Send in the Clowns . . . an Army of Evil in Oversized Shoes

Everybody loves a clown.

I hate them.

So by the renegade strand of twisted humor that occasionally strangles the common sense of newspaper editors, I was deemed the perfect candidate for Clown College.

This same line of reasoning anchored me to the education beat for years.

I hated school too.

If asked, any supermarket tabloid psychologist will say that hate usually is a front for fear, but I show up anyway, auditioning for a spot in the Ringling Brothers and Barnum & Bailey Clown College, Class of ’94.

The dozen or so who show up for the audition want to run away with the circus.

I want to run screaming from the building.

*

A mix of stubborn pride and the threat of unemployment pushes me through the doors of the Moro Landis Studios in Studio City, paneled in mirrors for dance classes.

What is there to be afraid of, really?

Just some funny clowns, ha ha-- their faces a sick, greasy, ghoulish white, with ghastly red-painted smiles that stretch from ear to ear, framing crooked yellowed teeth and fetid breath, their heads topped with demented yak-hair wigs, their bodies a tumbling, sexless mass of physical aggression, first slapping and punching each other, then turning their hunter’s stare on audience volunteers.

Hi kiddies, har, har, har, they scream, edging closer and closer, their white-gloved hands clenching now into fists, an army of evil in ballooning silk costumes and flapping, oversized shoes.

But I am spared. No one shows up in full clown regalia today--the wanna-be Bozos posing as an innocent bunch of Dr. Jekylls.

*

Clowning, a sacred tradition that dates back more than 4,000 years, serves as a doggone good safety valve for society, says Clown College honcho Steve Smith.

Big deal. So does war and public hangings. I sit crouched, ready to spring for the door. Everyone else seems fascinated.

“We consider comedy an art form,” says Smith, Class of ’71. “ . . . Clowning forces you to become your biggest self. You need a heart the size of Alaska and you must be willing to give it away.”

Or to rip a spare from the chest of a victim?

Only 30 people from an estimated 2,000 applicants will be admitted to the eight-week Clown College this summer in Baraboo, Wis., to study makeup, slapstick, unicycling, pantomime, juggling, acrobatics, stilt-walking and costume-making.

The group showing up at the Los Angeles audition range from high school drama cliquesters--all wearing their generation’s version of the clown shoe--to a gray-haired woman whose main shtick seems to be an imitation of Tex Avery’s cartoon character Droopy Dog.

Zachary Hahn, 34, drove all the way from Fullerton. He started working as Santa Claus some years back and his agent suggested clowning in the off-season. The agent, obviously seeing big potential, popped for lessons in balloon-sculpting and face-painting.

“I want to do clowning full time; there’s money to be made,” said Hahn, who also does carpet-cleaning and tree-trimming. Yeah, Zack, that’s the way Howard Hughes and J. Paul Getty got started.

We form a circle and make our funniest face. A video camera records the proceedings. Next, put a funny noise on that funny face. Now, split into two groups. Pretend you’re walking across hot coals. Pretend you’re walking into a fierce wind.

We take a break and one hopeful who brought his pet monkey rides a bike around the studio with the terrified animal clinging to the handlebars. It’s wearing a tiny straw hat.

I know how that monkey feels.

*

Studio City resident Brad Yates was among the standouts. “I’m an actor, but there is a part of me that wants to be a clown,” said Yates, 29, now a waiter. “It’s a scary thought, but I’d go for it, I’d run away and join the circus.”

Even after a good audition, though, it’s not quite that easy.

You must complete the Clown College application, a strange hurdle.

Questions include: What does it take to make you mad? How do you occupy your solitary hours? Do you resent disciplined situations? Do you get along with animals? With children? What do you dislike about them? Have you ever been arrested?

When was the last time you cried? For what reason? Do you object to being directed?

Sounds more like a screening for The Sorehead Employee Most Likely to Come Back with a Submachine-Gun Award, not Circus Clown.

Not only are you asked your drug of preference--* Amphetamines? * Barbiturates? * Cocaine? * Heroin? * Marijuana? * LSD?--but whether or not you think they are really bad for your health. Apparently the party scene from “Dumbo” wasn’t too far afield.

In the Disney film, poor Dumbo gets into the clown drinks and starts hallucinating par excellence.

Final selections will not be made until July. The lucky few admitted to Clown College have to come up with about $2,000 for accommodations.

From the class, 10 clowns will join the circus under the standard first-year contract of $245 a week, less $10 for a roomette on the famous circus train.

They say no math is required.

Good thing, too, because that means the 11-month contract for first-year clowns--who perform as many as three shows a day--comes out to a whopping $11,280.

Now that’s hilarious.