The clowns nodded sadly, agreeing that cutthroat clowns are a common hazard.

There are few things sadder than a stressed-out clown on a cold and rainy night. Sad in a funny kind of way, of course.

One night each month, a platoon of Pagliaccis gathers in the lunchroom of a darkened savings and loan on Sepulveda Boulevard to share the loopy woes and wispy hopes of a brotherhood that followed a dotted line on the road map of life.

This is about two meetings of San Fernando Valley Clown Alley No. 30.

It rained both nights.

As the first meeting commenced, a stout, middle-aged woman passed out cookies.

She wore an ordinary gold sweater and red skirt over stockings with broad red-and-white horizontal bands and shoes of a checkerboard black and white. Other than that, all the clowns were in civvies, no floppy shoes or tramp makeup.

It was an amusing thing (although perhaps amusing in a sad kind of way), but some of the clowns look . . . well . . . funny , even without their makeup, as if their faces somehow absorbed the greasepaint of their working lives, shaping them into masks of bug-eyed bafflement, bone-tired wisdom or doomed hilarity.

But philosophy was not on the agenda, which dealt with subjects depressingly familiar to anyone who has ever belonged to a small organization with limited finances.

There were dues (“dues are payable tonight--$50 for the year, but $15 of that goes for the club’s annual dues to the World Clown Assn.”), and a protracted discussion over the kind of high concept that should make feloniously cutesy playwrights salivate:

Homeless clowns.

President Kenny the Tramp reported that Clown Alley No. 30 is losing its meeting place “because this savings and loan says now that we have to have an account here to go on using the room.”

“Couldn’t we move the clown club account here?”

“No, we have 10 years worth of checks that we just bought from another bank.”

A search was launched for a clown with personal funds to move. “At 5%?” protested one. “You lose money that way.”

A cricket chirped steadily from a heating vent as Gene Bear, a professional master of ceremonies who often hires clowns (“I’m doing 25 to 30 chili cook-offs a year now”), gave employment advice in an intense monologue.

“Remember, this is the entertainment capital of the world, and there’s a lot of clowns out there,” he warned.

“If you’re going to be in the entertainment business, you have to get your priorities straight. Some clowns, I call them and they say they can’t do the gig because they have to go to the beach or take their brother-in-law to Disneyland or something. Now, I’ll be real nice about it and say, ‘Sure, I understand,’ but the odds are that’s the last time you’ll hear from Gene Bear because you didn’t have your priorities straight.”

Bear counseled them not to give a specific figure when callers ask how much they charge to appear at a party, but to ask “How much is your entertainment budget?” Giving a price right off just encourages price-shoppers and dickering, he said.

“They’re going to call back and say, ‘Well, Josie the clown or somebody will do it for $20 less.’ ”

The clowns nodded sadly, agreeing that cutthroat clowns are a common hazard.

He encouraged them to advertise by distributing business cards at Chamber of Commerce mixers. One woman noted proudly that she had been in the Rose Parade.

“You could be in the Rose Parade for 20 years and you’d be no better known at the end,” Bear warned. “You’d be better off working the parking lot of a supermarket in Tujunga.”

Kenny the Tramp, formerly of the Clyde Beatty-Cole Brothers Circus (“I got out of clown college in 1969 and spent one season with them before I went independent”) showed the group a slapstick. Interestingly enough, none appeared to be familiar with a tool virtually synonymous with their calling.

“You put a blank cartridge in it and slap the other guy on the behind,” Kenny said. “The cartridge goes bang, but it doesn’t hurt him.”

“Violence without being violent,” a woman marveled. “That’s good. I like that.”

At the next meeting, Kenny lectured on makeup. Each clown should have an original design all his own, he said, warning that Ronald McDonald and Bozo have copyrighted their designs. “For the others, it’s a matter of respect between clowns not to use their faces.”

But first there was the business meeting. Kenny presided, in full tramp makeup, raggedy clothes and giant shoes.

“Where did you get those shoes?”

“A classmate from clown college sells them.”

Jiffy the Magic Clown sat beside him as vice president. She wore sweats.

The bad news, Kenny said, was that the clowns still need a home.

The good news was that he had lined up “a lot of key important people” for clown camp this summer, “some of them nominated for the Clown Hall of Fame,” even the famous Joe the Clown.

“Oh good, Joe the Clown,” exulted Jiffy the Magic Clown. “I have all his books.”

The best news came in a note from “our old friend Winkie the Clown,” written on a brown paper bag.

“Winkie’s doing real good with Circus Vargas, and he’s in their office now. They’ll be at the Hollywood Bowl and San Fernando and Simi Valley later this month, and Winkie sends word that they’ll audition all clowns.”

Smiles all around.

In a sad kind of way.