Red Nose

Zippo

My first day as a circus clown was April 1, 1976, George Matthews Great London Circus. I stepped up into the rickety old converted school bus that served as a rolling bunkhouse for the clowns and the prop crew, full of nerves and hope.

There, in the middle bunk on the left side of the bus, lay a tall guy with a long ponytail. I introduced myself and he stuck out his hand and introduced himself. He told me to pick out a bunk and stow my stuff. He made me feel comfortable, even though I'd be sharing the luxurious quarters with the other -- male -- clowns.

Zippo. Dear, dear Zippo.

I don't have a single picture of him out of makeup, but that's okay. I'll always remember him as this elegant whiteface, wearing his red-and-white checked pants and bright green shirt. With his electric blue hair, he was quite the primary-colored clown.

He was funny, too. He knew the gags inside and out and taught me a lot.

He was a bit of a dog, too. He was great at using his clown-ness to pick up town girls and ensure himself a hot shower and a soft bed for the night.

Once he kind of fell for a girl and persuaded her to come along with the show. He got her a job as the Electric Girl on the sideshow -- all she had to do was hold two ends of a thick wire and let the mild current make her hair stand on end. She had shoulder-length hair, so it was pretty impressive, at least to the folks who had never watched a Mr. Wizard show or gone to a children's museum. The girl got bored after a couple of weeks, blew the show, and went back home. Zippo moped around for a day or so, then perked right back up.

Another time he let Bullitt the Gazoony do the grunt work for him. Bullitt picked up a skinny blond girl with a baby on her hip and treated her to lunch, bought tickets to the show, fed the baby candy floss; you know, the works. Zippo caught her eye during the show, however, and the rest was history. Bullitt was not amused, but he knew he couldn't compete with a clown.

 

I only worked with Zippo that one season in 1976. I never saw him again, but I thought of him over the years. I looked for him at the Clown College reunion (he was in the Class of '71), but he didn't attend. I did sit at a table with some of his other classmates, so at least I knew that he was really real; I didn't imagine him. (Does that make any sense? Probably not.)

Anyway. Zippo died last week after a motorcycle crash. He was 56 years old. A rep from the Culpepper-Merriweather Circus sent a brief note to the Clown College grads list informing us all of his death.

It hit me surprisingly hard. I hadn't seen Zippo for 33 years. I shouldn't be as sad as I am, but there it is.

In the circus, you don't say goodbye. You always leave open the possibility that you will meet again, on another show, under another big top, in the center of the ring.

See you down the road, Zippo.

Tell Me Why You're Scared Of Clowns

I belong to a Clown College graduates listserv, and lately there's been quite a good discussion on it about clown makeup, costumes, and why kids are scared of clowns.

Some of the folks lament the trend toward more minimal makeup, preferring the old-fashioned full clown makeup, complete with wigs, gloves, big shoes, and loud costume. Others think that the more minimal makeup is the way to go, particularly if the clowning is close to the audience.

Here's a sample, sort of. The guy on the left is an auguste clown. The lovely lady in the middle is a whiteface clown, complete with gloves and hat perched on her wig. The clown-doctor on the right, while he has a wig, is a more subdued, minimalist makeup.

Some clowns get even more minimal than Doctor Clown, using only a red nose, or oversize glasses, or mere touches of white or red to complement a more subtle costume.

The discussion touched on the supposition that the full-blown costume and makeup can be scary to kids, while the more minimal makeup/costume is less scary. A couple clowns postulated that fear of clowns is just a trend, that it isn't a real fear but a made-up phobia. Everyone believes that kids can indeed get scared of clowns, but professional clowns know how to approach kids to prevent that from happening.

But all of the discussion is clowns talking to clowns. I'd like to know what YOU think, especially if clowns scare you, or squick you out, or fill you with fear. How did you come to fear clowns? Did one get up in your face when you were little? Did you read Stephen King's It and develop that fear based on the horrible Pennywise? Did you read news stories of clownish serial killers?

