TRUSTING LAUGHTER
By Charles Kraus
I was raised by a father who thought ‘buyer beware’ was the eleventh commandment. Lots of folks, he explained, were going to solicit my vote of confidence. Most would mean well, but except in very simple, straightforward situations, when they said they knew, they could, they would, what they really meant was, they thought, they hoped, they’d try. People wanted me to trust their opinions, interpretations, products and their absolute, solid, swear on grandma’s grave, versions of “the facts.” Caveat Emptor.
As time went by, life experience gave me a less skeptical point of view. This transition began at the start of my career as a comic and magician. Without ever mentioning the concept, my mentor, comedian Jay Jason, modeled a kind of faith, a set of positive assumptions offering guarded optimism that the mixing of trust and conviction could be a successful formula.
Jay told jokes and sang a few songs. He’d flirted with stardom but never achieved it, settling instead for a niche as a second tier highly respected professional. During the course of the three summers plus odd school-year weekends that I worked for him back in the 1960s, I served as his driver, apprentice, gopher, and on a few occasions, his opening act. He was my employer, teacher, and friend.
Seventeen is when you got your New Jersey driver’s license. Would you trust a kid who’d recently obtained one to chauffeur you in and around New York City and upstate, late at night, through traffic jams, summer heat and winter snow storms? In your brand new Cadillac convertible? After quizzing me on the rules of the road, Dad would occasionally, and quite reluctantly, dole out the keys to our station-wagon. Jay offered me the Caddy drivers seat with but a single word of caution — “don’t pass if you are driving up hill.” So, OK, trust can border on naïveté.
We filled drive-time to the mountain resorts by talking comedy. Why the first two minutes of a routine were so important. What you did if the show was sparsely attended. Taking advantage of the unexpected. I was asked to rate possible jokes, offer feedback as he arranged then rearranged routines. Reaching our destination, I’d pass out band music, take notes, carry luggage and make sure the props were in place.
Many a night, particularly on the weekends, Jay performed in multiple locations . One or two venues would be medium sized hotels, next an eleven o'clock performance at the palatial Concord or maybe the Tamarack Lodge. Later in the evening we’d end up at a bungalow colony – a collection of small summer cottages sharing centralized services such as dining facilities, a pool, recreation equipment and a canteen used for dances and shows.
Bungalow colonies had limited entertainment budgets. They were the “I’m-in-the-neighborhood, might-as-well-do-the-show” stops. Their audiences got what was left of Jay after his earlier appearances. These loosely scheduled post-midnight programs required special skills. Jay was tired. Half the crowd planned to stick around just a little longer, then if he still hadn’t arrived, head off to bed. The other half was steadfast. Guests watched the clock, danced and drank.
I felt protective of my boss. Folks were boisterous. How was he going to do his act at such boozed up soirees? My concerns proved unwarranted. Jay Jason had been around and around. He could handle just about any crowd. Trusting himself, his instincts, his talent and the audience, he looked mighty pleased to be there.
The first time I accompanied Jay to such an appearance, we’d entered the canteen to cheers. But I could see that the guests had no immediate plans to be seated. Jay joined the party, glad handing ‘old friends’ and fans, telling a story to this group, to that group, getting folks to listen and laugh. This group merged with that group, as the informal jokes and stories continued. Slowly the comedian led everyone toward the stage. Jay’s voice became a whisper. People grew quiet and leaned in to hear him. He mounted the platform, motioning for them to sit down so he could reveal the punch line to a joke he'd begun. Individuals fused into an audience. The show had formally begun.
One Sunday afternoon, as we pulled into the driveway of a small resort, Jay moaned. He was upset because passing the welcome sign, he realized the guests only spoke Yiddish. He nodded, accepting his fate, then started mumbling a variety of Yiddish expressions, dredging them up from wherever he stored his inner resources.
By now, I’d seen my boss enough to know he’d figure out some way of performing. I was more curious than concerned, though the situation did present a dilemma. Thankfully, everyone looked friendly. Guests were joking among themselves and seemed willing, even anxious, to be entertained.
