Larry Harmon just died. Larry was not the original Bozo, but with entrepreneurial zeal and orange-tufted hair, Harmon literally made the character his own, buying the rights to the clown’s persona and licensing it to dozens of television stations across the country. These stations subsequently hired their own Bozos. (Just how many of these clowns doubled as weathermen nobody knows; the skill sets being remarkably similar).
Unfortunately we were a Bozo-deprived family. The nearest Bozo belonged to Channel 13 up in Los Angeles, and could only be tuned in by those kids living near the top of our hilly neighborhood. Those of us dwelling on the lower slopes and beyond the reach of KCOP’s signal had to go clown-less; we were forced to make do with a paltry selection of channels that included XETV-6, broadcast (occasionally live) from a transmitter in Mexico. The days before Cable TV and The Internet were grim-- God bless Al Gore for inventing them both.
There’s a famous legend about Bozo that I originally heard from a kid in my third grade class. While this kid was notoriously flighty and a shameless copier of my test answers, his account of the Bozo legend was confirmed by my best friend Ralph, who was reliable and trustworthy. The story, as told at recess and passed on to you today, was that some kid in the Bozo Show’s studio audience had been picked to play The Grand Prize Game, muffed his chance at the loot, but secured a place in the annals of kid history by uttering a profanity to which Bozo reputedly responded, “That’s a Bozo no-no.” Then the kid supposedly compounded (or improved) the situation by blurting, “Cram it, clown.”
To this day nobody knows what happened to the kid. Maybe he was hauled off to FCC Headquarters for re-programming. Maybe he was the young Howard Stern, which would make perfect sense. And maybe it never really happened-- although it certainly seemed credible at the time. The point is that like most kids, I was boundlessly optimistic and willing to believe that anything was possible. Many years have passed since then and today we celebrate our nation’s independence with a growing sense of unease. Things are looking bleak, especially when it’s time to fill our gas tanks or buy groceries. Our country’s policies are being hotly debated and our self-confidence is eroding. Here is what the president said:
“The symptoms of this crisis of the American spirit are all around us. For the first time in the history of our country a majority of our people believe that the next 5 years will be worse than the past 5 years.”
Those are pretty disheartening words-- except that they were spoken 29 years ago by President Jimmy Carter. As bad as things were in 1979 they eventually got better (right after the 1980 presidential election, as I recall).
According to Larry’s widow Susan Harmon, Larry was “The most optimistic man she ever met; he always saw a bright side.” So in Harmon’s memory, and in the spirit of Bozos everywhere, consider this: In the ten costliest countries to fill’er up, they’re paying TWICE what we're charged for gas today, and the two countries that pay the least for gas (Venezuela and Iran) are both ruled by de facto dictators.So put that in your gas tank and drive it around some. God bless Bozo, and God bless America!
Bruce Banner has arrived just in time to remind all dads of the dangers of high blood pressure. When seen last, Banner was going into a self-imposed exile at the end of Ang Lee’s version of The Hulk-- a movie that tanked like Patton’s reputation after he slapped one of his soldiers in an attempt to instill a little fatherly discipline. Like Banner and Patton, our tempers sometimes get the best of us, but we should try to see our kids’ exploits through a lens that also captures our own childhoods and our own misadventures.
For example, my brothers and I found it excessively harsh (and incredibly Hulk-ish) for our father to yell at us for dragging the hose from his air compressor into the deep end of our swimming pool, where he found us one afternoon eight feet under, ballasted by rocks in our pockets, trading hits of greasy air as we grinned at each other and congratulated ourselves for thinking up such a clever diversion from the mundane activity of actually swimming in a swimming pool. We also failed to realize that floating face-down and completely still in an attempt to set the record of Longest Submerged Brother Without Compressed Air might be unsettling to our parents, should they happen to glance out the window. Who knew they wouldn’t prod “the floater” at least a few times before dialing 911?
Had our father shared with us the rich legacy of his own youth, his tirades would have been easier to endure. For example, when we later learned that he had once fabricated his own diving gear from surplus army equipment (which he strapped to his little sister Jeannie along with several of our grandpa’s tools for ballast) and that Grandpa Stan’s tools were jettisoned by our aunt into the silt of San Diego Bay during her emergency ascent, we all immediately bonded with our dad in the commonality of stupid children everywhere who’ve managed to survive despite their best efforts-- or in our aunt’s case, her brother’s best efforts. Instead of Hulking out, or going Patton-esque, we should resolve to share with our kids the things we did in our youths that were similarly foolish.
I really shouldn’t have yelled at Alexander when he hacked down the wrong tree after we told him to go out and remove the one tree his mother and I had complained about ever since we moved into this house. Instead, I should have nostalgically shared with him the time my dad told me to remove a bottlebrush tree-- which is really a large shrub that is very attractive to bees. My solution was to devise a means of remote tree/shrubbery removal: I found that by tying it to the bumper of our truck, I was able to yank it out quite efficiently, along with the newly installed gas line for our swimming pool’s heater. (My mom hated that pool, now that I think about it).
When Dave and his crazy friend Dan used to get together after school and run around our house like madmen and Dave once accidentally punched his fists (followed by his wrists) right through the glass of our French door without a scratch, and somehow survived that day despite the fact that I was quite willing to kill them both, I should have told them instead about the time my brothers and I were rough-housing and John’s head somehow impacted with the corner of our coffee table. John touched his scalp and brought his hand away bloody, crying hysterically that there was a hole in his head. I knew right away from my first aid training in Boy Scouts that John was in shock, and that while in that state, he would be highly susceptible to suggestions like “I can stop the bleeding if you promise not to tell mom and dad.”
