Happy Birthday, Abraham Lincoln!


February 12, 2015 is

Lincoln’s Birthday

Lincoln was our 16th President, born on February 12, 1809. This Kentucky-born Civil Rights Activist is considered one of America’s greatest heroes. He began with humble beginnings, rising up to claim the nation’s highest office. His tragic death in 1865 came at a time when Americans needed him the most.

Lincoln’s Birthday is observed as a legal holiday in many U.S. states including CA, CT, NJ, NY and more. The earliest recorded observance of this great man’s birthday was in 1874, initiated by a pharmacist in Buffalo, NY.

To honor his birth, there is an annual wreath-laying ceremony at the Lincoln Memorial in Washington D.C.. As part of the bicentennial celebration, the U.S. Mint released four new pennies featuring stages of Lincoln’s life –his log cabin birthplace, reading as a young man while taking  break from log splitting, as a State Legislator in front of the Illinois Capitol building, and finally the partially built dome of the U.S. Capitol building.

Lincoln was also known as “Honest Abe” and “The Great Emancipator” – two titles he fully lived up to during his political career. He maintained the Union during the U.S. Civil War, and allowed for the emancipation of many slaves. Celebrate his great accomplishments today by learning more about his life – pick up one of many books dedicated to him, or watch the 2012 epic historical drama!

The Missing Clowns of Madison Square Garden.

Tim Torkildson, as Dusty the Clown.  1971.
Tim Torkildson, as Dusty the Clown. 1971.

In the early 1970’s I had my first taste of Madison Square Garden in New York City.

There were rows of doors for the public to use; and there were hidden, private doors that were not for the uninitiated.  One particular door, hidden in a sort of alcove, was of stainless steel.  It was a private elevator, for use by the top brass, the big shots, the favored few.  Definitely NOT for a First-of-May such as yours truly.

But I desperately wanted to impress my New York girlfriend, Alice.

So one bright spring morning as we strolled around the Garden, taking in the citified fresh air, such as it was, and examining the gelato stands prior to making a purchase, I casually guided her over to the discreet stainless steel door.  There I offered to take her up into the bowels of the Garden for a personal and, I hoped, intimate private tour.  I knew the elevator operator would not come on duty until noon, and had observed carefully the number pattern he used to unlock and operate the contraption.

We entered without incident and scooted up several stories to where clown alley was situated.

I handed her out of the elevator and demanded a kiss prior to starting the tour, as down payment for the delights to follow.  She obliged.  A few minutes later, after coming up for air, we went over to the blue-curtained area that passed for clown alley.  I went in first, to make sure the coast was clear.  It wasn’t.

Three fellow First-of-Mays, Rob, Keith, and Buddy, were huddled in a corner, angrily buzzing like hornets.

The show had been in the Garden for 3 weeks, and had another 3 weeks to run before heading west across the country.  These three were native New Yorkers, and coming back to their hometown had not proven to be the triumph they thought it would be.  They were bedeviled by New York girlfriends who demanded to be made showgirls so they could travel along, old pals who wanted free tickets, and family members who wondered out loud why they had not been promoted to management yet.  Rob, Keith, and Buddy were also disgusted with the living conditions on the clown train car, nicknamed “The Iron Lung”, and with working conditions and the pay.  As I came over to them it was obvious they were planning a mutiny.

They gave me a sullen nod as they filed out of clown alley.

Relieved to be rid of their unromantic presence I quickly invited Alice in for a look-see. But the first thing she saw was a rat’s nest squirming with young, pink, hairless rodents, nestled inside the bottom drawer of one of the steamer trunks we used for our wardrobe and costumes. That abruptly ended the tour; she commanded me to take her out of that horrid place immediately.

Back outside, we parted uncomfortably; she didn’t have to tell me that any man who associated on such close terms with rats was not the man for her.

But soon enough a crisis in clown alley put all thoughts of her out of my mind.  Rob, Keith, and Buddy went AWOL, their trunks disappearing with them.  The boss clown, Levoi Hipps, had to scramble to plug the holes their departure left in our clown gag roster.  I suddenly became a rabbit in Spec, an elephant rider in the Manage number, and was saddled with the killer kangaroo – a Mark Anthony original, made out of foam rubber with a large, inflated latex ball inside that propelled the rider around the track at breakneck speed.  The exertion of riding the killer kangaroo made climbing Mount Everest seem like taking a nap.

I never saw those three straying First-of-Mays again; but eventually I found out what had become of them.

