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Here Goes Nuthin’
If you want to get a little attention for your product, there's nothing better than becoming the first human to break the sound barrier without the assistance of a machine. In 2012, Felix Baumgartner did it for Red Bull, falling 23 miles from the Earth’s stratosphere and pulling in eight million viewers on YouTube. We thought our pal Danny Levine, aka the Human Cannonball, might be interested but he had a tractor-pull that day. Next day, too.
In 1999, eleven members of the Women’s Institute in Yorkshire, England stripped nekkid to create a calendar to raise money for charity. The original calendar featured the women posing nude but slightly obscured by baked goods and flower arrangements. It sold an astounding 800,000 copies worldwide and inspired a hit movie, which just goes to show the average viewer would rather get a look at the girl next door than a professional model. With this in mind, we approached Gina Hawkins, Jill Rosier and Anna Marie Kirkpatrick. They’re thinking it over. Renee Kidera and Tude Hanke are in and Chuck LeMasters is on the fence. If anyone would like to be Miss December, sign here.
Up, Up And Away….
Remember the Balloon Boy of 2009? A couple of fake-frenzied parents from Fort Collins, Colorado reported that their son, all of six years old, had floated away in a flying saucerish helium balloon. Where have you gone little Falcon Heene, the country turns its worried eyes to you? The balloon ascended to 7000 feet during a 90-minute flight and attracted worldwide attention. National Guard helicopters roared off in pursuit and local police from all over Colorado followed on the ground. Then Emily Litella popped up on TV and said “Never mind.”
After flying for a hour and traveling fifty miles, the balloon landed about twelve miles northeast of Denver International Airport with no Falcon inside. Observers on the ground jammed police phone lines, reporting an object had been seen falling from the balloon, initiating a frantic search for the boy. Later in the day, young Falcon was found hiding in his attic, where he apparently had been stashed the whole time. In a later interview with Larry King, the host asked the faux-balloonist why his family had perpetrated such a fraud. “To get on your show,” he said proudly.
P.T. Barnum, of course, was the Archduke of Anticipation. When the newly constructed Brooklyn Bridge was gearing up for opening day in May of 1883, the New York showman marched his troupe of elephants across the span, ensuring a dubious public that the bridge was safe for passage and generating enormous coverage for his upcoming show.
The Hogtown Opry is looking for a few good men, or at least one to reprise Falcon Heene’s balloon ride, only this time no hiding in the attic. Chris Qualmann is ready to go if his new diet works out and Randall Roffe has offered to try it if there’s free lunch involved, so we may give it a go. Applicants must be over twelve or bring notes from their parents.
Send in The Clowns
Phineas Taylor Barnum’s stunts were often outrageous and would certainly have fallen short of the minimum requirement of political correctness in this day and age. P.T. was the leading pioneer of freak shows, which became popular early in his era. His first exhibit was a paralyzed ex-slave named Joice Heath, who was about eighty years old. Barnum paraded her around as George Washington’s 161-year-old nurse and his promotion of her knew no bounds. Among other things, he wrote harsh anonymous letters to the newspapers in places Heath was being featured, questioning her authenticity. Defenders would respond and the show was on, leading to tremendous ticket sales.
Barnum hired a dwarf only 25 inches tall and made him a star with the stage name “Tom Thumb.” He paid off New York newspapermen to publish all sorts of material about the man, raving about his singing and dancing talents and creating such a sensation that when his tour company reached England Barnum and the dwarf got an audience with Queen Victoria and the royal family. He later achieved maximum visibility by locating one of the thinnest men in the world and marrying him to a woman ten times his weight.
Many of Phineas T. Barnum’s tactics survive today. His American Museum was located at the corner of Broadway and Ann Street in Manhattan and to better promote its attractions the showman would drape the building with new outsize banners. He was the first to plaster horse-drawn wagons with posters and signs and send them cruising through the streets of the city. Barnum's first exhibit in the museum was the Feejee Mermaid, who had a human head topping the finned body of a fish. Later, he introduced the legitimate Siamese twins Chang and Eng, who were connected by a ligament below their breastbones. The showman eventually sold over 20 million tickets to his museum and was invited to Washington to visit President Abraham Lincoln at the White House.
