A Family Sends in the Clowns for 50 Years

Dave Twomey, a.k.a. Happy, was 13 when he “ran off” to join the circus, hopping onto a streetcar and into a clown suit every day after school.

His 34-year-old son, Ken, better known as Krazy Koko, was born into the circus. And now Ken’s 12-year-old son, Jerrod, is the newest and youngest Twomey to join the family’s one-ring circus of clowns.

“It’s carrying on a tradition, which I love,” says the elder Twomey from the bleachers at the Alameda County fairgrounds in Pleasanton. His eyes crinkle behind a mask of white powder.

Just finishing a show, he is still dressed in a star-spangled suit, floppy yellow shoes and orange mini-hat, funny with a feather.

Like clowns of yore, Happy aims for the goofy, not the sophistication of Cirque du Soleil or the theater of today. “You always act like this is a show for the children,” he says, “because if you please the children, you please the adults.”

It’s been 50 years since Twomey put on his first clown costume, in his hometown of Van Nuys. Fascinated by a one-pony circus, he asked if he could join in exchange for helping to set up the bleachers.

“I had the most horrible, horrible, bless her heart, clown suit that my mom made,” he recalls. “It just said, ‘Hello, I’m an amateur.’ ”

His pay was $2 a day, but Twomey was hooked. He climbed into a clown suit every day until he joined the Army at 19.

He even managed some clowning around in the military. While bunkmates toured France’s red-light districts, he went to the circus.

When he returned to the United States, he got a job at an air conditioner factory.

Three months later, he quit. The next day he married his girlfriend, Judy, in Las Vegas. And a day later, he joined the circus.

He never had a “regular” job again. “I’m the black sheep of the family,” he says, with a practiced guffaw.

His chosen career never sat well with some kin.

“Here I’m in my 60s, and my mother says, ‘Son, when are you going to get a real job?’ The dearest lady in the world, but the squarest. Even if I were a dishwasher, she thought it’d be better than being a traveling clown.”

But his bride saw adventure. “She loved it,” Twomey says. “She had never been a hundred miles from Los Angeles. We wanted to go around the country.”

So they traveled throughout the West. Twomey powdered his face white and tied on a red nose. His wife groomed their show dogs.

Along the way, Twomey picked up the name “Happy.” “I had no clown name, but people kept saying, ‘Jeez, you look like a happy clown.’ ”

They also had two sons, and in 1966, Twomey named the circus “Happytimes.”

His son Michael was an acrobat and wire walker who quit the ring at 17, preferring to run the cotton candy stand.

But Twomey’s second son, Ken, tried on his father’s clown suit for size and took the name “Krazy Koko.”

“You’ve got to be born with it,” says the father. “You can’t just grow into being funny.”

Circus life wasn’t always easy. Though based in Southern California, they traveled most summers to fairs throughout the state, and north to Washington and Alaska.

Some winters, when they weren’t working, were lean.

“You’re supposed to eat one nut and put one away for the winter,” Twomey says. “Oh, I didn’t do that. That meant peanut butter sandwiches for a while. I spent too many winters counting pennies.”

But they had adventures, working with singer Rosemary Clooney and with movie crews as extras.

Two years ago, at 10, Jerrod asked his grandfather if he could join the family circus. Calling himself “Ken Kelly,” he jumps rope and juggles while balanced atop a bright pink beach ball.

“If he keeps practicing and everything, oh boy--let’s hope,” Twomey says. “We have big plans for him.”

But father and grandfather are also adamant: Jerrod must learn another skill, like plumbing or carpentry, something they never did.

“It’s a dying art,” Twomey says of clowning. “It’s not the way it used to be. Even with big towns, there’s no place to put the circus.”

Two years ago, when he fell seriously ill, Twomey realized that his days as a clown may be over. But he’s determined to press on.

“Laughter is the world’s greatest medicine,” he says. “By gosh, there’s days I’m tired, or you feel woozy or dizzy. All day long I can mope on this or I can enjoy this. And all of a sudden, you say, ‘Thank you, man upstairs.’

“It’s an awful hard life, but it’s . . . an awful good life.”