The MC offered a few of his own stories, told in Yiddish. People chuckled. They were waiting for the genuine article, the actual, authentic comedian. Finally — “And now, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls “– probably that’s what he was saying. Next, a rim shot – evidently this sound effect was the same in all languages – “Jay Jason.”
In an elevated pitch, a little slower than normal, and maybe just a smidgen tentative, I listened to what I’m guessing was pretty much Jay’s standard routine delivered half in English, forty percent in Yiddish, and ten percent in body language.
There were a few quiet moments while the kids explained the jokes to their parents and grandparents. After the initial laugh came a pause, then delayed laughter as the translation kicked in.
Trust your talent. Trust your instincts. Trust the audience. It can be your best friend. Turns out, if you deliver the goods, they’ll sign the receipt.
Tuesday, February 21, 2017
Monday, January 23, 2017
Ringling Bros. chased a fading spotlight: Charles the Clown
Back in the day, we did not think about animal cruelty. To us, these circus beasts looked proud to be in the show.
By Charles Kraus
Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus is closing. Not for the season, but forever. Each year from 1950 until 1966, when it came to New York City, I attended a performance. Initially because my parents took me. Later because I felt that watching the Greatest Show on Earth would do me some good.
Back then, before sideshows were considered degrading, I’d arrive early so I could tour the preamble. The giant slipped his plastic ring from his pinky, passed a silver dollar through it, then peddled duplicate rings to the crowd. There were contortionists, sword swallowers, fire eaters and a guy who could paint a detailed picture of Niagara Falls in less than 30 seconds. He just happened to have a few dry copies he could part with for a ridiculously low price — low for serious art like his.
Once you got to the bleacher seating, you could look out on three rings plus two squares, rigs, ropes suspended from way up high, waiting to be climbed by beautiful women (beautiful from where we were sitting), costumed acrobats, twirling, flipping, balancing. Dancing bears, prancing horses carrying trick riders, elephants doing “head” stands, dogs bounding through the air.
We did not think about animal cruelty. To us, these circus beasts looked proud to be in the show. The lions, of course, were confined to large, walk-in cages. That is where the lion tamers confronted them. No matter what you were watching, you were tempted to refocus on another of the simultaneous exhibitions crowding the enormous floor.
Experiencing a Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey show was similar to attending a big league game. You knew you were watching seasoned, superbly trained professionals at the peak of their careers. I once witnessed a high-wire performer balance his way up the support cable to the platform 60 feet above ground, do his act and then, seemingly for the fun of it, cross to the guard rails that kept those of us with bleacher seats from going over the edge. He strolled along the top of the railing, located a sturdy wire, then slide down, down, down to the sawdust.
I saw Emmett Kelly year after year in his star turn as the leading Ringling Bros. clown. His character was a sad hobo named Weary Willie. Kelly played to segments of the audience, turning one against the other. He’d do a bit of juggling and become “disappointed” with the reaction of the crowd. Dismissing it, he’d move to another part of the arena and try his luck with a different portion of the audience. Back and forth, without saying a word, he commanded everyone’s attention. And admiration.
As his act concluded, the house lights dimmed. Emmett tried to sweep the floor clear of an ever roaming, ever fading spotlight. He was so sad, so lost and confused. And so funny. It was humor with pathos, very different than the slapstickery performed by the other clowns. I liked the other clowns, too, the business of a tiny car coming to a stop in the middle of the center ring and two dozen costumed zanies emerging from inside. But these clowns had no particular personalities. They were colorful, funny and entirely interchangeable. Emmett was unique.
Ringling Bros. chased that elusive spotlight into the 21st century. And just like Emmet, the spots grew more and more difficult to pin down. Finally, they faded away.
This article was published in USAToday and about 50 other newspapers.
This article was published in USAToday and about 50 other newspapers.
Friday, January 13, 2017
Apprehension Trumps
Apprehension Trumps
By Charles E. Kraus
Malcolm Gladwell called it the tipping point. My mother called it the final straw. Now we are calling it the Trump Administration.
I cast my first Presidential vote in 1964, so I've come to expect a kind of pre-inaugural anticipation, new administration and all. But this time it's different. No anticipation. Apprehension prevails.
