So do you guys do some magic already?”
Yes, another day in the store. I can’t wait until Wednesday when we’ll both be back. Maybe I should introduce her to Ed.
Monday, June 18, 2007
True History for the Showman
The Many Legs of Santa Anna
Antonio de Padua María Severino López de Santa Anna y Pérez de Lebrón was born with the standard two, although mirror imaged, matching legs. They served their master, Santa Anna, for many good years.
In 1810, at the age of sixteen, the three of them, Santa Anna and his legs, joined the Mexican army. By the time a dozen years had passed, Santa Anna’s stellar military service earned the rank of General. In 1836, he defeated the troops at the Alamo. Despite the victory, he was not received as a hero by the Mexican government.
In 1838, he saw a way to redeem himself when the French invaded Mexico. During the so-called Pastry War, cannon fire struck the General. His leg and ankle were shattered and amputation was the only option. In a ceremony befitting any war dead, the detached leg was buried with full military honors. His leg wasn’t the only loss, the battle was also a defeat, yet, Santa Ana styled himself as a hero.
During this era, wooden legs were little more than sticks. Santa Ana preferred a cork leg sculpted to a more realistic shape. This leg he would hold high above his head and wave it during parades to remind the onlookers of the sacrifice he made for Mexico.
However, he wasn’t finished with the formerly attached leg. On the year anniversary of his loss in the Pastry War and the ten-year anniversary of his greatest victory over Spain in Tampico, the leg was disinterred. Santa Ana had the limb paraded through the streets in an imperial coach and laid to rest in an ornate mausoleum. He commissioned songs and poems to eulogize, lovingly, his former member.
Santa Ana was president of Mexico eleven non-consecutive times over a period of twenty-two years. Sometimes handed the power of state, sometimes seizing it for himself, only to be thrown out of office for his extreme corruption. After one such event, a riotous mob destroyed his leg’s crypt. They dragged the desiccated appendage through the streets chanting “Death to the Cripple, Long Live Congress.” The leg hasn’t been heard from since.
In 1846, the United States declared war on Mexico. Santa Anna commanded the Mexican forces the battle of Cerro Gordo. American troops forced the General into a hasty retreat. Illinois guardsmen discovered Santa Ana’s personal carriage abandoned. Its contents included the General’s personal wardrobe, $70,000 in silver to pay his troops, and his favorite leg. The troops immortalized the leg in song parodies. To this day, the war prisoner (cork leg) is still being held at the Illinois State Military Museum in Springfield, Illinois.
Mourning the loss, Santa Ana never again would sport cork; wood would have to do. There is an unconfirmed rumor that Texas is also in possession of a wooden Santa Anna leg and tried to trade it for a flag that flew over the Alamo, which is owned by Mexico.
I can just imagine some industrious owner of a 19th cabinet of curiosities touring with wax copies of the many legs of Santa Ana.
Must have been quite the draw.
PostScript: The former legs of Heather Mills and Monty Stratton could not be reached for comment on the previous totally bizarre, mostly true, story.
Antonio de Padua María Severino López de Santa Anna y Pérez de Lebrón was born with the standard two, although mirror imaged, matching legs. They served their master, Santa Anna, for many good years.
In 1810, at the age of sixteen, the three of them, Santa Anna and his legs, joined the Mexican army. By the time a dozen years had passed, Santa Anna’s stellar military service earned the rank of General. In 1836, he defeated the troops at the Alamo. Despite the victory, he was not received as a hero by the Mexican government.
In 1838, he saw a way to redeem himself when the French invaded Mexico. During the so-called Pastry War, cannon fire struck the General. His leg and ankle were shattered and amputation was the only option. In a ceremony befitting any war dead, the detached leg was buried with full military honors. His leg wasn’t the only loss, the battle was also a defeat, yet, Santa Ana styled himself as a hero.
During this era, wooden legs were little more than sticks. Santa Ana preferred a cork leg sculpted to a more realistic shape. This leg he would hold high above his head and wave it during parades to remind the onlookers of the sacrifice he made for Mexico.
However, he wasn’t finished with the formerly attached leg. On the year anniversary of his loss in the Pastry War and the ten-year anniversary of his greatest victory over Spain in Tampico, the leg was disinterred. Santa Ana had the limb paraded through the streets in an imperial coach and laid to rest in an ornate mausoleum. He commissioned songs and poems to eulogize, lovingly, his former member.
Santa Ana was president of Mexico eleven non-consecutive times over a period of twenty-two years. Sometimes handed the power of state, sometimes seizing it for himself, only to be thrown out of office for his extreme corruption. After one such event, a riotous mob destroyed his leg’s crypt. They dragged the desiccated appendage through the streets chanting “Death to the Cripple, Long Live Congress.” The leg hasn’t been heard from since.
In 1846, the United States declared war on Mexico. Santa Anna commanded the Mexican forces the battle of Cerro Gordo. American troops forced the General into a hasty retreat. Illinois guardsmen discovered Santa Ana’s personal carriage abandoned. Its contents included the General’s personal wardrobe, $70,000 in silver to pay his troops, and his favorite leg. The troops immortalized the leg in song parodies. To this day, the war prisoner (cork leg) is still being held at the Illinois State Military Museum in Springfield, Illinois.
