Cirque Du Soleil, Boogers and The Fire Breathing Dragon

"Get Your Tickets!" Tommy yelled from the safety of his living room for the incredible show the Dahlin's put on twice a week.  He was charging a quarter to whatever brother or sister would line up behind the large picture window to view the sluggish caravan of performers who had been whipped into a frenzy by the mad drill sergeant of a circus ring leader.

Before Circus Soleil was "The Dahlin, Wednesday and Thursday morning Street-Cleaning, High Flying Act" that inspired it all. Just this last summer before the ill-fated Salton Sea trip (see blog post  May 27th The Tragic Tale). The cantankerous Dahlin boys managed to crash two of the Dahlin cars right in the middle of Harding Avenue as thrones of terrified and delighted neighbors watched between concealed slits in the louvered windows and Venetian blinds.

That morning, Kris had pealed out of the driveway in his 63 Ford Econoline van and T-boned Karl in the Dodge station-wagon, crushing the driver door. A fist fight broke out but no one had to be taken to the hospital. Dad wanted them to take responsibility for the repairs and the some genius in the Wolf Pack took red spray paint and graffitied, great big letters that spelled "OUCH across the driver's side of the car. Hence graffiti was born as a mobile art-form and it made it easier for the Highway Patrol to track down the fugitive Dahlins who were fleeing Salton Sea without their baby brother - that's me! 

Up until this time the police used to mark tires of the Dahlin's cars with white chalk in order to write parking violations if the vehicle hadn't been moved in three days. But, all the cunning tribe had to do was push the stubborn vehicle ahead three feet to hide the chalk markings on the underside of the tires. The police force retaliated and began marking the sidewall of the tires to thwart the cunning brood.  Then the ingenious kinfolk of the Viking Brotherhood sent Markie D with with a washcloth to wash off the troublesome chalk markings every two days.

Venice had no other recourse, but to convene a special council together and institute the most significant change in  the city's charter since filling in some of the canals (in the late 30's). 

Now, the poor Dahlins had to push the disabled fleet from one side of the street to the other, every Wednesday and every Thursday morning to prevent the police from stealing their precious cars and locking them up in the impound yard. 

Tommy was a budding entrepreneur and made about 2 bucks a week off his brothers and sisters who felt that the show was worth every penny he extracted from them.

While the "regular families" like the Tripps, the Blasers, the Steadmans and of course the Lennons sat around dining-room tables and ate Special K, Cheerios and the new Captain Crunch cereal (with real milk mind you, but that's another story) in preparation for school, the Dahlins however, came out to move the caravan of deceased cars with flat tires, dead batteries, missing parts along with trucks stuffed full of junk - from one side of the street to the other.
 
Joan...(that's what my brother's called mom) was already at Mass before school began. She had unlocked the twelve locks on her bedroom door and escaped the looney-bin under the cover of darkness. Dad, unaided by the "Under-The-Penalty-Of-Mortal-Sin" clause, began the ritual with a broom in hand yelling in the cadence that reminisced back to his Master-Sergeant skills during World War II.

Standing on the landing of the second floor, he beat the ceiling and stairwell with the broom-handle yelling things like, "Up and at 'em" and "Let's go, go, go, go, go, go, go" he uttered brusquely with the speed of a rapid fire machine-gun. "Time of the the harvest moon" he added, stomping on the bottom stair that lead to the third floor where Hippies were confined to.

Moving with the speed of molasses on a cool Swedish winter, lots and lots of bushy, uncombed blonde hair reluctantly shuffled out the front door. "Let's go, go, go, go, go, go, go, go" the Master Sergeant urged the sea-slugs making sure to kick anyone in the rear who had their hands shoved in pockets. He would give the offending party a "swift kick to the rear" and shout, "Shoulders straight! Chin up! Stomach in!" Out we marched: 5 of us, then 10 of us then, then 50 of us... who knew the number... But daddio knew if someone was missing amongst the chaos and would begin his second volley of intimidation that he saved just for the non-compliant long hairs on the third floor.

 "Oh, it's party all night, sleep all day... Big man on campus...Impressing the girls again...Let's go, go, go, go, go, go... come on girly-girls with your long hair... let's move it... it's time of the harvest moon... Big man on campus...Party all night sleep all day"

This tact didn't make the peach-loving hippies any happier when they came downstairs. Every one of them resented Wednesday and Thursday mornings - huffing and puffing and pushing trash barges with flat tires that might have had 16 tons of cannibalized motors, old car parts and trash towering over the truck bed in back.

Lug wrenches were pulled out...tires were rolled down the street to the gas station, leaky hydraulic jacks were shoved under rear differentials in order to slide cars to their new destination and small cars were often picked up and carried by the minions along with the customary sibling skirmishes, name calling, booger wiping...and flatulent wars that they were predisposed to.

AND TONY WOULD COME CAREENING IN... burning rubber all the way down Woodlawn past Leland's house in his ferocious, fire-breathing dragon known as the legendary RAT KILLER.

To Tommy and the rest of the Blasers who stood with mouths agape watching the show, this was almost better than watching the Dahlins let the monkeys out of the Zoo (See Blog Post of April 29th: The Zoo ).

Next time, just before I share about Thursday night and the Spaghetti-Vomit surprise, I just may have to share the spurious and dubious account of  how Dr. Frankenstein put together the Monstrous Beast that stuck fear in the hearts of hot rod owners everywhere...du...du...du... known as the "Rat Killer."