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THE TEDDY BEARS' PICNIC -- Mike Morgan The dogs on main street howl Cause they understand... And I believe in the promised land -- Bruce Springsteen Listen to the Lion -- Van Morrison INTRODUCTION: The town of Sequim (pronounced "skwim") is located on the Olympic Peninsula, Washington, in the far northwestern corner of the continental United States of America. Sequim is the headquarters of the Olympic Game Farm, an animal reserve. But this is no garden-variety animal reserve: the Olympic Game Farm is a retirement home for ex-carnival, circus and movie-star creatures. Visitors driving through the reserve will be amazed by the sight of prancing bears, trick ponies and performing chimpanzees breaking into their song and dance routines, brought on by the presence of human gawkers. The animals can't help it. They've been in show business all of their lives. Sequim lies in the rain shadow of the Olympic mountain range, meaning it receives less rainfall than the rest of the region. This gives the landscape a peculiar painted desert, Arizona-esque look, making it a nature film director's dream. Formerly the home of the Quillyute, Klawak and Macaw Indian nations, the Olympic Game Farm property is owned by Lloyd Beebe, a personal friend of that ex-champion of family values and assorted pablum, Walt Disney. Through his relationship with the great crapola artist, Lloyd Beebe allowed his property to be used by Disney Studios for the production of a myriad of animal movies. Such silver screen masterpieces as "Seems There Was This Moose," "Wahb, King Of The Grizzlies," "Dorsey, The Mail Carrying Dog," and "The Goose That Walked Backwards For Christmas," to name a few, were all filmed on location at Sequim. The reserve is therefore home to a wide variety of international wildlife. An array of beasts from the drooling, stinking Musk Ox (Cervus Elaphus), the Llama (Lama Guanico Glam), the European Fallow Deer (Dama Dama Dama), the Camel (Rama Lama Ding Dong) to the White Rhinoceros (Blanco Biggus Dickus) can be found there. Lloyd Beebe runs a tight ship. Tourists are constantly being harassed and bellowed at through a formidable public address system for violating such Olympic Game Farm mandates as attempting to feed the animals or leaving their cars. Flyers are plastered all over the woods, warning guests that American Bisons weigh over 2,500 pounds each, have a top speed of 30 mph, and can sit on and flatten sports utility vehicles. The hybrid buffalo, the beefalo (the father a bison, the mother an Angus-type cow) is particularly partial to chasing two-legged Minolta flashers clad in Hawaiian shirts. But despite its obvious human drawbacks, the knowledge that such a place exists for formerly abused victims of mankind's ignorance, curiosity and cruelty is comforting. In fact, it's downright surreal. It provides plenty of fodder for the imagination. And for the animals, it's Valhalla. * * * They'd celebrated May Day in the same fashion ever since their relocation. The beavers were in charge of collecting and stockpiling the beer and assorted booze. Francisco Pizarro's parrot was responsible for organizing the entertainment and keynote speakers, known as yakkers. The yaks themselves were the food czars. Last year, they had all feasted on a former Czar. This year, the dromedaries of the Fertile Crescent, together with the Andean llamas, had toiled for nights over boiling pots and spits. They had concocted a unique, cross-continental speciality, haute cuisine to say the least, a lip-smacking delicacy named "Paella a la Pahlevi." The animals waited until the last Volvo station wagon trundled out of the park at sunset, then they assembled around a huge bonfire on the riverbank. Animal small talk filled the air, as did the familiar odor of Durban Poison. Glasses clinked, and the plonk flowed freely. The hippo, a notoriously sloppy drinker, almost put the kibosh on the evening's festivities by belly-flopping into the river and drowning out the whole affair. After they'd eaten the Shah avec trimmings, they formed a large circle around the fire. Stoned, tipsy and full of middle-eastern royal family, they eagerly awaited the big dance. Pizarro's parrot took center stage. "You all know me," he said, ignoring the pandas (Bambu Bamboo) who loved to imitate him. "Who are you?" taunted Ling-Ling, herself a former gift from Chou En-Lai to Eisenhower, part of the cultural revolution's export program. Everybody was familiar with Pizarro's parrot's "armored swath through Peru with the Conquistadors" story. As emcee, the old bird had the privilege of repeating it, if he so desired. But years of bearing witness to unmentionable forms of genocide as well as unmerciful panda razzing had hardened his feathers. This time, Pizarro's parrot took pity on his audience. "Our first guest starred in that monumental sand dune epic, David Lean's 'Lawrence of Arabia.' Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Lexington, Omar Sharif's camel." Lex, being a bit on the retiring side, broke the ice with that tried and tested winning opener, the camel joke. "Omar always used to boast to the others, Peter O'Toole, Anthony Quinn, Jack Hawkins and Alec Guinness about my stamina and ability to endure endless treks through the Nefoud desert without replenishing water. He referred to me as a double-brick camel. A naive Arthur Kennedy once asked Omar to explain the derivation of that term. 'It's quite simple,' the Sharif explained. 'When my camel is drinking at the oasis, I sneak up behind him and clobber his gonads with two bricks. The shock of such a traumatic blow forces him to suck up gallons of extra liquid.' 'Jeez,' queried an incredulous Arthur Kennedy, 'doesn't it hurt?' 'Only if you get your thumbs caught,' replied Omar." The animals roared with approval, which then gave Lex enough chutzpah to get into the guts of his presentation. He produced various memorabilia: T.E. Lawrence's original swagger stick, General Allenby's Webley pistol and monocle, Auda Abu Tai's detonator for blowing up troop trains, Jose Ferrer's fez, and the camel turd that Anthony Quayle mistakenly stepped in, ruining his puttees. Lex related how his uncle, Indianapolis, had been accidently shot in the back of the head and killed by the great Lawrence himself when the Bedouin sneaked in through the backdoor of Aqaba and kicked some Turkish ass. Lex's other uncle, Arizona, taught Omar Sharif how to play bridge, and Omar and 'Zo would spend many an evening humping and trumping 'neath the Mesopotamian moon. Lexington concluded his act by sharing a little-known fact with the audience. "Most of us believe that the famous battleships of the United States Navy were named after cities and states in this country. Bollocks! These bulwarks of the high seas were named after the ships of the desert, camels. My father, 'Yorktown', can attest to that." At that point, Zagloba, the Ukrainian dancing bear (Ursus Mambo) had a panic attack. The flames and embers of the bonfire reminded him too much of those dreadful days of apprenticeship under Bohun, the Cossack circus mogul. There was no Arthur Murray School of Dancing for Zagloba and his peers -- theirs was a baptism of fire. The bearcubs were forced to stand on hot coals, thus learning the rudiments of gyration and dance through pain. What a pain in the paw it was! As a youngster, the mere threat of fire would cause Zagloba to polka. Pogo he did, blistered pads and all, for the likes of Papa Bear Josef Stalin at a command performance of the Great Russian Circus. Now, any exposure to flame flooded him with fear. Johnny Cougar (Felinus Rockus Mediocritus) comforted Zagloba and fixed him up with a stiff martini, a shot of Zanax and a water-back. The other animals were extremely sympathetic to Zagloba's predicament. His past had followed him all the way to Eden. Pizarro's parrot took over once again. This time, Francis The Talking Mule (Equus Asinus Vociferous) provided the interference by way of repeating the phrase "Scooby Dooby Doo." Poor old Francis couldn't help himself. As a celebrity talking ass during the '80s, he had served as one of Ronald Reagan's advisers. Francis, himself not the sharpest knife in an already dull cabinet, had the punishing habit of reiterating the stock response of Reagan's Information Secretary, Frank Sinatra. Put a few belts in him and Francis would "Scooby Dooby Doo" until the cows came home. Pizarro's parrot waited until Francis the Talking Mule ran out of gas. "Our next speaker is no stranger to cinema-goers. He gored John Wayne and the Indian in Howard Hawk's African safari adventure, 'Hatari.' He co-wrote 'The Baby Elephant Walk' with Henry Mancini, the hit tune from the same film. He rammed Hardy Kruger and Red Buttons when they attempted to capture him at Ngora Ngora on behalf of the Zurich zoo. Please welcome Reuben, the white rhino." Reuben wasn't an albino; in fact he wasn't really white at all. But he was a rhinoceros and he had a penchant for wallowing in mud, which would dry on his skin, giving him a whitish appearance. The Swahili word for Rueben and his ilk was simply "Honky." "I could go on all night about John Wayne's episode with the scotch bottle, the strip poker game and the Italian starlet, Cappucino, on the Serengeti plains, but it's old hat," began Rueben. "Suffice it to say that John Wayne was an even sorrier poker player and lover than he was a lush. That was during the period of the Duke's career when they had to use a tripod to hoist him onto his mount. Often, this would knock his hair-piece akilter, and the make-up people would have to do him right while he was a fully-loaded Rooster Cogburn in the saddle. "But it was on Ginger Baker's rescue mission that I had this out- of-world experience and met the ghost of the explorer, H.M. Stanley (of 'Dr. Livingstone, I presume' fame). I was thoroughly bored with hanging out with Hank Mancini. I'd had 'Moon River' and 'The Theme From The Pink Panther' up the wazoo. I'd taken to listening to Dewey Phillips and WHBQ out of Memphis on the shortwave radio. That's when I found out that Cream had