And if you love clowns, how did you come to love them? What kind do you prefer? Fully made up and costumed, or simply red nosed and subtle?

Don't be shy; tell me what you think. I'll share your responses with the grads. (Don't worry; I won't name names!)

The Day Rex Blew The Show

Those of you who have read The Book may remember the scene where the lion bites the trainer during the show.

It really happened.

The show was playing Anniston, Alabama, on a rotten lot overrun with tall weeds. Because the steel cage took time to set up, the lion act went first. They appeared in the center ring. It also took time to tear down, which is why the clowns went next, in the other two rings. As the trainer did the act, his Lovely Assistant and Girlfriend sat outside the cage, ready to help if something went wrong.

Nothing ever did. The lions were mostly older females who had been doing the act for years. Occasionally they'd swat at the whip or growl lazily, but they always did the act. They sat up, rolled over, jumped through the flaming hoop. However, there was one young lion, a male with a big, impressive ruff, who was a little less cooperative.

This one day, Rex was feeling particularly wrangy. As the trainer turned to grab a prop, Rex jumped off his perch and strode toward the front of the cage. The trainer snapped the whip; Rex kept coming. The trainer grabbed the chair and stuck it in Rex's face; Rex swatted it away with his huge paw and kept coming, roaring with displeasure.

At this point the trainer tried to get out of the cage, but his girlfriend was blocking the door, frozen in fear.

I was standing just outside of Ring 1, transfixed. All I knew was that something wasn't right, but I didn't realize just how wrong things really were until the trainer started to climb the cage to get away from Rex.

Rex didn't even have to stretch. He lifted his head, opened his mouth, and bit down on the trainer's butt.
One second later, someone – one of the prop guys, I think – fired a fire extinguisher into Rex's face, forcing him back. The trainer lost his grip on the cage and fell back. Someone got the door open and managed to get the lions to retreat into the tunnel that led to their cages while a couple other guys got the trainer out.

At this point the audience started to panic and rush out of the tent. The ringmaster took control. He grabbed the microphone and ordered the audience to calm down, the lions were not loose and couldn't get loose, that the trainer was fine, please keep your seats, ladies and gentlemen, please keep your seats!

Then he announced us.

Yes, he sent in the clowns.

I snapped out of it, shaking off my horror and slipping into character. My partner and I performed our gag as we always did, fake slaps and falls, mugging for the audience, making them laugh while the trainer was bleeding in the backyard waiting for the ambulance to take him to the hospital.

A Citizen Of The World

I met a lot a characters on the circus back in the 70s, including the guy in the picture. I don't quite remember exactly where and when I met him, but I do remember exactly how he introduced himself to me.

"I am Yan Sing, and I am a citizen of the world!" he announced grandly.

Okay, I thought to myself, what you are, is a weirdo.

Yan Sing was a gazoony, a roustabout, a workin' man. He was on the big top crew, which put up and tore down the tent. He was really strong and kind of scary, so I mostly stayed out of his way as much as I could.

I wasn't really worried about him doing anything to me. He had a girlfriend on the show, so that wasn't an issue, even though he liked to slobber and make obscene suggestions about what we ought to be doing together. He took an instant dislike to the boss clown, who was a faux hippie vegetarian with stars in his eyes.

Yan Sing kept after the boss clown, trying to get him to throw a punch. Then Yan Sing could beat the snot of out him and be able to absolve himself of the blame. Luckily, the boss clown was smart enough to realize that he would lose any kind of physical contest with Yan Sing, so he just walked away.

Good thing. One night at a pizza joint in Ashland Kentucky, the whole group was eating pizza, drinking beer, and telling lies. Yan Sing got into it with Glen the Electrician over some stupid nonsense, and Glen threatened to pop him one.

"Well, come on, gimme your best shot," invited Yan Sing.

