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Spitting & Sputtering
Duck & Cover: The Genius of Peter Pitofsky
I can’t say I always loved being around Peter. Occasionally, when he put your life in danger it becomes somewhat difficult to appreciate his amusing antics.
At some point early on in your relationship with Peter one begins to realize that whatever happens to be going on around you while in his presence has little or nothing to do with, well, what you thought was going on around you. What I mean to say is, that everything ceases to be about you, who you are, where you are or if there is anybody else around at the time. It’s all about Peter now. You and your surroundings became part of his comedic equation. Your outer circle becomes his inner circle. Pi r squared, where Pi stands for Pitofsky. And, like Pi, with its infinite decimals, Peter finds an infinite number of ways to make you laugh.
If you’re lucky enough to be in the presence of Peter Pitofsky (sometimes through no fault of your own) a whole new set of rules involving social etiquette evolves before your eyes. First, if Peter decides to do something… anything … for whatever reason… then, it’s going to happen. No ifs ands or buts. Decorum be damned. Yep, that’s Peter! Whatever to whomever, whenever he likes.
The reader must understand this writer is first and foremost a survivor. A survivor of scores of Peter Pitofsky moments. Every one of them an adventure. Every one of them a spectacle. Every one of them unquestionably ostentatiously delightful. My rule of survival is simple… duck & cover.
Unfortunately, there are places out there in the real world where there is nothing to duck behind, and there is nothing to cover you. This is one such story.
It was 1983; I had heard of Peter. Every street performer on the west coast had heard stories about him. The street-performing scene in LA and San Francisco was exploding. Peter was already a legend on the boardwalk in Venice and I, ahem, was kinda well known in San Francisco myself (false blush) as the Butterfly Man.
To be honest, I had heard about some of the things Peter purportedly had done down in Venice but I didn’t really believe the stories. People exaggerate and well, I considered the source. Like myself, they were all street performers, hardly what I’d call an erudite spokesperson.
The place was a park in San Bernardino. Not just any park, mind you, this one was big … way big… enough to hold the 670 thousand people that were due to arrive the following day.
No, they weren’t coming for Peter. It was more like he was coming for them or would it be better to say, ‘after them’, the distinction seemingly Machiavellian.
It was called the US Festival and, like I said, it was big. Real big. Glen Helen was the name of the park. The name sounded so provincial, so commonplace. Well, it wasn’t.
It was all the brainchild of Steve Wozniak, a San Francisco based entrepreneur. He envisioned a 3-day technologically based, multi-media event that was to be merged within an unparalleled modern day musical extravaganza. He built an amphitheater, he built a city, he built a fuckin' airfield.
Every important band of the day was coming. I think the phrase, “if you book them, they will come” was coined that day. Motley Crue, The Clash, INXS, David Bowie, Van Halen, U2 and you name it… they were all there. (Google it, really, unreal). Three days: New Wave meets Hard Rock meets Heavy Metal.
But that city, I mentioned, the one that Wozniak built, that wasn’t for us. That amphitheater, I mentioned, that wasn’t for us either. In fact, nothing was for us but we didn’t know it yet.
It was the Thursday before Memorial Day weekend. Everyone I knew was going. We all had three-day contracts. We were to show up for the 1st meeting at 4pm Thursday and we were told not to leave until 4pm Sunday. That was it, sounded like a fun, easy gig. Never would I utter the words again.
It seemed everybody was there. Every juggling mime, every snake-charming, sword swallower, every dancing, tuba playing, Panda bear trainer on the west coast and beyond had been called to create, I assumed, some sort of ambiance. Perhaps they were looking for a shit-hit-the-fan type of Altamont atmosphere, I don’t know. We even had an authentic (or so they said) Indian tribe (definitely 1 or 2 Mexicans in there if ya ask me).
So there we were… maybe fifty or sixty acts, close to a hundred performers. All of us mulling around Danny Daniel’s trailer…our holy grail. A veritable cornucopia of street performer insolvency all gathering like hyenas around the carcass of a paying gig.