split up, and Ginger Baker, himself a can or two short of a six-pack, had gotten lost slap-bang in the middle of Equatorial Africa in search of anyone who could teach him how to play the drums. This was my chance to escape the Mancini mulch and the John Wayne leglessness. I'd find Ginger Baker, even if I wasn't doing the world a favor. "My search took me to the very heart of darkness, the inner station. It was in the Congo River basin, a few miles from the same waterfall that the great white hope had so modestly named after himself, Stanley Falls, that I collided with the caravan. Pompous, European, Sousa-type martial music blared through the jungle, compliments of the Belgium King's African Rifle Brass and Jazz Band. I never had much time for Belgians. Their three major accomplishments were the introduction of rubber plantation slavery into the Congo, ivory smuggling, and the invention of the French fry (le pomme frite). But I wasn't ready for this. "The cadaverous King Leopold II and the beetroot-faced Stanley were atop an enormous elephant, festooned with gold and other assorted jewelry. A huge silk banner announced, 'With Peace And Goodwill -- From The Maxim Machinegun Abolitionist Society.' Hundreds of handless African porters, shackled together in chains, toted heavy loads of rubber, ivory and a variety of stolen loot on their heads. Leopold was in full military regalia. Suffering from dysentery, his soiled pantaloons reeked to high heaven as he blessed the indentured ones around him. 'Your reward will come in heaven,' he feebly croaked, handing out brass trinkets as compensation. Wads of Francs, Pounds, Marks and Dollars billowed out of every pocket of his tunic. Stanley, heaving and sweating from the laborious task of administering floggings, spoke above the crack of the chicotte (the bull whip), used to instruct and correct ungrateful workers. He fulminated loudly against barbarism, sloth, godlessness, labor unions, Irish nationalism, immorality, the eight-hour work day, Chinese migrants, Arabs, Jews, socialism, women suffragettes, French bus drivers, and Algerian restaurant waiters. It was Dante's inferno all over again. To this day, I cannot erase that memory. I was, after all, in the Congo. "I staggered away from that macabre pantomime. My quest for Ginger Baker seemed meaningless compared to the nightmare I had witnessed. It took months for me to recover, and I wandered aimlessly along the shores of the River Niger, seeking solace from the mystical music of the griots of Mali. I finally did discover Ginger Baker though," Reuben concluded. "He had been taken in by Ibo villagers. He was banging loudly on an oil drum with a banana. Left to his own devices, he seemed quite content and obviously harmless. The Ibos called him 'Buffoono,' which in their language translates as 'the hirsute red-bearded imbecile who makes too much noise on the tom-toms.'" The animals sobered up quickly after Reuben's presentation. The elephants quietly wept. The dolphins (Sheepus Wolfus), always pranksters and the life of the party, sought to cure this temporary funk. They dove into the river and did their "Ma loves pa/George C. Scott" schtick and it worked. Dolphins are masters of disguise. For decades, they'd been able to hoodwink humans into believing that they're friendlier and brainier than most creatures. The humans (especially the marine biologists), in their usual snobbish fashion, bought this baloney hook, line and sinker. Hollywood, thanks to Steven Spielberg, only made matters worse by vilifying the always gentle Great White sharks (Nambus Pambus). Compared to Great Whites, dolphins were a marauding band of thuggy maneaters. Talk about the homo sapiens lot getting the bull by the udders. Pizarro's parrot, a little concerned that Reuben had put a damper on the soiree, felt obliged to play out his role as Master of Ceremonies. "What's the difference between Mick Jagger and a Scottish shepherd?" he asked. "What?" yelled the crowd in unison. "Mick Jagger sings 'Hey, You Get Off Of My Cloud,' while the Scotsman sings 'Hey McCloud, Get Off Of My Ewe.'" The emu (Mu-Mu Spasticus Articulus) also helped to cheer up the mood. She cracked open a case of absinthe and, ignoring the "I just flew in from Australia and, boy, are my arms tired" jibe coming from those hypocritical, flightless Boer ostriches (Struthio Camelus) no less, she filled everyone's glasses. Pizarro's parrot brought forward the final orator. "Let's put our hands together and welcome Harold, the only surviving horse of the battle of Little Big Horn." Harold was a veteran of the animal speaking circuit. The fact that he was one hundred and thirty-five years old commanded respect too. His nickname was "Junior." As Harold always did before he spoke, he demanded a minute's silence to remember the wholesale slaughter of his species by the habits of man, this time at the battle of Verdun. "In one day in March, 1916, seven thousand horses were killed by long-range French and German shelling, ninety-seven from a single shell fired by a French naval gun," he