When All Else Fails, Smile

G-Whiz the Clown offers these words of advice for anyone willing to dress up in pantaloons and a pink wig and twist balloons into animal shapes: “The most important thing to remember is, when all else fails, smile.”

If it were only that simple.

I’m not in the mood to smile, let alone be a clown. It’s been a frantic week and what I’d really like is a long, uninterrupted nap. But it’s too late. I’ve already agreed to be an apprentice clown entertainer at two children’s birthday parties.

A few days ago, the idea of clowning for a bunch of sugar-charged preschoolers seemed like a noble challenge: Could I make them laugh, forget their toddler’s troubles for a while? Would I enjoy looking and acting like a complete fool? Or would I overdose on cuteness?

I’ll admit, I’ve never been enamored of clowns, even as a child. They scared me rather than amused me, looking more like weird creatures conjured up from nightmares than sweet dreams.

As an adult I like them even less. Once, at a birthday party for a friend’s 1-year-old, I went up to the bar and ordered a drink from a clown whose thick mustache was smeared with white greasepaint. It made me physically ill.

Still, perhaps my debut would convince me that clowns were at least tolerable.

*

At 9:30 on a Saturday morning Gigi George, a.k.a. G-Whiz, shows up at my door in full regalia: pink and gold sparkly bloomers and tunic, cotton-candy pink wig, sequined bellboy hat, pink ballet flats and clown makeup. She is a good head taller than I, a strong presence, but not a threatening one. She is gregarious and warm.

“So, are you ready to be a clown?” she asks. “Sure,” I lie as she hands over my pink and blue lame outfit. I pull on the pantaloons and matching ruffled-collar top, along with hot pink tights and silver-trimmed pink ballet flats.

Makeup is next: Gigi shows me how to pile bright pink blush on my eyelids, down the sides of my nose and across my cheeks. I dot a bit of gold glitter on the brow bone and draw a crooked blue glitter heart on each cheek, followed by little blue curlicues around each eye. A red glitter circle goes on my nose and more curlicues go on my chin. Then I apply red lipstick, exaggerating the Cupid’s bow.

Gigi doesn’t believe in white-face makeup; says it scares kids and feels slimy to boot. It’s a small consolation, but, recalling my encounter with the bartender, I’m thrilled.

I tuck my hair under a pink and white shag wig and a pointy hat and suddenly, I’m a clown.

Next comes a 15-minute clown cram session, including lessons on how to make balloon animals (after a few tries my creations vaguely resemble road kill) and tips on performing.

“We’ll sing some songs, do some simple magic tricks, paint little designs on their hands and basically try to keep them entertained,” Gigi explains. I’m nervous and convinced I can’t pull this off. Don’t kids have a sixth sense about fake clowns?

“Oh, you’ll be fine,” she reassures me. “Just remember that when you’re a clown, you’re bigger than life, so everything you do has to be big, like your gestures and reactions.”

I try to think of someone to inspire me, but all I come up with is Pennywise, the evil clown character in Stephen King’s book “It.” Not a great role model.

The first party is a small affair, a birthday for a 3-year-old boy and about 10 other kids in Beverly Hills. We have to be there for three hours, an eternity in clown time.

Gigi, 31, has been clowning for three years; before that she was a teacher and baby-sitter. She gets jobs through her agent, The Party Factory, and through her own advertising and word-of-mouth.

She performs about 50 weekends a year for about $50 an hour. During the week she’s an electrologist in West Los Angeles, and, yes, she’s aware of the contrast.

“Now,” she says, “We’ve got to come up with a name for you. Hmmmmm. Cupcake . . . Pickles . . . Mimi . . . Dizzy . . . Fizzy?”

“Fizzy . . . ,” I say, rolling it around in my mind. Not bad.

“Fizzy,” Gigi repeats. “Fizzy the Clown. ‘Don’t frown, I’m Fizzy the Clown!’ I like that!”

Sounds OK to me, although right now I feel more like Cranky the PMS Clown. Self-doubts plague me again, as I try to recall what a friend told me: “Don’t worry, all 3-year-olds love clowns.”

We’ll see.

We arrive at 11 a.m., lugging overstuffed bags into the house. Soon other children show up and I’m on balloon detail. They seem to like the mangled animals I make, and swords, too. I notice the awe in their eyes as they catch sight of me for the first time, their expressions telling me, “Wow, it’s a real clown .”

My first casualty is a little girl who trips and falls on her elbow as we play together. She starts wailing and her mother comes to comfort her. I’m sweating profusely under the lame because I’m afraid she’ll scold me.

Desperate, I get some glitter from Gigi’s box and sprinkle it on the toddler’s arm, telling her it’s magic dust and will make the hurt go away.

It works! She stops crying!

I feel the Power of the Clown.

Despite this small victory, the hours drag on. Three-year-olds have the attention span of a gnat. The afternoon is broken up with periodic food breaks. In between courses, Gigi does a clown show with me at her side.

I make up words to “Old MacDonald” because I can’t remember the song. Only four children sit in front of us; the rest play other games or eat. The parents, on the other hand, watch us, riveted.

By the time we leave, I’m in dire need of a glass of water and some aspirin. But Gigi has warned me not to drink too much while in costume. Stopping at public restrooms can prove . . . difficult.

The second party--about 40 5-year-old girls whooping it up in a Santa Monica back yard--is in full swing by the time we arrive. They’re thrilled to see two clowns, and we have an enthralled, giggling audience for an hour while we go through about a dozen games and magic tricks. Despite my exhaustion I’m enjoying myself. The girls love our silliness. We can do no wrong. I no longer feel like the cheese standing alone. I am actually laughing as we play Cat and Mouse under a big parachute tarp.

When we leave, they seem sad to see us go. Now I know what Gigi meant when she said what a high it is to make kids laugh.

Still, as much fun as I had at the second party, I don’t have what it takes to be a clown. I’m not nearly chipper enough. I hate how my head itches under the wig and I don’t have the patience to entertain fidgety children for hours on end. And while no children ran away from me, I feel somehow that I didn’t give them my clown all. Despite the costume and makeup, I felt inhibited.

While I’m wallowing in clown self-pity, Gigi calls a couple of days later to tell me that the next day she performed at a another event attended by some of the girls from the Santa Monica party.

Says Gigi, “They kept asking, ‘Where’s the little clown? Where’s the little clown?’ ”

She’s taking a nap.