I looked around, nothing for miles. You could barely see the amphitheater it was so far away. So, this was it, that one trailer, miles from nowhere. This was our city, a city not built, one fuckin’ trailer (on blocks).
Danny makes his grand entrance out of the trailer. A hush comes over the ragbag crowd.
Danny Daniels, formerly of the famous Bay City Reds, a 2-man/2 woman San Francisco based juggling team, was a street performer himself. Danny had been the go- between-man between Wozniak’s upper management and all of us. He was trying on the hat of an event producer for the first time. In retrospect, I believe that’s the one hat he should have passed.
Danny climbs atop the one picnic table (provided by the park) and proceeds to orate. One by one, he excitedly tells us how great this whole gig is gonna be. How we’re all gonna have beds and how we’re all gonna get tents and how great the food is going to be.
As he speaks, he gets more and more exuberant. He becomes progressively more animated. His arms start to gesticulate wildly with his progressing enthusiasm. He earnestly tells us about all the perceived amenities.
The showers, he assures us, will be provided. The cuisine will be a veritable connoisseur’s delight. We were to be personally chauffeured back and forth to our performing sites each day. On top of all this we were to be issued huge laminated backstage passes allowing unlimited access to all the concerts. And for the coup d'grace, at the end of each day, precisely at 5 pm, a keg of cold beer would be delivered to the site. Imagine our delight, imagine our ecstasy, imagine our delusion.
Danny finishes his paradoxically prophetic speech by pointing to the oversized Bulletin Board on display next to his trailer. There, he assures us, our scheduled performance times and sites would be posted @ 8am each morning. Our driver(s) would be waiting.
Our dismissal from that initial meeting signaled the conclusion to our purported journey into Shangri La. Nothing close to what Danny said would ever happen. Now, collectively, we commenced our decent into Dante’s Inferno. It was horrific.
I can’t give you details any more. The mind has a way of blocking out painful, unwanted memories. I believe it’s called repression. All I can give you is bits and pieces; it’s all I have left.
After about an hour of people dragging sleeping bags and duffle bags to the site, paper plates were handed out for the evening meal. Just as everyone had all their personal crap out and unprotected, just when everyone had nothing to put their food on but paper, it starts to rain.
Mind you, this place was the desert, not a tree for miles (well, one). No one had thought to bring an umbrella or tarps, it seemed superfluous. Unlike all the others, I had my stylin’ VW van with it’s high-top, stove, sink, refrigerator and two full size beds parked nearby (under that one tree). When it started to pour, I simply walked away from the site and went inside my comfy portable accommodations, closing the sliding door with assurance. As I drew the curtains, I occasionally would peek out the window to witness the enveloping carnage. Luckily, it was getting dark and I only saw snippets of distress. I wound up my upper windows a bit to block out the noise. The anguished cries of the disheveled mob became barely a whimper now. I slept peacefully.
At 8am there I was, all clean and dry and tidy in full satin-jester garb waiting in front of that immense Bulletin Board looking for my assignment of the day. I hardly noticed what the others looked like. As far as I was concerned they looked like they always did, just a little wetter and filthier.
Looking at the Board I saw, “ the Butterfly Man” listed and then next to it the site assignment, “Beer Gardens”. Then I looked a little lower. I saw another listing “The Butterfly Man” –Meadow Area 4… waaah? Even I can’t be two places at the same time. I knocked on the trailer door. Danny answered.
He seems somewhat taken aback by my impeccable attire but queries me as to the problem. I point at the Bulletin Board. He answers (I shit you not), “Oh that, that 1st one is you, you’re the “Butterfly Man”, that other one is “The Butterfly Man”. “Really”, I said, “so who’s this other guy? He answers curtly, slamming the door in my face, “Oh, you’ll recognize him
when you see him.” Thanks, asshole.
I find a driver and load my huge prop case on the back, the one seat next to the driver is open, so I take it. Choosing the cushioned seat turned out to be the smart move. That seat took me on a journey I’ll never forget, I believe it was my destiny. I was being taken to meet Peter Pitofsky. It seems somewhat ironic we were headed in the opposite direction. Or was it?