From time to time, when the economy is bad, when we’ve begun or prolonged or intensified yet another war, when a ravaging disease such as HIV threatens, when something big enough to qualify as actual breaking news occurs, I wonder if my personal trip line has finally been crossed. If I'm impacted enough to respond in a serious, meaningful way. Is the event so disruptive that my reaction will be more demonstrative than shaking my head and shouting at the screen.
My daughter will be in the Capitol on January 21. Where will I be?
Some of us have never experienced a tipping point. We've made decisions, but not disruptive ones. We've gotten married, become parents, gone off to work – lived lives in the prescribed sequence, traveling the kind of existence that a GPS might recommend. Logical, direct, uninspired.
We've acquired houses and families. Financial commitments. Parental responsibilities, and workplace obligations . We are, or feel we are, locked into our lives. As the political system disassembles, we observe, maybe even bitch about the decline in government accountability and civic decency. From just past nowhere, zealots reveal themselves and threaten to out maneuver reasonableness. This is happening on our watch, but who has the time to do anything more than click a petition, send a letter or make a donation?
When does the country turn so unsettling, unhinged and potentially damning to our children that we are obligated to act? And if we feel inclined to do so, to take action, what does that mean? Describe it please. Define meaningful. To me and more importantly, to yourself.
A great many years ago I knew a couple, two law students whose lives consisted of study and work, work and study. Comfortably middle class, and though this was during the Vietnam War era, a time when many young people marched and protested, my friends were far too involved in their personal development to do more than pay lip service to civic issues.
In May 1970, National Guardsmen shot and killed four Kent State students during a protest against bombings in Cambodia. There were no cable news operations, no instant internet alerts. If CBS, NBC or ABC told the public about a breaking news story, the networks meant a serious, consequential event had occurred. People stopped what they were doing and listened or watched.
My friends were highly focused. Disciplined. They'd regimented their lives, adhering to a schedule that would not distract from studying for the bar exam. External events were on hold.
I believe the classical station was broadcasting nondescript background music when the interruption came. An announcer broken into the program to report that four Kent State students had been shot and killed during a protest. My friends heard this and continued studying. Several days later, The New Mexico National Guard bayoneted 11 students. These and similar events lead to the country's only nationwide campus strike. Hundred of colleges and universities shut down. Four million students participated. Including my friends.
Five days after the Kent State murders, 100,000 people showed up in our nation’s capitol to demonstrate against the Guard’s brutality, and against the war. My friends closed their text books, altered their plans, got into their car and drove to DC. They'd had enough. The country turned against the war. A collective tipping point had been reached.
The current issues are about another kind of war, a war against common sense, reasonableness and decency.
Wednesday, December 14, 2016
Scary Santa Sighting
Scary Santa Sighting
By Charles E. Kraus
It’s started. As of this writing, eleven Scary Santa sightings have been reported in major cities, primarily in the Northeast. However, authorities warn us to expect the phenomena to spread nation-wide long before we pack-up our Christmas trees and prepare for ski season.
Members of the Anderson family had exited their Fostoria, Ohio Walmart and were walking to the van when a particularly repulsive Santa, wearing a ragged red outfit, brown boots, and an alligator belt, jumped at them from between two parked cars and began singing unauthorized verses of We Wish You A Merry Christmas.
“I was more than frightened,” said Mrs. Anderson, “I was offended.”
“His beard was filthy, and not long enough,” her son stated.
“It was short. Almost a goatee!”, her daughter added, approximating the length by a two inch gap between her thumb and index finger.
Meanwhile, in New London, Connecticut, Captain Wertz, Connecticut National Guard, called for additional training sessions to help prepare his troops for possible action.
“Kids are involved here, so we have to be extremely sensitive, but vigilant. If it becomes necessary, I’m prepared to send armed patrols into malls and shopping centers.”
Psychologists at the Pratt and Rogers Institute issued guidelines to help parents distinguish between authentic Santa Clauses and renegades.
“Let’s face facts,” says Dr. Sloane Scott, “in this post-coherent era, it is not always possible to distinguish between the authentic and the counterfeit. Implausible does not mean impossible.
