The Forty Days

I think clowns are sad.  Sure they look happy on the outside, but, on the inside, I think that they are filled with hate, remorse, and depression.  I’m not sure if it’s the balloon animals, the constant degradation for the simple amusement of others, or the fact that circus promoters pack so many of them into one tiny car.  Whatever the reason, I think clowns are exactly like Smokey Robinson once portrayed:

Just like Pagliacci did
I try to keep my surface hid
Smiling in the public eye
But in my lonely room I cry
The tears of a clown

But maybe I’m being too harsh.  Sure, it’s cool now to hate clowns, but once upon a time, I loved laughing in their general direction.  So in honor of my very good friend Jodi’s birthday (yes, Jodi of Tasty Touring), I decided to surprise her, dress as a clown, and find out for myself, once and for all, what it is like to walk a mile in a clown’s oversized shoes.

I don my clown costume, apply my own make-up, and pick up my wife, Betsy.  She immediately tells me that I look like a totally unattractive, scary clown.  Nice to see you, too.  When we arrive at Little Deli (which has great pizza and antipasto), Betsy is so embarrassed that she refuses to walk within ten feet of me as we approach the party.  With my self-confidence absolutely shattered, we arrive.  Jodi looks dumbstruck.  A little child approaches and begins to cry.  Some people tell me that I am freaking them out.  Everyone else just stares.  Have I made a horrible mistake?  Are clowns not welcome at adult birthday parties?  Should I have just stayed home and learned how to play Parchessi with my dog and imaginary friend Foofoo McGee?  I sit down in a corner, begin to drink, and try to act like I am a normal human being not wearing a clown suit.

After awhile, however, I begin to feel more comfortable and start to make balloon animals.  Unfortunately, our friend Mike is the only one who can actually blow up those stubborn balloons, so I immediately make him my assistant.  I even make the birthday girl a balloon animal, as depicted in this terrible, terrible video.

Then I find a small baby, who is too young to be afraid of me, and give him a sweet giraffe balloon animal that Mike made.  (Mike totally shows me up, as I can’t make a damn thing.  But who has the blog, Mike?  Who has the blog?)

By the end of the night, I feel better, people are talking to me again, and Jodi seems genuinely happy that she has a clown at her birthday party.

So . . . are clowns happy or sad?  Are they full of life or absolutely suicidal?  Are they people society should embrace or ought they be shunned for appealing to the lowest common denominator of our humor?  It’s hard to say.  I experienced both the joy and tragedy of being a clown.  I felt separate, awkward, and out of place, but I also felt that I brought some fun and joy into the lives of others, especially that very little baby, who was too young to even know what was happening.

Perhaps that is the balance clowns must live with.  Perhaps that is the balance we must all live with.  Perhaps that is the struggle of the entire human race.  Perhaps.