TO BE A BOZO : Would-Be Clowns Prepare for Tryouts : A cattle call for clowns has apparently struck a chord in nostalgic baby boomers.

On a trip to San Francisco, not too long ago, David Vendetti spied the rare artifact that, he believes, confirmed his destiny. In the window of an antique shop stood a 5 1/2-inch plastic bank, its white star-shaped base topped with a full-length likeness of Bozo, the World’s Most Famous Clown.

“This is an omen,” Vendetti told the friend he was with. “This is good luck.”

To Vendetti, a curly haired young man with horn-rimmed glasses and a Boston accent, the sighting could only mean the imminent fulfillment of his aspirations to be a professional Bozo.

350 Others in Competition

But he faces competition from more than 350 other Bozo wanna-bes.

They are vying for the chance to play the clown character at promotional appearances and as hosts of local television shows throughout the country. Only 10 of them will likely be hired. An open audition will be held in Los Angeles, judged by Larry Harmon, who created Bozo in 1940 and holds the rights to the character today.

The cattle call for clowns apparently struck a chord in nostalgic baby boomers. Nearly all the Bozo applicants--the youngest in their 20s and the oldest in their 40s--have been devoted fans of the show.

‘A Bozo No-No’

Their ranks include a Florida nurse, a Wisconsin dentist, an Ohio postal clerk and a Michigan repairman who breaks into the Bozo song at work, telling those who curse in response, “That’s a Bozo no-no.”

They are paying their own way to Los Angeles for the audition. And they have indicated their willingness to undergo training at “Bozo University” in Hollywood and relocate where needed. “It’s like enlisting in the Army,” said Jerry Digney, a vice president of Harmon’s company.

Bozo was a childhood staple during the 1950s and 1960s. Harmon played the clown on television for a year in Los Angeles and then ran the empire as a franchise operation, allowing children to watch live performances and participate in games in 183 cities at the phenomenon’s peak.

Each studio audience heard the same theme song, the same reassurance that their host was “your ol’ pal, Bozo” and the same exhortation to “keep on laughin’.’ ” Each Bozo wore the same costume and makeup, talked the same way and even walked the same way.

Overshadowed by a succession of animated Care Bears, Smurfs and Gobots, the local Bozo shows were canceled by many stations in the ‘70s and ‘80s. These days, there are 10 Bozo franchises, and only three are in the United States.

In Syndication

But thousands of households kept watching the program through syndication or cable. The Chicago show alone is beamed to more than 10,000 homes.

Now, television stations are showing new interest in having their very own Bozo in town. A Bozo show starts in January in Honolulu. Another may start as early as November in Fort Wayne, Ind. Negotiations are under way with about a dozen more.

And a marketing blitz is on, including a spate of licensing agreements signed last year that will soon put Bozo’s famous features on greeting cards, telephones and bed sheets. With the attention generated by those products, “within 24 months,” Harmon predicted, “there will probably be another 75 to 100 live Bozo shows.”

Bozo’s durability, with 37 consecutive years on the air, is the attraction. “The other things . . . have basically peaked. This is stable,” said Dan Schmidt, program director at Honolulu’s KHNL. “And Bozo is a way into the community. . . . People will notice we have children’s programming, and it’s not all shoot ‘em up.”

So a new generation is needed to fill Bozo’s Size 83AAA shoes.

Not All Fun and Games

Being a Bozo isn’t all fun and games. The children in the studio audience have been known to get a bit crude on the air. The orange wig gets pulled, the red nose gets tweaked. And the job can be socially embarrassing (“I’m a lawyer. What do you do?” “I’m a Bozo.”)

But the occupational hazards have not deterred the hundreds of applicants. So many responded that the audition has already been postponed twice so Harmon can find a larger place to stage it.

The Bozo hopefuls are rehearsing for their three-minute auditions, which will be followed by private interviews. Each will be expected to pantomime the Bozo theme song and explain, in less than a minute, why he--or in a few cases, she--wants to be a Bozo.

None admit to being interested in the job for the money, though Harmon estimates that Bozo salaries will range from $20,000 in the smallest cities to $175,000 in the largest. None concede that they want to parlay the experience into a higher-profile broadcast career, as did former Washington Bozo Willard Scott, the jolly weatherman on NBC’s “Today.”