Scores of assorted degenerate street types wanting a ride descended upon us as soon as we started to depart. It was like somewhere between bees on honey and flies on shit. The driver never really stopped but several of the least prop-laden acts managed to jump onto the elongated flatbed in back. The jumbo golf cart had a top speed of about 10mph, so it was slow, real slow with 5 or 6 grubby, grimy street performers (not me) in back. I remember thinking, “Well, I’m in no hurry to go to work.” It was my last sane thought of the day.
We were maybe 200 feet away from the site when this guy comes running after us on foot. I didn’t notice it at first but the commotion behind me made me turn around. Somebody screamed, “It’s Peter..!”… and that was it.
After that, I laughed, then I laughed, then I laughed some more. He was brilliant. It was like watching Buster Keaton (but even better, if that’s possible) come alive before your very eyes. What a master! What a gifted soul.
At first, I had no idea who this guy they called “Peter” was, all I saw was this absolutely frantic lunatic running like a banshee after the golf cart.
It wasn’t frightening; it was like it was a cartoon coming to life. This guy ran like a gazelle with a limp. How he covered so much ground so quickly amazed me. To this day I don’t know how he could sprint like that and only use one knee. Every third or forth step his knee seemingly turned to butter. His stride seemed like an amalgamation of athletic prowess with that of a feeble cripple. It was absurd. It was ridiculous. It was hilarious.
What really got me though was how he ran like hell like that for so goddamn far and you see him, right there, almost touching the back of the cart, so close, outstretched fingers searching for the tailgate. Reaching, reaching out in desperation. His face reflecting unbridled determination. Trying so hard, almost there, and just when you could smell his thrill of victory… POW… he goes down, he disappears.
The next thing you see, as you’re pulling away, is what appears to be a dead body lying prostrate on the ground. That’s what he did, I swear… after all that running, for that hard and for that long and in that way. He falls, blam, right on his face in the recently bulldozed dirt. He lays motionless.
We kept moving. I gasped, others laughed.
For what seemed an interminable length of time (really only about 100 feet @10 mph) his resplendent, inert body twitched, jumped to it’s feet, and the chase began anew. So began another fun filled episode in the frantic and frolic game of “catch up”. All this orchestrated entirely for your entertainment, repeatedly, by your master of movement, your comedic conductor … Peter Pitofsky.
All rise.
And it didn’t stop there; in fact it never stopped for the next 72 hours. Oh yeah, we made it to the “Beer Gardens” … eventually. And I got to do a show… eventually. But frankly, when there is no one around but you, Peter and a bunch of drunken assholes, well, there’s no one else around but Peter.
The audiences knew it and I knew it. They showed their drunken appreciation by raucous laughter and impulsive applause while I searched for a place to hide. “No need to be on the front lines”, I thought, “I’ll watch from over here”. I told you I was a survivor.
I’ve never seen such superb physicality coupled with such intense emotional risk taking. All of this performed without a script. He had no idea where he was going, that was obvious to me. What wasn’t so obvious was how he was able to extricate himself out of the most provocative situations. Always, without a scratch, always to the cacophony of gut busting laughter. It was truly a phenomenal thing to watch, like I said, safely, from a distance.
Which is what I did, for the rest of the day, I watched. What I witnessed that day was perhaps the best clown (certainly the funniest) I have ever seen in my 35 years of performing.
Most of the things he did are just too incredible to describe adequately, but one of the most amazing was how Peter would loosen his pants, pull them up to his neck, put his arms inside, then tighten the belt. The effect was brilliant, a head on two legs. So fuckin’ funny, so fuckin’ funny.
You might think to yourself, “Well, what’s he do”…he’s got no arms, right?
No doubt, no juggling, surely, no sleight-of-hand, definitely, no mime, certainly, no puppets.
But believe me, without any script, without any props and without ever taking his hands out of his pant legs, he killed.