Glen picked up his beer mug, rared back, and slugged Yan Sing upside the head with it.

"That's one," said Yan Sing, "gimme another."

Glen was happy to oblige. He cracked the beer mug right on top of the first blow, opening a cut on Yan Sing's temple that promptly bled all over creation.

"That's two," said Yan Sing.

About this time the pizza joint people were converging on the table, so Yan Sing staggered out of the place, bleeding like a stuck pig and muttering about how Glen couldn't hit the broad side of a barn. The girlfriend got him to the ER, he got stitched up, and they came right back to the lot. After all, tear down was that night.

Another night Yan Sing and a couple of other gazoonies hitched a lift in the bus with me and the boss clown. We got pulled over in Scottsboro, Alabama because the tail lights were burned out. The police, as police are wont to do, asked us our names and where we were from.

I mean, imagine: here's the back end of a raggedy-ass school bus, hooked up to a fifth wheel and being pulled by a busted-up pickup truck with out-of-state plates. Inside are a bunch of seedy characters (myself included) who claim to be with a circus! Wouldn't you ask for names and addresses?

When the officer got to Yan Sing, he asked, "What's your name, son?"

I was expecting the usual answer and wondering what the cops would do when they heard it, but instead Yan Sing answered, very respectfully, "Officer, my name is Richard Parker."

I had a very strong feeling that Yan Sing -- or Richard Parker -- had probably dealt with the cops before. So much for being for citizen of the world!

Reconnection

My last season on the circus -- Famous Hunt's Circus, to be exact -- was the summer of 1978. It was a weird, kind of depressing season, with bad weather and sparse audiences. But one of the brightest spots on that show was that I got to know Mike and Janice Aria.

Mike and Janice had a bear act, with one grizzly and one black bear. The bears were trained well and treated with love. They also had five golden retrievers. They were training the dogs to be an act on their own. It was so much fun to watch them practice with them!

As you can see, Mike was pretty easy to look at, as was Janice. Janice graduated from Clown College in 1972, three years before I did, and spent some time on the Ringling show as a clown. They were good friends and helped me cope with the rather unwelcome attentions of the creepy, middle-aged man who had a horse act.

Of course, after I left the circus I lost touch with them. Isn't that always the way? Your life changes, and somehow the people you care so much about stay planted in the past and your world spins away to new friends, new experiences. I learned just a couple of years ago that Mike had died from ALS in the late 80s.

I didn't think Janice was coming to the reunion -- her name wasn't on any of the lists of attendees. Then, as we gathered at Circus World, I saw her! I ran up to her, very nervous, wondering if she would even remember me. But she did! And it was like I'd seen her just yesterday, like no time had passed, like we only been traveling to the next lot instead of living separate lives for 30 years.

We spent a lot of time together, catching up, sharing our now-lives and reliving our then-lives, and she is every bit as wonderful and funny and loving as ever she was.

I guess that's what reunions are for, eh?

Send 'Em In!

Hi! I'm back!

We arrived in Madison a week ago today, picked up a couple of clowns without rides, stuffed everything into the clown rental car, and headed for Reunion Central, aka Baraboo, Wisconsin.

The reunion officially started on Thursday at Circus World Museum. We registered, picked up our goody bag, and met and mingled with the other 175 clowns from every Clown College class.

The Elephant House was decked out with tons of Clown College memorabilia, including the class photos from every class, including my own class from 1975. Can you find me? Hint: I'm in the front row, and I look nothing like the clown I ended up being.

I suppose I could give a blow-by-blow description of the rest of the reunion, from the welcome to the panels to the stories to the meetings of old friends and new friends and the joy of working backstage at the Big Show to the picnic at Devil's Lake State Park to the amazing banquet and auction of circus memorabilia and roast of Barry Lubin (whom you may know better as Grandma) to the laughs and the laughs and the laughs...

But instead, for now, I'll just send in the clowns:

And especially, of course, the girl clowns!