Mourning the loss, Santa Ana never again would sport cork; wood would have to do. There is an unconfirmed rumor that Texas is also in possession of a wooden Santa Anna leg and tried to trade it for a flag that flew over the Alamo, which is owned by Mexico.
I can just imagine some industrious owner of a 19th cabinet of curiosities touring with wax copies of the many legs of Santa Ana.
Must have been quite the draw.
PostScript: The former legs of Heather Mills and Monty Stratton could not be reached for comment on the previous totally bizarre, mostly true, story.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
Ralph Pierce
He is dead now. His stories are only second hand, but Ralph Pierce wanted to do magic. It was a dream he achieved, spending most of his life as a tall grass magician. A tall grass magician worked the great breadbasket of America’s Middle West, moving from small town to small town.
Just out of his teens and with adventure in his heart, Ralph answered an ad for a magician’s assistant. It could have been in Variety or Billboard or some other trade paper whose name is lost to history. This was some 70 years ago. The ad asked for a male magician’s assistant for a world traveling professional magician and his full stage show.
Answering the ad Ralph expected to find an old master of the art, a Thurston or his like, instead he interviewed with a man only a couple of years older than himself. The globetrotting magician? His name was John Calvert. And Ralph joined his show.
During the tour, John decided he needed a publicity stunt to boost ticket sales. He chose a buried alive stunt. First, they formed a box from rough unvarnished wood, slightly larger than a coffin. Then, they found a place in or out of town where they could dig a deep hole. And as Calvert put it, “We nail you into the box.”
“What?” Ralph thought.
“Then we bury the box, in about six hours we’ll dig you up.”
Ralph thinking, “There’s that pesky word again, you.”
“An ambulance, all lights and sirens, will speed the box to the theater. Roll it down the center aisle. We’ll stand the box up center stage and open it up right in front of the audience.”
“Um...John,” Ralph asked, “why do I have to be in the box?”
“Well, I have to up top to talk it up. Sell it to the papers.”
“Is this safe?”
“Oh sure, safe, no problem, you have at least eight hours of air in there, maybe ten or twelve.”
Ralph said he was never more afraid than when the first shovel full of dirt landed on the coffin.
There are two postscripts. Ralph said, in time, he did get used of the stunt and mostly napped while confined. He also said more than once the box was set on stage upside down and when the top was removed he was dumped on his head.
I’d like to thank my employee, Markus Clegg for this story. When Markus worked at Andy Dallas’ magic shop in Champaign, IL., he heard it first hand from Ralph.
Friday, September 08, 2006
Second Hand Stories
I found this on a random blog and thought I would share it with all of you. I don't remember the blog and I don't know the original source for this story. If you desire you can look it up yourself.
One day a farmer's donkey fell down into a well.
The animal cried for hours as the farmer tried to figure out what to do. Finally, he decided since the animal was old, and the well was dry and needed to be covered up anyway; it just wasn't worth the effort to retrieve the donkey.
He invited his neighbors to come over and help. They grabbed shovels and began to throw dirt into the well.
At first, the donkey realized what was happening and cried horribly. Then, to everyone's amazement, he quieted down. A few shovel loads later, the farmer finally looked down the well. He was astonished at what he saw.
With each shovel of dirt that hit his back, the donkey would shake it off and take a step up.
As the farmer's neighbors continued to shovel dirt on the animal, he would shake it off and take a step up.
Many full shovels later, everyone was amazed as the donkey stepped up over the edge of the well and trotted off!
Life is going to shovel dirt on you, all kinds of dirt. The trick to getting out of the well is to shake it off and take a step up. Each of our troubles is a steppingstone. We can get out of the deepest wells just by not stopping, never giving up! Shake it off and take a step up.
Or as Bill says, Don't be an ass and put yourself in a hole in the first place.
One day a farmer's donkey fell down into a well.
The animal cried for hours as the farmer tried to figure out what to do. Finally, he decided since the animal was old, and the well was dry and needed to be covered up anyway; it just wasn't worth the effort to retrieve the donkey.
He invited his neighbors to come over and help. They grabbed shovels and began to throw dirt into the well.
At first, the donkey realized what was happening and cried horribly. Then, to everyone's amazement, he quieted down. A few shovel loads later, the farmer finally looked down the well. He was astonished at what he saw.
With each shovel of dirt that hit his back, the donkey would shake it off and take a step up.
As the farmer's neighbors continued to shovel dirt on the animal, he would shake it off and take a step up.
Many full shovels later, everyone was amazed as the donkey stepped up over the edge of the well and trotted off!
Life is going to shovel dirt on you, all kinds of dirt. The trick to getting out of the well is to shake it off and take a step up. Each of our troubles is a steppingstone. We can get out of the deepest wells just by not stopping, never giving up! Shake it off and take a step up.
Or as Bill says, Don't be an ass and put yourself in a hole in the first place.