Speaking of killing, this is where my story starts.
I can’t say I always loved being around Peter. Occasionally, when he put your life in danger it becomes somewhat difficult to appreciate his amusing antics.
At some point early on in your relationship with Peter one begins to realize that whatever happens to be going on around you while in his presence has little or nothing to do with, well, what you thought was going on around you. What I mean to say is, that everything ceases to be about you, who you are, where you are or if there is anybody else around at the time. It’s all about Peter now. You and your surroundings became part of his comedic equation. Your outer circle becomes his inner circle. Pi r squared, where Pi stands for Pitofsky. And, like Pi, with its infinite decimals, Peter finds an infinite number of ways to make you laugh.
If you’re lucky enough to be in the presence of Peter Pitofsky (sometimes through no fault of your own) a whole new set of rules involving social etiquette evolves before your eyes. First, if Peter decides to do something… anything … for whatever reason… then, it’s going to happen. No ifs ands or buts. Decorum be damned. Yep, that’s Peter! Whatever to whomever, whenever he likes.
The reader must understand this writer is first and foremost a survivor. A survivor of scores of Peter Pitofsky moments. Every one of them an adventure. Every one of them a spectacle. Every one of them unquestionably ostentatiously delightful. My rule of survival is simple… duck & cover.
Unfortunately, there are places out there in the real world where there is nothing to duck behind, and there is nothing to cover you. This is one such story.
It was 1983; I had heard of Peter. Every street performer on the west coast had heard stories about him. The street-performing scene in LA and San Francisco was exploding. Peter was already a legend on the boardwalk in Venice and I, ahem, was kinda well known in San Francisco myself (false blush) as the Butterfly Man.
To be honest, I had heard about some of the things Peter purportedly had done down in Venice but I didn’t really believe the stories. People exaggerate and well, I considered the source. Like myself, they were all street performers, hardly what I’d call an erudite spokesperson.
The place was a park in San Bernardino. Not just any park, mind you, this one was big … way big… enough to hold the 670 thousand people that were due to arrive the following day.
No, they weren’t coming for Peter. It was more like he was coming for them or would it be better to say, ‘after them’, the distinction seemingly Machiavellian.
It was called the US Festival and, like I said, it was big. Real big. Glen Helen was the name of the park. The name sounded so provincial, so commonplace. Well, it wasn’t.
It was all the brainchild of Steve Wozniak, a San Francisco based entrepreneur. He envisioned a 3-day technologically based, multi-media event that was to be merged within an unparalleled modern day musical extravaganza. He built an amphitheater, he built a city, he built a fuckin' airfield.
Every important band of the day was coming. I think the phrase, “if you book them, they will come” was coined that day. Motley Crue, The Clash, INXS, David Bowie, Van Halen, U2 and you name it… they were all there. (Google it, really, unreal). Three days: New Wave meets Hard Rock meets Heavy Metal.
But that city, I mentioned, the one that Wozniak built, that wasn’t for us. That amphitheater, I mentioned, that wasn’t for us either. In fact, nothing was for us but we didn’t know it yet.
It was the Thursday before Memorial Day weekend. Everyone I knew was going. We all had three-day contracts. We were to show up for the 1st meeting at 4pm Thursday and we were told not to leave until 4pm Sunday. That was it, sounded like a fun, easy gig. Never would I utter the words again.
It seemed everybody was there. Every juggling mime, every snake-charming, sword swallower, every dancing, tuba playing, Panda bear trainer on the west coast and beyond had been called to create, I assumed, some sort of ambiance. Perhaps they were looking for a shit-hit-the-fan type of Altamont atmosphere, I don’t know. We even had an authentic (or so they said) Indian tribe (definitely 1 or 2 Mexicans in there if ya ask me).
So there we were… maybe fifty or sixty acts, close to a hundred performers. All of us mulling around Danny Daniel’s trailer…our holy grail. A veritable cornucopia of street performer insolvency all gathering like hyenas around the carcass of a paying gig.