Aging and eager to change his image from promoter of human curiosities to impresario of artistic attractions, Barnum risked his entire fortune by importing Jenny Lind, a Swedish soprano whom he had never seen nor heard and who was virtually unknown in the United States. He dubbed Lind “The Swedish Nightingale” and mounted the most massive publicity campaign ever seen, drawing capacity audiences and earning immense sums, although Florida booking agent Albert Teebagy insisted much of the credit went to him.
In his 81st year, P.T. Barnum fell gravely ill. At his request, the New York Times newspaper published his obituary in advance so he could read it. When Barnum succumbed, The Times of London echoed the world press in its final tribute: “He created the metier of showmanship on a grandiose scale. He early realized that essential feature of a modern democracy….its readiness to be led to what will amuse and distract it.”
Meanwhile, does anyone have a few elephants we can borrow?
Short People
“They got little hands and little eyes, and they walk around tellin’ great big lies. I don’t want no short people ‘round here.”---Will Harridge (and Randy Newman)
The St. Louis Browns were the ugly stepsisters in an American League full of glamorous rivals like the New York Yankees and the Boston Red Sox when sportsman Bill Veeck bought the bedraggled team in 1951. The Browns were even ignored in their own hometown where the mighty Cardinals got all the love, averaging a woeful 3700 fans a game. Then one fine afternoon before the second game of a double header against the Detroit Tigers, Veeck had a large papier-mache cake wheeled out onto the field. To the surprise of the fans, a child-sized figure in baseball togs emerged form the cake. His name was Eddie Gaudel, 26 years old and 3 foot 7 in stature. Two days previous, Eddie had signed a $100-a-game contract with the Browns. The number on his back was 1/8. What is it with promoters and short people? First Barnum, then Veeck. Are we missing the boat here? Is it too late to hire Danny DiVito and his western ukulele?
In the first inning, Gaudel emerged from the dugout to the delight of a roaring audience and tapped his bat upon the plate. The unamused pitcher, Bob Cain, aimed low, but missed the strike zone. “Ball one!” the umpire bellowed. The fans applauded in glee. The pitcher stomped around the mound in disgust and confusion and tried again. “Ball TWO!” the arbiter ruled. Eddie was having fun now and so was the crowd. The little fellow asked the ump for time, left the batter’s box, tapped imaginary dirt from his cleats and returned. “BALL THREE!” the umpire cried to the delight of the fans and the exasperation of the hurler.
And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go. And now the air is shattered by the force of Eddie’s blow. “He WALKS!” screamed radio announcer Howie Williams. “None out, one midget on first!” Alas, Will Harridge, the spoilsport president of the American League, voided Gaudel’s contract the next day, which never would have been allowed in today’s politically correct era. Despite his single at bat, Eddie Gaudel’s signature is today worth more that that of Babe Ruth.
Veeck, who had scheduled morning games for night shift workers as owner of the AA Milwaukee Brewers, staged actual weddings at home plate and once hired a costumed clown as a coach, wasn’t finished by any means, incorporating various stunts to boost attendance and gaining national acclaim for his flair and inventiveness. Eventually, the Browns’ dearth of talent told the tale, alas, and the forlorn team was sold, moved to Maryland and renamed the Baltimore Orioles. Bill’s affinity for small people continued, however, when he came out of retirement in 1969 to run the Suffolk Downs Race Track in Boston, where he was beloved by scores of jockeys. It’s a small world, after all.
We like Bill Veeck’s brilliant ideas and we’re currently looking for some small people to play tubas at the Hogtown Opry. Talent is optional, but good lungs are required. Report with your instrument at the venue site at 6 sharp on May 20. Don’t forget the throat spray.
That’s all, folks…
bill.killeen094@gmail.com
