I joined the circus when I was 17. bad home life. ran away. that kind of thing. I didn't know what I was doing as a clown for several years, until I earned the trust of the older veteran clowns. initially I was called a First of May, or a greaseball. but over the years, as I stuck around and applied myself -- whipping up the shaving cream soap for the pie fights, blowing up the balloons for the balloon chase, and making squibs for the blow-off -- the older clowns knew I was committed to a life of clowning, and they began to open up. they taught me how to take a slap and break a pratfall; how to sculpt foam rubber with an electric carving knife into buzzards and skunks and three tier wedding cakes, and then paint them with poster paint. they showed me their secret hidey holes in the prop boxes where they could take a quiet nap between shows.
they were, for the most part, hardworking and sober men who took their comedy seriously. they were married, had families, sent their salaries home each week, tried to eat more lettuce and cottage cheese, and always kept an 'agent suit' in the bottom of their trunk in case a Hollywood agent ever showed up. the 'agent suit' was gold lame with silver braid and thousands of hand sewn spangles on it, and had zircons that lit up via batteries sewn into the pocket. they were very expensive to make and to maintain -- it's what the old clowns invested in instead of a 401(k)
most of them are dead now. Not a one of them ever made it to the White House or 10 Downing Street.
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