Clown Rockstar

I know Exactly what it’s like to be a rock star. Exactly. Because for Six Years I made my living as a Professional Clown.

I’d come on stage to adoring fans who would yell my name: “Hey, Clown!” One young man looked up to me and said, “I love you, Bingo.” To show me something AWESOME a little girl got my attention by saying, “Mr. Clown! Mr. Clown!” When I sang, they’d dance. When I did something really cool, they’d ooh and ah. And when I was funny, they’d laugh. [They’d also laugh sometimes when I wasn’t trying to be funny, like the time I fell coming into the ring of a circus, by accident. Apparently I made it look good, because the crowd LOVED it, and the other clown thought I was trying to upstage him; au contraire, falling on one’s face HURTS.]

I was in demand. People would wait in line for minutes (or longer) for a precious balloon animal, made especially for them. I know what it’s like to leave my fans in the lurch, by forgetting to visit their table in time or giving another kid a better balloon, dashing their hopes and dreams.

I had super cool clown rockstar friends who shared their awesomeness with me, and made me laugh and laughed at my jokes. Much like Bono might hang out with Bon Jovi, I’d hang out with Cheesecake or Cheezo or J. Our puns were music to our ears.

And there were the Haters. The people who were scared of clowns. The kids who were “too old”. The grumpy gusses. The manager who told me that I wasn’t a real clown because I didn’t juggle. Like any rockstar, I had my critics. But, just like Madonna soldiers on after her latest PR debacles, I pressed on with my head up high, making better balloons, telling stupider jokes, and singing sillier songs.

I was a Clown Rockstar.

What are you going to do about it?