Monday, July 24, 2006
Pyro Sam, The Human Ostrich
Today, I spent about five hours with Marshall Brodien. He lives 5 minutes from my mom’s house and I am lucky enough to see him every few months. I need to work on making it more often, but life keeps getting in the way. Damn that rent and car payment.
For those uninformed...a brief bio of Marshall:
Marshall Brodien is a Chicago magician, hypnotist, fire-eater, sword swallower, pitchman, clown, and all-a-round great guy. He worked various magic shops in Chicago including owning one at Old Chicago mall and amusement park. Marshall worked as a magician and outside talker (Please do not call them barkers) at the Riverview Amusement Park. He made millions pitching magic tricks on television and in the process started many of today’s magicians in the trick business. Myself included. Marshall Brodien, most famously, created the Wizzo character for WGN’s Bozo show. John Moering has written a biography of Marshall and is pitching it to publishers as you read this.
While I am interested in all the stories, Marshall tells and he tells some great stories, I am most interested in his years at the sideshow. There is a nostalgic and warm place in my heart for sideshows. I love the lore, the characters, and the stories. This is one small story that Marshall told me today. And it won’t be in the book.
Pyro Sam, the Human Ostrich performed a fire eating, glass eating and regurgitating act. At Riverview, he performed 20 shows a day, 7 days a week. One of his most memorable stunts was the eating of a beer glass. These were not the large pint glasses, but the small thin glasses. Think about it 20 glasses a day, 7 days a week, He “consumed” 140 glasses a week. At least, he consumed parts of those glasses. He supplied his act with glasses for the Riverview Beer Garden. During breaks from the show, he would slip out to the beer garden and pick up a handful of glasses off the table before the waitress could clean up.
You just don’t lose that many glasses and the loss of 140 glasses a week drove the owner of the garden crazy. Until one day, his family was at the park and he took them to the sideshow. When he saw Pryo Sam’s act, he stopped the show with a rant that would be legendary in the world of Riverview.
Marshall didn’t know where Sam got his glasses after that.
Pryo Sam also had a great ding (A ding is an attempt to get money at the end of the act) and blow-off. Sam would hold a large piece of paper between his hands and ask for change, Quarters, Dimes, Nickels, and Pennies. He then folded the paper almost into a funnel and poured the coins into his mouth. With a glug, glug, glug and a chaser of water, he swallowed the currency down and had his mouth examined. With a slight choking sound one associates with vomiting, he regurgitated the coins with a long tail of slime. He held up a coin and said, “Who gave me the quarter?” No one came forward.
In back, Sam had a bucket of clean water-full of coins.
Man, I missed out. If I had only been born 30, 40, or even 100 years ago.
For those uninformed...a brief bio of Marshall:
Marshall Brodien is a Chicago magician, hypnotist, fire-eater, sword swallower, pitchman, clown, and all-a-round great guy. He worked various magic shops in Chicago including owning one at Old Chicago mall and amusement park. Marshall worked as a magician and outside talker (Please do not call them barkers) at the Riverview Amusement Park. He made millions pitching magic tricks on television and in the process started many of today’s magicians in the trick business. Myself included. Marshall Brodien, most famously, created the Wizzo character for WGN’s Bozo show. John Moering has written a biography of Marshall and is pitching it to publishers as you read this.
While I am interested in all the stories, Marshall tells and he tells some great stories, I am most interested in his years at the sideshow. There is a nostalgic and warm place in my heart for sideshows. I love the lore, the characters, and the stories. This is one small story that Marshall told me today. And it won’t be in the book.
Pyro Sam, the Human Ostrich performed a fire eating, glass eating and regurgitating act. At Riverview, he performed 20 shows a day, 7 days a week. One of his most memorable stunts was the eating of a beer glass. These were not the large pint glasses, but the small thin glasses. Think about it 20 glasses a day, 7 days a week, He “consumed” 140 glasses a week. At least, he consumed parts of those glasses. He supplied his act with glasses for the Riverview Beer Garden. During breaks from the show, he would slip out to the beer garden and pick up a handful of glasses off the table before the waitress could clean up.
You just don’t lose that many glasses and the loss of 140 glasses a week drove the owner of the garden crazy. Until one day, his family was at the park and he took them to the sideshow. When he saw Pryo Sam’s act, he stopped the show with a rant that would be legendary in the world of Riverview.
Marshall didn’t know where Sam got his glasses after that.
Pryo Sam also had a great ding (A ding is an attempt to get money at the end of the act) and blow-off. Sam would hold a large piece of paper between his hands and ask for change, Quarters, Dimes, Nickels, and Pennies. He then folded the paper almost into a funnel and poured the coins into his mouth. With a glug, glug, glug and a chaser of water, he swallowed the currency down and had his mouth examined. With a slight choking sound one associates with vomiting, he regurgitated the coins with a long tail of slime. He held up a coin and said, “Who gave me the quarter?” No one came forward.
In back, Sam had a bucket of clean water-full of coins.
Man, I missed out. If I had only been born 30, 40, or even 100 years ago.
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