I looked around, nothing for miles. You could barely see the amphitheater it was so far away. So, this was it, that one trailer, miles from nowhere. This was our city, a city not built, one fuckin’ trailer (on blocks).
Danny makes his grand entrance out of the trailer. A hush comes over the ragbag crowd.
Danny Daniels, formerly of the famous Bay City Reds, a 2-man/2 woman San Francisco based juggling team, was a street performer himself. Danny had been the go- between-man between Wozniak’s upper management and all of us. He was trying on the hat of an event producer for the first time. In retrospect, I believe that’s the one hat he should have passed.
Danny climbs atop the one picnic table (provided by the park) and proceeds to orate. One by one, he excitedly tells us how great this whole gig is gonna be. How we’re all gonna have beds and how we’re all gonna get tents and how great the food is going to be.
As he speaks, he gets more and more exuberant. He becomes progressively more animated. His arms start to gesticulate wildly with his progressing enthusiasm. He earnestly tells us about all the perceived amenities.
The showers, he assures us, will be provided. The cuisine will be a veritable connoisseur’s delight. We were to be personally chauffeured back and forth to our performing sites each day. On top of all this we were to be issued huge laminated backstage passes allowing unlimited access to all the concerts. And for the coup d'grace, at the end of each day, precisely at 5 pm, a keg of cold beer would be delivered to the site. Imagine our delight, imagine our ecstasy, imagine our delusion.
Danny finishes his paradoxically prophetic speech by pointing to the oversized Bulletin Board on display next to his trailer. There, he assures us, our scheduled performance times and sites would be posted @ 8am each morning. Our driver(s) would be waiting.
Our dismissal from that initial meeting signaled the conclusion to our purported journey into Shangri La. Nothing close to what Danny said would ever happen. Now, collectively, we commenced our decent into Dante’s Inferno. It was horrific.
I can’t give you details any more. The mind has a way of blocking out painful, unwanted memories. I believe it’s called repression. All I can give you is bits and pieces; it’s all I have left.
After about an hour of people dragging sleeping bags and duffle bags to the site, paper plates were handed out for the evening meal. Just as everyone had all their personal crap out and unprotected, just when everyone had nothing to put their food on but paper, it starts to rain.
Mind you, this place was the desert, not a tree for miles (well, one). No one had thought to bring an umbrella or tarps, it seemed superfluous. Unlike all the others, I had my stylin’ VW van with it’s high-top, stove, sink, refrigerator and two full size beds parked nearby (under that one tree). When it started to pour, I simply walked away from the site and went inside my comfy portable accommodations, closing the sliding door with assurance. As I drew the curtains, I occasionally would peek out the window to witness the enveloping carnage. Luckily, it was getting dark and I only saw snippets of distress. I wound up my upper windows a bit to block out the noise. The anguished cries of the disheveled mob became barely a whimper now. I slept peacefully.
At 8am there I was, all clean and dry and tidy in full satin-jester garb waiting in front of that immense Bulletin Board looking for my assignment of the day. I hardly noticed what the others looked like. As far as I was concerned they looked like they always did, just a little wetter and filthier.
Looking at the Board I saw, “ the Butterfly Man” listed and then next to it the site assignment, “Beer Gardens”. Then I looked a little lower. I saw another listing “The Butterfly Man” –Meadow Area 4… waaah? Even I can’t be two places at the same time. I knocked on the trailer door. Danny answered.
He seems somewhat taken aback by my impeccable attire but queries me as to the problem. I point at the Bulletin Board. He answers (I shit you not), “Oh that, that 1st one is you, you’re the “Butterfly Man”, that other one is “The Butterfly Man”. “Really”, I said, “so who’s this other guy? He answers curtly, slamming the door in my face, “Oh, you’ll recognize him
when you see him.” Thanks, asshole.
I find a driver and load my huge prop case on the back, the one seat next to the driver is open, so I take it. Choosing the cushioned seat turned out to be the smart move. That seat took me on a journey I’ll never forget, I believe it was my destiny. I was being taken to meet Peter Pitofsky. It seems somewhat ironic we were headed in the opposite direction. Or was it?