“We suggest that when approaching a Santa, parents — and their children, at least youngsters eight and older — consider the following factors: height, facial tattoos, piercings in eyebrows, where Santa’s ears are visible, is he (or she) wearing an earring that contains any inappropriate symbolism."
Dr. Stubby Winslow, Director of Gingfield Institute, issued a profile of legitimate Santas:
They should be at least 5’6”, weight at least 178 pounds. If gloves have been removed, check for clean fingernails. The Board of Health recommends hand sanitizers at all Santa Stations.
In anticipation of a scary Santa invasion, state governments have begun issuing Santa Credentials. North Carolina requires a rebirth certificate. Unfortunately due to logistical complexities, mandatory Santa registration will not beginning July of 2017.
Winslow suggests that Scary Santas might attempt to fool authorities by posing as ordinary, sweet, loving, Santas.
“Then, just as a child approaches,” they could rip off their beards, or worse, instead of saying, “Ho Ho Ho, how are you little fella,” they might begin yodeling, maybe rapping. No Christmas rapping, except in Bloomingdales,” he said, “chucking to himself.
While this report was/is being written/keyboarded, the author turned on his television, only to be informed by CNN that an onslaught of random Scary Santa attacks have just taken place in Cleveland, Riverside California, and Durango Colorado. Reporters are on their way to these locations. Megyn Kelly and Wolf Blitzer are being helicoptered to Cleveland.
Posing as renegade Santas, investigative journalists from the New York Times infiltrated a scary Santa training bunker in Bismarck, North Dakota. They tell us that several staffers are disgruntled former elves and ex-members of Santa’s North Pole annex. The Times reports scary Santa candidates are forced to undergo drug, alcohol, and psychological testing. Those who fail to show signs of abuse or alienation are not permitted to graduate unless they can provide a letter from a patrol officer, psychological counselor or ex-spouse indicating sufficient anti-social inclinations.
By Charles E. Kraus
It’s started. As of this writing, eleven Scary Santa sightings have been reported in major cities, primarily in the Northeast. However, authorities warn us to expect the phenomena to spread nation-wide long before we pack-up our Christmas trees and prepare for ski season.
Members of the Anderson family had exited their Fostoria, Ohio Walmart and were walking to the van when a particularly repulsive Santa, wearing a ragged red outfit, brown boots, and an alligator belt, jumped at them from between two parked cars and began singing unauthorized verses of We Wish You A Merry Christmas.
“I was more than frightened,” said Mrs. Anderson, “I was offended.”
“His beard was filthy, and not long enough,” her son stated.
“It was short. Almost a goatee!”, her daughter added, approximating the length by a two inch gap between her thumb and index finger.
Meanwhile, in New London, Connecticut, Captain Wertz, Connecticut National Guard, called for additional training sessions to help prepare his troops for possible action.
“Kids are involved here, so we have to be extremely sensitive, but vigilant. If it becomes necessary, I’m prepared to send armed patrols into malls and shopping centers.”
Psychologists at the Pratt and Rogers Institute issued guidelines to help parents distinguish between authentic Santa Clauses and renegades.
“Let’s face facts,” says Dr. Sloane Scott, “in this post-coherent era, it is not always possible to distinguish between the authentic and the counterfeit. Implausible does not mean impossible.
“We suggest that when approaching a Santa, parents — and their children, at least youngsters eight and older — consider the following factors: height, facial tattoos, piercings in eyebrows, where Santa’s ears are visible, is he (or she) wearing an earring that contains any inappropriate symbolism."
Dr. Stubby Winslow, Director of Gingfield Institute, issued a profile of legitimate Santas:
They should be at least 5’6”, weight at least 178 pounds. If gloves have been removed, check for clean fingernails. The Board of Health recommends hand sanitizers at all Santa Stations.
In anticipation of a scary Santa invasion, state governments have begun issuing Santa Credentials. North Carolina requires a rebirth certificate. Unfortunately due to logistical complexities, mandatory Santa registration will not beginning July of 2017.
Winslow suggests that Scary Santas might attempt to fool authorities by posing as ordinary, sweet, loving, Santas.
