Abe Goldstein, 94; Clown and Keystone Kop

Abe (Korkey) Goldstein, a professional clown and one of the last of that tiny band of mischievous madmen who once were the Keystone Kops in the silent film comedies of 75 years ago, has died at age 94, it was learned Wednesday.

He died at Hollywood Community Hospital last Friday, a hospital spokeswoman said.

Known as Korkey the Komic Kop, Goldstein had appeared most frequently before circus audiences as the keeper and tormentor of a series of “Teddys”--canines of dubious breeding that would fall dead as Goldstein emptied a toy gun at them and then arise Lazarus-like to bite him on the gluteus maximus.

Although not a Keystone regular (“I was an extra,” he said in a 1986 interview. “I did ‘bumps’ (pratfalls) for the others”), Goldstein had a treasure trove of memories from those days of misadventure.

He earned $2.50 a day, plus a box lunch and 10 cents carfare as he waited to perform his “bumps” on the old Mack Sennett lot.

There the Kops vied with Sennett’s Bathing Beauties in the fabled single-reel shorts that brought a new definition to slapstick, while stars such as Roscoe (Fatty) Arbuckle, Charlie Chase, Edgar Kennedy and Charlie Chaplin created the Sennett features on an adjacent set.

He kept the traditional Keystone ensemble in his circus act, which he perfected over 70 years--the baggy and shabby coat with its brass buttons, gaudy constable’s helmet and flexible baton. In addition to the long departed Teddys, he had other animals that would prey on his posterior--a hippopotamus and a chicken (“from Peru, Indiana”) were but two.

But as the circuses dwindled, so did Goldstein’s income, until in his later years he appeared before small gatherings for only laughs and lunch.

Goldstein told The Times in 1986 that he had begun his comic capers at age 10 on Cincinnati street corners, improvising stunts while selling papers. He not only sold papers but got generous tips as well, and he soon abandoned journalism for jocularity.

“I’d go in front of a theater after the show was over and say: ‘Ladies and gentlemen! You’re going to have a free show!’ Afterward, I’d pass the hat. It was called ‘buskin.’ ”

Such other long-ago phrases as “Bozo,” “First of May” and “Gilliper” (all turn-of-the-century terms for a rookie clown) passed often from his lips in that interview.

As did his derision for his modern-day counterparts.

“I still got (my) timin’,” he said. “Some of these clowns today, they just dress funny and can’t do anything else.”

His wife of 44 years died in 1985, and Goldstein spent most of his later years in a small house in Hollywood, hoping for another offer. He performed for free at hospitals and children’s clubs and even traveled to Dallas for a senior citizens commercial--but “all I got was a round-trip plane ticket.”

He lamented that he was no longer able to put his feet on his shoulders or take his lumps with the “bumps.”

But it was still a good life, and he remained optimistic to his death.

“Just a little dry spell,” Goldstein said three years ago.