For some, the applications are basically a lark. Air Force Master Sgt. Dennis Beuning, for example, was looking for something to do after his December retirement at age 38. He saw a small notice in a Fayetteville, N.C., newspaper and thought, “Wouldn’t that be wild?” But he didn’t tell anyone in his office about it, and he’s not sure he will go through with it.

Steve Dacri, too, has mixed emotions. At 33, his career as a Los Angeles-based magician is flourishing; being Bozo would mean taking off the tuxedo and hiding his features under heavy makeup.

Still, he is prepared. He has even consulted a wig maker so he can keep his brushy mustache, or a reasonable facsimile, should he win a Bozo job and have to shave.

Wife a Bozo Fan

His wife is rooting for him; she was in the Boston Bozo’s audience six times as a child.

Many of the would-be Bozos have clown experience, working the parade and birthday party circuit. They see the audition as their chance to break into big-time buffoonery.

Lynn Pellegrini, a St. Petersburg, Fla., nurse has been clowning as a sideline ever since she took a clown class in 1981. “Nursing is to the body as clowning is to the soul,” she wrote in her application letter. “Childhood was never this fun.”

She thought about working for a circus but was deterred by the constant travel involved.

And she just loves Bozo. “I grew up with Bozo,” she said.

Steven Tretchler, another part-time clown, has an interest in Bozo that verges on obsession. He has stationed a 6 1/2-foot inflatable Bozo and a Bozo lamp in his 10-week-old son’s room in Royal Oak, Mich.

He volunteered to sing at a recent family reunion. His selection was this: “Hello, world, every boy, every gal, this here is ol’ Bozo, I’m here as your pal. I brought you a bagful of rootin’ tootin’ tricks. One, two, three, four, five and six.”

“Sometimes he embarrasses us,” said his wife, Suzanne. “He’s definitely a ham. He’s already talking about having this pool in California, and it will be shaped like a Bozo.”

If he doesn’t get the job, Tretchler said, he’ll try another profession. “I might be a mortician,” he said. “I’ve worked for a couple of undertakers. It is a good field to get into.”

David Vendetti, also known as Chubby the Clown, rivals Tretchler in enthusiasm. He was so excited after his agent called with news of the audition that he immediately rushed to hand-deliver his resume from his West Hollywood apartment to Harmon’s office.

Call to His Father

He was in such a hurry he put on one sneaker and one shoe. He stopped once on the way, at a pay phone near Paramount Studios, to call his father in Boston.

“I said, ‘You’ll never believe this. I’m going to audition for Bozo,’ ” Vendetti recalled. “And my father said, ‘Bozo? What’s going on in that California? Bozo? What are you, crazy?’ ”

Vendetti studied Harmon’s creation at Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Clown College in Venice, where he received his bachelor of fun arts in 1986. “Bozo University would be my graduate degree,” he said.

Every morning, he spends about three hours practicing his makeup and polishing the routine he will present for his Bozo tryout.

He sits on a director’s chair by the red trunk that contains his equipment. On top is a green box with tubes and jars of makeup in varying hues, an old white sock filled with baby powder, a pair of lens-less round glasses, three red latex false noses and one “Christmas nose” (it is sprinkled with green glitter).

He brushes and powders and strokes, mugging and smiling into a hand mirror, while his sister’s Shih Tzus, Teffy and Jesse, wander by. He puts on his “fat suit” (he’ll audition as Chubby), a contraption of covered sponge and elastic that gives him enough padding to fit into a pair of plaid pants with a 68-inch waist.

And then he works on piecing together the act he’ll show Harmon on the big day.

Should he waddle over to Harmon and sniff, his latex nose visibly folding in and out? Should he produce a cacophony on his exploding plastic trumpet? Should he bring in a pie with whipped cream to give Harmon and trip, messing up his own face?

Or should he juggle a banana, an apple and a baked potato, eventually eating all three?

One thing he knows for sure. That good luck piece, the Bozo bank, will be part of the act.

Recently, he tried this bit: He held the bank to his left, like an Academy Award and squawked in a happy, high voice.

“This is the Bozo Award. And I want to thank the academy. And I want to thank the clown college, and I want to thank my sister, Cheril, and my friend, Paula.”

He slipped back into his own, deeper register. “This is gonna be such a moment. Oh, God,” he said. “My brother should see me. He’s a stockbroker in an office.”