“Then, just as a child approaches,” they could rip off their beards, or worse, instead of saying, “Ho Ho Ho, how are you little fella,” they might begin yodeling, maybe rapping. No Christmas rapping, except in Bloomingdales,” he said, “chucking to himself.
While this report was/is being written/keyboarded, the author turned on his television, only to be informed by CNN that an onslaught of random Scary Santa attacks have just taken place in Cleveland, Riverside California, and Durango Colorado. Reporters are on their way to these locations. Megyn Kelly and Wolf Blitzer are being helicoptered to Cleveland.
Posing as renegade Santas, investigative journalists from the New York Times infiltrated a scary Santa training bunker in Bismarck, North Dakota. They tell us that several staffers are disgruntled former elves and ex-members of Santa’s North Pole annex. The Times reports scary Santa candidates are forced to undergo drug, alcohol, and psychological testing. Those who fail to show signs of abuse or alienation are not permitted to graduate unless they can provide a letter from a patrol officer, psychological counselor or ex-spouse indicating sufficient anti-social inclinations.
Monday, November 7, 2016
god.biz
god.biz
By Charles E. Kraus
God consults Google. He wants to see if there is a cure for an evolving disease. He checks the Mayo Clinic site, but it’s obvious they don’t know what they are talking about. He’s outraged. He provides these folks with a lavish budget and they spout gibberish. He makes a note.
As soon as there is an opening in his schedule, he’ll send a memo about the disease to the Miracle Department suggesting a medical intervention. If not a cure, then a remission, or at least a treatment plan.
“See if you can make any Rx generic, will you please.”
God spends a heavenly moment looking in on internet search patterns, sort of a mega screen shot, very big data. The Annual Heaven Help Us Extravaganza is about to take place, and he wants to appear ‘current.” At the last gathering, he was caught short by new trends in tattooology.
“Who would have thought?” the Lord said.
Note to staff (the angels, not the rod): “I’m thinking we need an inservice regarding the iPhone 19.”
“There is no iPhone 19,” St. Cornelius replies.
“I have it on good authority 19 is coming. I’ve set it as an alert on my Google calendar — May 2021. Have you seen this app? I recommend it. According to my Cupertino eavesdropping, the damn phone will translate speech into thought waves that can be understood by half the damn animal kingdom. Pretty impressive, if you ask me.”
Note: “The world has gone crazy. This is what happens when I multitask. I get tired, you know. I would take a nap, which is what Saint Huffington recommends, but I have a difficult time letting go. I’m one of those Gods who believes the infinite can’t function without me.”
“There are a lot of disgruntled disbelievers. Fortunately, you can’t sue God. Not this God. If folks check their Bible, the fine print (Deuteronomy 17:8–99, sub 4) (footnote 2), they will see they’ve waived litigation rights and have to take spiritual accusations to private arbitration. We have a contract with Steinberg, MacMurry & Hazim. These guys are extremely fair, though of course, they know who brings ‘em most of their business. They’re nondenominational. I believe Lucifer uses them for atrocity cases.”
The Lord decides to Skype withe Moses, who after a semi-successful Outward Bound assignment involving mountain climbing, flood control, and almost completing an extended hike in the dessert, had been reassigned to Kepler-186f, where he’s been operating a Sleep Train franchise.
“So how’s business, Mo?”
“I’ll tell you the truth … no wandering around … the straight ahead, honest to …. the truth. We are on the verge of a very big success.”
“How so?”
“A product, patent pending as if it’s written in stone. A product so old, it’s new.”
“Don’t keep me in suspense. I hate suspense.”
“Unleavened bed.”
////
By Charles E. Kraus
God consults Google. He wants to see if there is a cure for an evolving disease. He checks the Mayo Clinic site, but it’s obvious they don’t know what they are talking about. He’s outraged. He provides these folks with a lavish budget and they spout gibberish. He makes a note.
As soon as there is an opening in his schedule, he’ll send a memo about the disease to the Miracle Department suggesting a medical intervention. If not a cure, then a remission, or at least a treatment plan.
“See if you can make any Rx generic, will you please.”