No Contract For You!

On Wednesday, Joe and I are flying to Baraboo Wisconsin to attend a reunion in honor of the 40th anniversary of the founding of Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus Clown College. I think it's going to be a great time!

I had a pretty memorable experience at Clown College. I flew to Sarasota Florida in September of 1975 with another girl from the DC area who was also going. We sat side by side and chattered the whole way. We decided that we would be roommates if we could.

Bill Ballantine, the Dean of Clown College, picked us up at the airport and took us to our lodgings, the Venice Villas. Venice Villas was a cheap motel comprising a set of efficiency apartments -- one bedroom with twin beds, living room with fold-out couch and kitchenette, and bathroom. All the Clown College students stayed there. 

During the next eight weeks, the 47 of us (36 boys, 11 girls) worked our asses off to learn how to be funny.

I worked as hard as I could, but even I knew I wasn't going to make it. Mostly, I kept getting hurt, but I also just wasn't that good. (It's okay; I'm over it.)

Of course, the fact that I hooked up with one of the boys almost immediately, cussed a blue streak, and smoked dope every night on the beach probably didn't help a whole hell of a lot.

At one point, more than halfway through the session, we were told that we had to sign an agreement that said we would take a contract if we were offered one. Evidently the Felds were tired of training clowns only to have the most talented ones decline to work for Ringling Brothers.

By that point it was pretty clear to me that I was not going to get one, so I signed without hesitation. There were a few folks, though, who had no intention of accepting a clowning contract with Ringling. Since they refused to sign, they were invited to leave. They did.

The night of the big graduation show was the Night of Reckoning. After the show, which I did on crutches, the deans and the bosses got together and decided who got contracts. I went out and got drunk at Big Daddy's Bar and Grill.

About six in the morning, a knock came at the door. My roommate was sleeping on the couch, so she jumped up and answered it. It's a good thing, because the clown master told her to get dressed and report to the arena to sign her contract. She came running into the bedroom to tell me, but I had heard it go down. I congratulated her, rolled over, and went back to sleep.

Of the 47 of us, 24 (3 girls, 21 boys) got contracts.

Later that morning, I packed my stuff, said goodbye to my friends, and headed for home. I did get this lovely certificate, though. Gee, thanks.

A Matter of Timing Chain

My car is coming up on its next scheduled oil change. It has almost 104,000 miles. The Honda folks want me to replace the timing chain before 105,000 miles. I am going to be driving to Ocean City on Sunday for a few days of babymomsitting. Do I get it done before the trip, even though I really don't have $800 bucks to spare, or do I take the chance that all will be well, in spite of the dire warning from Honda about how "timing chain failure cannot be predicted"?

I actually know all too well that timing chain failure cannot be predicted, because I once had a timing chain fail on me, quite unpredictably. Buckle up, kids; it's a long story.

It was 1978. I was driving up to Smithtown, New York for a week-long circus gig at a mall. Smithtown is in the middle of Long Island, more or less. I was driving my home-on-wheels -- a 1973 Ford Supervan. It was set up quite nicely inside, with a wee "bedroom" in the back and a "living room" behind the front seats. My Pop bought it for me second hand and it had served me well for two years and thousands of miles.

I was driving north on the New Jersey Turnpike, en route to Long Island by way of the Outerbridge Crossing and the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. I stopped at a rest area near Exit 9 to gas up and grab a Coke. I went to start the van and...

Nothing. Oh, the engine tried to start, but gave up. I got irritated. I tried again. And again. I stomped on the accelerator a few times and cursed, then tried again.

And with a loud bang and big puff of white smoke from the tailpipe, the engine started. But it was running really, really rough; so rough that I wondered if I should even try to get back on the turnpike.

Well, I thought, what else can I do?

So I pulled out.

And started pleading with the gods.

Please, please, please, just let me get across the Outerbridge. Don't break down on the Outerbridge.