Scores of assorted degenerate street types wanting a ride descended upon us as soon as we started to depart. It was like somewhere between bees on honey and flies on shit. The driver never really stopped but several of the least prop-laden acts managed to jump onto the elongated flatbed in back. The jumbo golf cart had a top speed of about 10mph, so it was slow, real slow with 5 or 6 grubby, grimy street performers (not me) in back. I remember thinking, “Well, I’m in no hurry to go to work.” It was my last sane thought of the day.
We were maybe 200 feet away from the site when this guy comes running after us on foot. I didn’t notice it at first but the commotion behind me made me turn around. Somebody screamed, “It’s Peter..!”… and that was it.
After that, I laughed, then I laughed, then I laughed some more. He was brilliant. It was like watching Buster Keaton (but even better, if that’s possible) come alive before your very eyes. What a master! What a gifted soul.
At first, I had no idea who this guy they called “Peter” was, all I saw was this absolutely frantic lunatic running like a banshee after the golf cart.
It wasn’t frightening; it was like it was a cartoon coming to life. This guy ran like a gazelle with a limp. How he covered so much ground so quickly amazed me. To this day I don’t know how he could sprint like that and only use one knee. Every third or forth step his knee seemingly turned to butter. His stride seemed like an amalgamation of athletic prowess with that of a feeble cripple. It was absurd. It was ridiculous. It was hilarious.
What really got me though was how he ran like hell like that for so goddamn far and you see him, right there, almost touching the back of the cart, so close, outstretched fingers searching for the tailgate. Reaching, reaching out in desperation. His face reflecting unbridled determination. Trying so hard, almost there, and just when you could smell his thrill of victory… POW… he goes down, he disappears.
The next thing you see, as you’re pulling away, is what appears to be a dead body lying prostrate on the ground. That’s what he did, I swear… after all that running, for that hard and for that long and in that way. He falls, blam, right on his face in the recently bulldozed dirt. He lays motionless.
We kept moving. I gasped, others laughed.
For what seemed an interminable length of time (really only about 100 feet @10 mph) his resplendent, inert body twitched, jumped to it’s feet, and the chase began anew. So began another fun filled episode in the frantic and frolic game of “catch up”. All this orchestrated entirely for your entertainment, repeatedly, by your master of movement, your comedic conductor … Peter Pitofsky.
All rise.
And it didn’t stop there; in fact it never stopped for the next 72 hours. Oh yeah, we made it to the “Beer Gardens” … eventually. And I got to do a show… eventually. But frankly, when there is no one around but you, Peter and a bunch of drunken assholes, well, there’s no one else around but Peter.
The audiences knew it and I knew it. They showed their drunken appreciation by raucous laughter and impulsive applause while I searched for a place to hide. “No need to be on the front lines”, I thought, “I’ll watch from over here”. I told you I was a survivor.
I’ve never seen such superb physicality coupled with such intense emotional risk taking. All of this performed without a script. He had no idea where he was going, that was obvious to me. What wasn’t so obvious was how he was able to extricate himself out of the most provocative situations. Always, without a scratch, always to the cacophony of gut busting laughter. It was truly a phenomenal thing to watch, like I said, safely, from a distance.
Which is what I did, for the rest of the day, I watched. What I witnessed that day was perhaps the best clown (certainly the funniest) I have ever seen in my 35 years of performing.
Most of the things he did are just too incredible to describe adequately, but one of the most amazing was how Peter would loosen his pants, pull them up to his neck, put his arms inside, then tighten the belt. The effect was brilliant, a head on two legs. So fuckin’ funny, so fuckin’ funny.
You might think to yourself, “Well, what’s he do”…he’s got no arms, right?
No doubt, no juggling, surely, no sleight-of-hand, definitely, no mime, certainly, no puppets.
But believe me, without any script, without any props and without ever taking his hands out of his pant legs, he killed.
Speaking of killing, this is where my story starts.
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