When Christa once choreographed a dance routine that involved swinging from the heating pipes in our basement instead of going ballistic I should have told her about the time my brothers and I “chimney-climbed” the space above our stairwell. (Mom always wondered about those smudges fourteen feet above the landing, and just how they got there- Spiderpig, perhaps?).
So, on this Father’s Day, to my dad:
Grandpa Stan grudgingly allowed you to live when you used his electric razor to shave the nubs from your blue suede shoes after you painted them white, since only white shoes (patent leather or, apparently, Sherwin Williams Suede) were permissible for your high school marching band. Grandpa should have chilled out and congratulated you for your initiative and your imagination, bought himself a new electric razor and then pressed you into a summer of servitude to pay for it, just like you always did with us. Come to think of it, we spent many a summer of servitude under your command, and many times without justification! That’s one family tradition that has gone by the wayside here; Chicago summers are just too hot and we only have a few trees left since Alex went away to college. If you are wondering where I got the stories of some of your escapades, all I can say is that while tools sink, the truth always floats to the surface like an oxygen-starved little sister, and our family motto still rings true: 'Fac illum, et tracte eventis'. (Do it, and deal with the consequences later).Love, Gar
(Note: The Latest Marvel comic edition of Spiderman brings the shocking news that Peter Parker and Mary Jane Watson are splitting up after twenty-one years of marriage. Supposedly their break-up is part of a deal with the Faustian villain Mephisto to save the life of Peter’s Aunt May-- but the real story behind the break-up of their marriage can only be found here).
Everyone’s shocked that Spiderman’s getting a divorce from MJ. Everyone except of course for your friendly neighborhood Unwrapped Fish. Just study Spidey’s famous theme song and you too will be amazed that MJ put up with Peter Parker for as long as she did.
Spiderman, Spiderman
Does whatever a spider can
This is a blatant declaration of intended arachnid-infidelity: If he can get away with it, he will do it. MJ was left home alone every night, knitting Spiderbaby booties while Peter Parker was ostensibly out pounding the Sandman. But who was he really out pounding? Gwen Stacy, Felicia Hardy and Betty Brant, most likely.
Spins a web, any size
Catches thieves, just like flies
Oh what a web we weave, when first we practice to deceive. No web of lies was too large for Peter Parker if it allowed him to do whatever he could. Let us all hope for MJ’s sake that he was practicing safe spider-sex to avoid catching STDs, since he sure wasn’t out catching thieves every night.
Is he strong? Listen, Bud!
He’s got radioactive blood.
All of us are well acquainted with the legendary relationship between Latino blood and machismo, so imagine the insatiable sexual urges of a typical teenage boy whose hormonally infused blood has been infected by the bite of a radioactive spider. The atomic half life of radioactive blood is similar to Plutonium. Spiderman won’t be needing Viagra until roughly the year 3069.
Can he swing from a thread?
Take a look overhead.
Hey there, there goes the Spiderman.
How many residents of New York have turned a blind eye to Spiderman’s nocturnal ramblings over the years? Obviously it’s been common knowledge in the Big Apple that Spidey’s a swinger; but some kind soul should have sent MJ a discreet note, letting her know exactly what her husband was up to overhead.
In the chill of night,
At the scene of a crime
Like a streak of light
He arrives just in time.
Just in time have his picture taken by a conveniently placed camera to provide an alibi for being out in the “chill of night” while his wife was left home alone knitting spider-booties eight at a time.
Spiderman, Spiderman
Friendly neighborhood Spiderman
Wealth and fame, he’s ignored
Action is his reward
Altruism is such a noble thing, but there’s nothing like getting’ a little action on the side to keep that radioactive blood a pumpin, right Spidey?
To him, life is a great big bang-up
Wherever there’s a hang-up
You’ll find a Spiderman!
Summons to Appear
In the State of New York
Mary Jane Parker nee Watson vs. Peter Parker, aka Spiderman
You’ve been found and you’ve been served, Spidey.
From: Mahmoud Ahmadinejad, President
Islamic Republic of Iran
To: Admiral Ali Sahuni
Islamic Revolutionary Guards Corps
Re: Operation "Persian Glory"
Strait of Hormuz
Admiral Sahuni,
Please present yourself in person at your earliest convenience to explain the shameful performance of your fleet against the United States in recent naval maneuvers. Although the crews of our mighty speedboat armada performed flawlessly, their commanding officer ruined a nearly perfect mission with his pathetic warning to the sailors of the great Satan:
“I am coming to you; you will explode after two minutes.”
I must remind you Ali that Persia is the land of the great poet Omar Khayam. Surely our armed forces can summon more chilling and poetic invective than “I am coming to you; you will explode after two minutes.” In fact, your captain’s “threat” was so embarrassing we had to declare the United States Navy’s video recording of the incident a complete and utter fabrication. One of our sailors has forwarded me his own video, which he took from our speedboat ISS Dreadnought. It shows the crew of the great Satan’s ship Port Royal laughing at your captain’s feeble battle cry, looking at their watches, and mouthing the words “In two minutes? You’ve got to be kidding us.”
In the future, all attack invective of the Islamic Republic of Iran will be generated by a committee which has been formed to avoid such humiliations. The “Council of Menace” has already provided these belligerent messages, which our glorious fleet will transmit during future maneuvers:
“Prepare to sink and die without enjoying 40 virgins in paradise.”
“We are coming at you, and we really mean it this time.”
“Damn the tornados! Full speed ahead!”
The eyes of the world are on our great republic Ali. I’m sure you’ll agree that we must not look foolish.
Mahmoud