God spends a heavenly moment looking in on internet search patterns, sort of a mega screen shot, very big data. The Annual Heaven Help Us Extravaganza is about to take place, and he wants to appear ‘current.” At the last gathering, he was caught short by new trends in tattooology.
“Who would have thought?” the Lord said.
Note to staff (the angels, not the rod): “I’m thinking we need an inservice regarding the iPhone 19.”
“There is no iPhone 19,” St. Cornelius replies.
“I have it on good authority 19 is coming. I’ve set it as an alert on my Google calendar — May 2021. Have you seen this app? I recommend it. According to my Cupertino eavesdropping, the damn phone will translate speech into thought waves that can be understood by half the damn animal kingdom. Pretty impressive, if you ask me.”
Note: “The world has gone crazy. This is what happens when I multitask. I get tired, you know. I would take a nap, which is what Saint Huffington recommends, but I have a difficult time letting go. I’m one of those Gods who believes the infinite can’t function without me.”
“There are a lot of disgruntled disbelievers. Fortunately, you can’t sue God. Not this God. If folks check their Bible, the fine print (Deuteronomy 17:8–99, sub 4) (footnote 2), they will see they’ve waived litigation rights and have to take spiritual accusations to private arbitration. We have a contract with Steinberg, MacMurry & Hazim. These guys are extremely fair, though of course, they know who brings ‘em most of their business. They’re nondenominational. I believe Lucifer uses them for atrocity cases.”
The Lord decides to Skype withe Moses, who after a semi-successful Outward Bound assignment involving mountain climbing, flood control, and almost completing an extended hike in the dessert, had been reassigned to Kepler-186f, where he’s been operating a Sleep Train franchise.
“So how’s business, Mo?”
“I’ll tell you the truth … no wandering around … the straight ahead, honest to …. the truth. We are on the verge of a very big success.”
“How so?”
“A product, patent pending as if it’s written in stone. A product so old, it’s new.”
“Don’t keep me in suspense. I hate suspense.”
“Unleavened bed.”
////
Saturday, October 29, 2016
Why I’m Voting
Why I’m Voting
By Charles E. Kraus
ctmagician@gmail.com
Mort Sahl used to say that when he died he wanted to be buried in Chicago so he could remain politically active. Evidently, certain cemeteries have grave-side polling Mausoleums.
By my count, I’ve participated in 11 Presidential elections. Some have turned out my way, others found the majority heading in a different direction. Nixon and Bush II for example; I was opposed to those guys, and still am. Eisenhower worked out better than my dad said he would. At the time, I was too young to have my own opinion, so I had my dad’s. We were wrong. I’ve voted even when I knew my candidate was going to lose. Seemed like the right thing to do. Set an example for my kids. Gave me a sense of living up to the obligations an adult takes on.
There was a time when the associates of ward bosses “helped” transients get to the polls, told them who to vote for, then compensated the derelicts with a little whisky money for their trouble — or loyalty. Take your pick.
When our country opened for business, only white property owners were allowed to vote. Then most white adult males. Later, black males - if they could withstand the harassment and skewed literacy tests. Eventually, even women could vote! By 1971 eighteen-year-olds were participating in the process. If you were old enough to defend your country, you were old enough to help select its leaders.
In 2008 and 2012, the Left brought voter roll disenfranchisement of minorities to our attention. In 2016, the Alt-Right wants us to know that hoards of aliens have infiltrated the registration process to skew election results. So we have it both ways. Registered Hispanics are being dropped from voter rolls, and illegals are swamping the system.
In this year of turmoil, I still intend to submit a ballot. Just not by email.
When you cast one, you are voting for candidates, initiatives, and for the system. Showing up means you have faith in the process, that there are enough checks and balances built in to overcome any tampering. There is value in continuity. I assume my vote counts just like I assume I can walk down the street and get to my destination. It’s not a certainty, but an extremely strong probability.
Voting is signaling. It’s a message to those with whom you disagree that a segment of the population rejects their assessments and game plans. You are also signaling to those with whom you agree, letting them know there are like-minded individuals ready to organize for the next round.
The greater the turnout, the more likely the will of the people prevails.