Good. Got across the Outerbridge and made my way through Staten Island. The Verrazano Narrows loomed.

Please, please, please, just let me get across the Verrazano Narrows Bridge. Don't break down on the Verrazano Narrows Bridge.

I got across the bridge and then I hit the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. No shoulders, high walls, heavy New York traffic...

Please, please, please, just let me get to the Long Island Expressway. Don't break down on the BQE.

Somehow I pleaded myself all the way to Smithtown and into a parking space by the other circus folks. I turned off the car and thanked the stars above that at least I'd gotten there. I knew in my heart that the van was not starting again without some sort of mechanical intervention. I looked around the mall.

Lo and behold, there was a Sears! A trusted name in automotive service! Sears would fix my van and all would be well. I had about $150.00 in my pocket.

The next morning some friends and I pushed the van up to the Sears. Two hours later we pushed it back again.

It was the timing chain. Sears did not fix timing chains.

But my guardian angel was a-watching over me, for the mall engineer had already introduced himself to us. He wandered over when he saw us pushing the van back into the parking spot and asked what the problem was. I told him, and asked what he thought I should do.

And he said, "Let me look at it."

Over the next three days, he and his helper tore my engine apart. I gave him $125.00 for the parts, which left me with $25.00 to live on for the next five days. I budgeted $5.00 a day for meals -- a buck for breakfast (coffee and toast), a buck for lunch (cup of soup), and three bucks for dinner (hamburger).

The mechanic finished up on the last day of the show. He came up to me and said, "I guarantee that it'll get you home. After that, no promises."

He wouldn't take any more money, even though I did get paid for the gig and could have given it to him. I also suspect that he paid more for the parts than he charged me. The van still ran a little rough, but it did get me home. In fact, it lasted another six months.

But I don't think I'll take the chance again. Honda, here I come.

The Amazing Marcellis

This grainy old picture is a screen capture I snapped from the results of a Google search that I did on "Voorheis Brothers Circus," one of the shows I worked for back in my sordid youth.

It's a picture of the Marcellis -- I wish I could remember their first names -- a wonderful couple who treated me like a daughter. She was a juggler; he was a slack wire master. She also assisted him during the slack wire act, handing him props and generally being beautiful.

When I knew them, they were older than they were when this publicity shot was taken, but they were still amazing.

Slack wire, in case you hadn't figured it out, is looser than tight wire. The slack in the wire makes the balance come from the wirewalker's hips, as the wire can move back and forth beneath his feet. Slack wires are generally low, so the wirewalker can get on (and off!) easily.

Monsieur Marcelli was wonderful on the wire. He ran across it, nimble as an antelope; he did the splits like a cheerleader. He juggled on the wire; he rode a unicycle across it. The big finale was when he carried the Lovely Mme. Marcelli across the wire on his shoulders. When they reached the center, with the wire forming a graceful curve under his feet, they began to juggle, passing the clubs between them as Marcelli continued to walk. When reached the other side, she slipped gracefully off his shoulders as he backed away. It was simply charming.

But age was catching up with M. Marcelli; he knew he wouldn't be able to do the physically demanding act for very much longer. Circus folk are circus folk, though, and he was making sure that he wouldn't be out of work when he could no longer walk the wire.

I watched him practice his new act -- a knife balancing routine. He already had a name for it: The Count of Monte Cristo. Marcelli held a short dagger in his mouth, then carefully placed a beautiful sword on it, tip to tip. Once he established the balance point, he tilted his head back until the two blades were vertical. One slip, and M. Marcelli risked having the heavy sword plunge straight through his throat!! Then, slowly but surely, he returned the knives to the original right-angled configuration, flipped the large blade up and caught it by the hilt. Ta-DA!

Sadly, I never took pictures of the acts on that show. I wish I had, particularly of these lovely people.

But since I don't have any of the M. Marcelli in action, here's a video of another pretty wonderful slack wire artist, so you can get an idea of what a slack wire act is.

