Nifty the Clown
Making Ends Meet
It’s a calm Sunday evening in Los Angeles, twilight making silhouettes of palm trees amid Glendale’s humble hills. I am winding down; finding a moment to process.
I clowned for a birthday party last night.
A message never rang such a sweet alert.
I pulled the phone out of my paint splattered sweat-pants and sat down to enthusiastically reply. I was in the midst of a house painting gig in Van Nuys. I’m picking up everything I can in my various fields these days. Painting, clowning, and… other things. I’ve been hard pressed to find work lately. I believe strongly in putting all of my energy into the things that matter to me. To be put shortly– it’s just God’s will. To live one's purpose. To work in fields not in your nature or design or interest is to sabotage the glory of life we’ve been gifted and would divert a person from all the doors that would lead them to their purpose. Furthermore, the mandates in Los Angeles are wacky as hell and I am not about subscribing to places and supporting conglomerates of a dualistic design.
Integrity to my truth is of the utmost value to me. So, my options are pretty limited right now.
I could really use some party gigs. The previous day I had put up a Craigslist Ad– Clown for Hire. I’ve done this once before years ago, and it was initially very upsetting in that it did not attract my desired clientele. I got a couple foot fetish clown requests, gave up, and ignored the rest. Eventually, I went back through the responses and actually ended up landing a pretty sweet gig clowning for someone’s Halloween trick or treat experience they provided for their neighbors. In the end it turned out well. Though the requests certainly started off in the wrong vein. I knew this. None-the-less,
I felt
emotionally slaughtered
the second the kinky requests started rolling in.
Not to yuck anybody’s yum!
I am all for leaning into the things that whirl your gig.
Clown, however, is sacred to me. So is sex. Whatever, it’s not about that. It’s because every horny john who comes seeking clowny kink play wants nothing to do with actual clown, the art. Or they do, but… they don’t even know the depths of what they seek. They don’t want “clown” as in: the wide open, emotional, honest, pontificating, world as anew, will fail and fail again and jump off the cliff to make their wings as they fall - clown. They aren’t after the art of performance and healing and human connection and rhythm and risk and breath filled with chance, decorated by hope. No, no. They want a naked girl with clown make-up watching TV with them. They want a horror clown jumping into a couples sex session to tickle them. They want to smear my clown makeup while I mock their nose. They want to ask questions without paying for the answers and it’s a waste of my time.
The best gigs come from friends of friends.
The best gigs come with “I thought of you.”
So, I put down my paint brush for the moment, nestled into birthday clown negotiations. The following evening we were off to the races. The birthday boys were 13 and 14, and their favorite things were sports and blockchain.
Yup. Sports and blockchain.
As such, I invented a clown named Nifty. Get it? NFT?
I promised I could do abstract balloon shapes, bumble around, and make a mess of a cake. One hour.
Fun fact: The Aunt and Uncle were hiring me because they couldn’t make the event themselves. The parents and hosts of the party did not know that Nifty got an invitation.
But lemme tell yah, the several thousand square feet of fake grass surrounding the full-of-water but empty-of-people pool in the Malibu hills were thrilled to have my company.
I ran around, prat-falling, playing, scaring the dog, making balloon sculptures, joking with people, surprising people, charming people. And by people I mean the 2 grandparents, 5 adults, 4 college kids and 2 teenagers. Plus the two folks quietly catering a full taco bar.
It was bizarre, endearing, and I’ll forever feel at odds for showing up in an unwashed costume reeking of BO from my last stage show but, alas… laundry day got away from me and I hoped they’d keep their social distance anyway.
Nifty’s visit began its culmination when the group found themselves gathered outside, armed with musical instruments called boomwhackers. Big colorful tubes that when hit ring true to a designated note. After failing at leading them in a song as dictated by a self-printed and colored-in piece of sheet music, I urged the youngest birthday boy, who was shy but a fan of clowns, to take the role of conductor. As he took command, armed with musical sheet in hand, I crept off to scoop up the cake I had ducked into Ralphs on the way here to buy.
Low and behold, what Nifty failed at young Xander succeeded with. The group’s song rang with gusto. As the notes gave way to what was clearly “Happy Birthday!” Oh, how thrilled our clown was! When– boop boop de doop! She tripped and fell for the 30 feet requested by Mom, so as to avoid the backyard golf green, and fell and fell and passed the golf green onto the less special of the two fake grasses
and rolled
all over that gorgeous cake.
Safe to say the little party was both surprised and thrilled. Xander tried to help her up and take the cake but Nifty had it appear as though he kept pushing it into her as she toppled over
and over
again
I’m so sorry, Xander!
You don’t need to do that!
I am sorrrryyyy!
They laughed and giggled until Nifty drew out her small, yellow umbrella; asking Xander to help her catch the wind! The time had for her to take her leave. The young tyke, wanting societal permission to play, recruited an older young-adult to join us and on the count of 1
2
3
they blew a big birthday breath into her um-brella sails and off she floated.
The night was ripe with silly.
The frosting was crusting
on a blue felt bow.
The nearby beach called,
the moon waned
& a bill was paid.