Of course, it would be nice to think that informed voters outnumber other participants. A little effort, please, Dear Potential Voter. A vote is a message, and if you are sending a message, it's best to have something to say.
////
Charles E. Kraus lives, writes and votes in Seattle.
Thursday, October 13, 2016
Pro clown: Those creepy amateurs are bozos
Pro clown: Those creepy amateurs are bozos
By Charles Kraus
Recently published in The Oregonian and The Baltimore Sun
Charles the Clown is a developmentally appropriate clown, meaning he puts his make-up on in front of children so he's less scary. The Seattle-area clown said he came up with the idea when he noticed some kids were uncomfortable when he entered in full costume. (Courtesy of Charles the Clown)
By Charles Kraus
Might be a good idea to clear up the recent clown scares before Halloween.
I've been a clown for almost 50 years. Not a creepy one, not even a circus one. Nor a guy standing on the corner inviting customers to enter a store. I perform at children's parties, school shows, library programs, corporate events, festivals and fairs. As far as I know, the only person who thinks I'm creepy is my brother-in-law; he owes me money.
As a small boy, I was taken to the circus each year and got to watch Emmett Kelly, one of the world's great clowns. Not only wasn't he frightening; he wasn't even funny. He was sad, forlorn, and though ultimately amusing, mostly he touched heartstrings.
There are people who don clown costumes and suddenly go power mad. The outfit seems to give them license to cut loose. Most of these folks are amateurs who believe their exaggerated behavior is hysterically funny. They should be arrested for attempted impersonation of a clown.
It isn't really necessary to wear floppy shoes, colorful make-up and a rainbow wig to be a clown. Mr. Chaplin posed as a little tramp. Red Skelton simply put his hat on upside-down. As my stage show begins, I'm disguised as a relatively ordinary man. Except for the bright red pants.
About half way through the program, I try to turn myself into a clown. Everything seems to go wrong. As I'm powdering my face, the puff ends up on top of my head where I can't find it. Of course, the kids see it and began shouting their observation, trying to be helpful. I'm tangled in the suspenders and find myself wearing the jacket as if it was a dress. This may not sound particularly amusing, but it's been making kids laugh for 50 years.
I'm assuming that grownups who are fearful of clowns developed their coulrophobia (I'm still amazed that there is a scientific name for it) when scared by one as a child. The fear can be pretty pronounced. You would not believe the amount of hate mail my website attracts. According to the authors of some of these love letters, I'm in cahoots with the devil. Many years ago, the Los Angeles Unified School District refused to use clowns for their after-school programs. There is a stigma. When I make the rounds at the children's hospital, teenagers won't have anything to do with me.I developed the "become-a-clown" routine because I noticed that a few children were uncomfortable when I walked into the part
in the complete outfit. Made sense to me. Imagine a small child being confronted — possibly overwhelmed — by a tall person with strange hair, size 97-and-a-half shoes, wearing an outrageous outfit, and displaying a face that looked much sillier on television than from 2 feet away in Mrs. Smith's living room.
Yet, clowns make kids giggle. They visit senior centers where elderly gentlemen stand on long lines waiting for entertainers like me to twist balloon animals they can take back to lady friends seated at tables.
Not all clowns have the skills of Emmett Kelly. Or the sensibilities of Marcel Marceau. But, as far as I'm concerned, most are well-meaning and fun to watch. One or two may be creepy.
in the complete outfit. Made sense to me. Imagine a small child being confronted — possibly overwhelmed — by a tall person with strange hair, size 97-and-a-half shoes, wearing an outrageous outfit, and displaying a face that looked much sillier on television than from 2 feet away in Mrs. Smith's living room.
Yet, clowns make kids giggle. They visit senior centers where elderly gentlemen stand on long lines waiting for entertainers like me to twist balloon animals they can take back to lady friends seated at tables.
Not all clowns have the skills of Emmett Kelly. Or the sensibilities of Marcel Marceau. But, as far as I'm concerned, most are well-meaning and fun to watch. One or two may be creepy.
But, then again, there are creeps of all kinds roving the world. Some are dressed in business suits. Some in uniform. Or in the traditional polka dots and silly hair.
Lately, I've seen a lot of silly hair on television.
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