reminded them all, while the animals hung their heads out of reverence for the dead. "It wasn't only the wile and military cunning of Crazy Horse and Sitting Bull that undid George Armstrong Custer's Seventh Cavalry on the Greasy Grass at the Little Big Horn," Harry said, launching into his tale. "And it wasn't purely due to the arrogance and stupidity of Custer himself, although that sure helped the Indian cause. We forget, with the introduction of horses into North America, along with the invention of the repeating rifle, that nobody could hold a candle to Cheyenne and Sioux plains warriors. They were, without a doubt, the finest horse soldiers in the world. Technology, numbers, disease and greed made the Indians lose, but in a fair fight one on one with those Seventh Cavalry clowns... why, the President today might be a descendant of the original human inhabitants of this land. "But despite all of this, I know why Custer got his just rewards that day, and it had everything to do with that bozo bugler that I got landed with. I was assigned, as a young, healthy pony, to Custer's command squad -- a crowd consisting of lowlier officers who despised him, messengers, sell-out scouts, and my guy, the horn-blower. The Seventh Cavalry, mythology aside, was the equivalent of the French Foreign Legion in the new world. Misfits, wanted men, and failures in other pursuits found a home in the Seventh. "My ride was one such desperado. His name was Guiseppe de Bonano, a gelato ice-cream vendor from Naples. Guiseppe closed up his Neapolitan shop early one afternoon and arrived home to find his wife banging the local postman. In a fit of rage, he shot il postino and his wife, and then stowed away in the hold of a prune ship bound for Boston. Upon arrival, he immediately signed up for the cavalry and was assigned to Fort Lincoln on the Rosebud River, then under the command of one General George Armstrong Custer. Custer, impressed by Guiseppe's handlebar moustache and trumpet noodling, ordained him as the company bugler. What Custer didn't know was that Guiseppe knew only seven words of English, namely "Shaddupa you face," and "Vanilla, chocolate or strawberry?" Thus at the critical point of battle, when Custer could have retreated or counter-attacked, his orders never seemed to be translated correctly. He'd scream 'Charge!' and Guiseppe would sound the dismount. When he had found suitable ground to make a stand, Custer would order the dismount, only to be frustrated by having Guiseppe gallop the whole troop off into the horizon. Guiseppe finally gave up and, ignoring Custer's cursing, began playing the Fats Waller tune 'All That Meat And No Potatoes,' and other lesser-known Tijuana Brass B-sides, while his fellow blue jackets were cut down around him. Fortunately for me, Guiseppe lived up to the reputation of the great Italian war hero, and we scampered out of there before the final axe came down. I owe my life to that bumbling bugler," Harry concluded. Amidst universal applause, Harry stepped down. The gala was done. Pizarro's parrot thanked all who helped make it happen. Those two feisty Maoist penguins (Quackus Quackus) from the Falkland Islands began handing out leaflets to the besotted audience. They had adopted their politics during the Argentina/England war down there in 1982, arguing that the Falklands belonged to neither empire but that of the Emperor penguins. With red stars on their balaclavas, they hid out on the luxury liner the QEII, then in service as a British troopship, and took their brand of subversiveness to the Northern hemisphere. In England, they caused pandemonium by dressing up in leather jackets, joining the Vanessa Redgrave sect of hipster lefties, denouncing the Gang of Four, and demanding that Boxing Day (the day after Christmas) be changed to "The Day of the Dragon." Professional agitators, they used every opportunity to stir up the pot, even here. The other animals did what everybody else had always done to the pair of penguins -- they ignored them. Pizarro's parrot cautioned the happy campers to drive carefully. He made a special point of warning the others to watch out for the Kodiak bear (Ursus Arctos Middendorffi), and make sure that he stayed away from the Caterpillar Bulldozer that the Boobies (animal slang for the Beebes) had acquired to excavate more land. "Remember what happened last time," he said, evoking giggles from the ready-for-bed crowd as they recalled the Kodiak careening drunkenly down Rural Route Seventy-One, behind the wheel of a steamroller. More land was good though, especially for Valhalla. * * * AFTERWORD: During the early 1970's, a boating marina was built a few miles outside of Sequim. The owner was none other than John Wayne. By 1972, the Beebes opened the Olympic Game Farm to the public. In the beginning there were only guided tours, and the cost of admission was one dollar. The Studio Barn, the site of many Walt Disney film shoots, is cut from one of the oldest trees on the Olympic Peninsula. The tree dates back to well before the time of Christopher Columbus. |