Caution: Clown makeup ahead! If you have coulrophbia, try to look past the whiteface and concentrate on the skill.

Guest Post: Please Welcome Golf Widow!

Hey, it's my first guest post! Or first post by a guest! Or first guest to write a post! Or something. You know what I mean. Anyway, the lovely and talented Golf Widow has a pretty nifty offer out there, to wit: Donate two bucks to her "I've Just Gotten Laid Off and I'm Panicky" fund and she will write a guest post for you, on the subject of your choice.

Well, Golf Widow is wickedly funny, and I had just gotten a rather nice bonus, so I thought, "Hey. I like Golf Widow, and I have two bucks. I will give it to her, and I will let her write whatever she chooses."

By the way, you should also buy her book! Or make someone buy it for you! It's here:

Getting My Think On

And here is her official Red Nose Guest Post.

Hi - I'm guest-posting for my favorite lady clown, today.

I'm sort of inspired to talk about the circus a little, obviously.

I actually have two clowny blog-buddies. Andy Martello, who is also my podcast cohost, is a Ringling graduate, though he doesn't work in a circus environment anymore. This is because, in a mad fit of irony, he married a woman who is terrified of clowns.

I used to be afraid of clowns myself, when I was a tiny kid. It wasn't anything personal. I was afraid of anyone who concealed their faces in any way, even by accident. My poor uncle had to cope with my hiding whenever he and his newly-cultivated mustache approached me. Our neighbor, another mustachioed gentleman, used to wait at the bottom of the slide so we wouldn't fall. I'd let him catch me (I wasn't allowed to slide without a grownup), but I kept my head well turned away. My mother once had to calm my terror just because a bottle of ketchup splattered on her cheeks.

Eventually, I got over my fear of clowns, but it was still years before I got to go to a real circus.

Circumstances conspired against me. The circus wasn't in town when I was in kindergarten; it was, when my brother went to kindergarten the next year.

The first circus I went to was the one my brother's kindergarten class put on, after their field trip. My brother was the ringmaster. I was hellaciously, inordinately proud of this fact, even though he was way littler than my first-grade self.

You think I don't remember any of this. His top hat was made of green construction paper. Take that, memory banks.

The Big Apple Circus came to town a few times over the years, but I missed out on it every time for a while, there. It seemed they scheduled their tours to coincide with strep throat season. Everyone else was having popcorn and watching clowns. I was home having ginger ale and watching The Price is Right.

Finally, finally, the circus was in town at the same time I was actually healthy enough to go, and we went.

And I hated it.

The animals looked sad, and scared, and they smelled bad. The clowns looked happy from far away, but when they got close, you could see that that was just makeup - underneath, they looked ... bored.

I later learned from Andy that that couldn't have been any kind of quality circus, and that his own training was rigid about making sure you were In the Moment when you were being a clown. I rather agree with him, on that score. I still didn't like the fact that the animals couldn't get on a bus and leave if they weren't happy, but I eventually got over the whole bored-clown trauma.

My mother went to see "Barnum" at dinner theater, and had to convince a clown that he couldn't have anything to eat off her plate. I was sorry to have missed out on that experience (though I did go through a similar exchange with a hippie when I saw "Hair" performed in the round).

I haven't been to a traditional circus since that one-ring when I was a kid, but I do occasionally watch them on television, and I enjoy reading about them.

I wept copiously over the film "The Greatest Show on Earth," but it was a good weepy movie.

And Andy makes fun of me for liking Cirque du Soleil, but it is what it is: no animals; and the clowns are funny not because of their makeup, which is minimal, but because of their antics.

As is only right and proper. They don't call it "clowning around" because they're good at applying greasepaint.

By the way, Andy was not in my Clown College class, because he is just a precious darling boy and attended way later than I did. But he's totally right -- we were taught to always be in character and in the moment.

Honest, we're not all scary.

Thank you, Golf Widow!