Rob became a noted Broadway costume designer.  Keith wrote romance novels anonymously for a publisher that churned them out by the dozens each year.  Both Rob and Keith married, had families, and moved out to Long Island.  Buddy stayed single, grew alcoholic, drove a taxi, and was killed in a bar fight in Queens.

I heard from Alice many years later; she was married, worked as a nurse . . . and doted on the white rats her twins had as pets.




This post is brought to you by the Bovril Company.  A mealtime tradition since 1889.


Could I go back in history to take a selfie . . .


Could I go back in history to take a selfie, I

Wouldn’t want to waste a shot with any old small fry.

I’d get a shot with Mark Twain puffing on his corn cob pipe;

I’d get a shot with Cleopatra, looking pretty ripe.


Voltaire, Einstein, Dickens, and George Washington would smile

Next to me – and P.T. Barnum I just might beguile.

I’d get Michelangelo and me, holding his chisel;

But a pose with Genghis Khan just might be a fizzle.


I would try with Moses while he’s parting the Red Sea.

King David and Goliath just might grin along with me.

Only with my younger self would I refuse to pose;

Twould only be a record of how people decompose.



Bush the Impaler.


Incomplete, inaccurate reports are Nature’s way

Of guaranteeing presidential guilt is kept at bay.

The Oval Office doesn’t need to count each broken spine;

All they need or want to know concerns the bottom line.


Subterfuge, evasion are an agency’s first tools

In keeping operations from the eyes of prying fools.

Accountability is not a government mandate.

Uncle Sam can torture anyone, at any rate.


Of course, some presidents are not amenable to jibes

That they were bamboozled by those predatory tribes;

They’d rather boast a willingness to ply the red hot poker

To demonstrate that morally they are but mediocre.

Christie, Bush & Romney.


Christie, Bush, and Romney were walking down the street.

When suddenly a fundraiser they happened just to meet.

The fundraiser said ‘Howdy’ to these true-blue fast friends,

And taking out his checkbook he asked “Have you got pens?”


“For I will donate plenty of PAC funds to the one”

“Who shows the least desire for President to run.”

All three denied such yearnings, crying out “Pooh – Pooh!”

“We never such a foolish thing would ever, ever do!”


The fundraiser bowed deeply, and then went on his way.

The three good friends kept strolling on their cheerful holiday.

When Christie wasn’t looking, Mitt Romney made a fuss

And tripped his chubby pal into the pathway of a bus.


Now Bush and Romney mourned him with tears to fill the Nile,

And then continued with their hike (in cautious single file).

In front led Bush the Mighty, the Southern Hope of all –

And no one to this day knows how that large brick came to fall . . .


And so it came to pass that old Mitt Romney got the nod

And when he totted up the cash he found twas quite a wad.

Remember, all you voters, that no friendship can prevent

The loss of life and limb when you do run for President.


The Japanese Return to Guadalcanal.


We walk upon a sepulcher, wherever we may go.

The bones of soldiers make a crop we always have to sow.

In the South Pacific now, young Japanese recruits,

Who never held a rifle, look for swords and moldy boots.


Their country hammered swords and spears into transistor parts;

Today Japan has outlawed war (but not the martial arts).

But curiosity and fam’ly history have stirred

Students to go find the shards of warriors interred.


If those bones could speak what might they say to Japan’s youth?

Would they still consider that they died for home and truth?

Soldiers always march to war with fine words in their ears,

And return, if they have luck, with nothing but dried tears.


(Editor’s Note:  Martin Fackler, who wrote the article this poem is based on for the New York Times, was kind enough to respond to the poem with these words:

Thanks for this nice poem! As you suggest, each participant in the group did have their own takeaway from the experience, some different from others. For me, the most poignant moment was when I stood with the 95-year-old veteran of the battle looking at a pile of old brown bones and realizing that these two men, one living and the other long dead, had once been comrades in arms, and the same age. One returned to live a long life, living to see his great grandchildren, while the other had all of that taken from him.)


Sherman’s March to the Sea.


Sherman’s march through rebel lands unto the azure sea

Is something ev’rybody knows from high school history.

He tore up roads and burned down barns, did mischief of all kinds;

Which makes him memorable to all sadistic teenage minds.


He was obeying orders and not serving out a grudge.

But of course his victims thought him just a human smudge.

Today Atlanta still considers him a wicked rogue

(while putting up a plaque to him to mark the tourist vogue.)


Historians may quibble whether he was right or wrong

And wonder did he make the Civil War grow short or long.

I’m of the opinion that old Sherman paved the way

For ‘shock and awe’ techniques that our own soldiers use today.



This historical blog is brought to you by Geico Insurance.  They insure everything from tats to trombones.