Clown and country

My parents used to take me to the circus when I was a kid, which probably explains many things, from my love of elephants to my near-crippling cotton candy addiction. (If it had any nutritional value at all, I’d eat nothing but.) I used to love these experiences. A few of my friends? Not so much. They were afraid of the clowns.

Clowns never bothered me on any profound level. They weren’t necessarily my favorite part of the circus -- that honor was reserved for the big metal ball with the speeding motorcyclists -- but I thought they were generally fine. Sure, some of them could be mildly irritating, especially when they approached me out of nowhere and started making nonsensical hand gestures and clomping around in their surfboard-sized shoes. You sort of felt like giving them a sedative and letting them zonk out in front of a TV documentary about the history of bread. But they didn’t seem very frightening. Not like poisonous snakes, for instance. Or Lady Gaga.

Yet chances are good that you know at least one person who is deeply, skin-crawlingly afraid of clowns. When I first became aware of this phenomenon, I said to myself, “Well, this can’t be too common a thing. It’s probably rare, like gluten allergies or membership in the Pauly Shore fan club.” Then I discovered that I was wrong. And that I talk to myself too much.

It’s so common a fear that it’s been given its own unofficial “phobia” name, coulrophobia. According to the website WiseGeek Health, it’s the third leading phobia in Great Britain, trailing only spiders and needles, and ranking higher than the fear of flying. Which is surprising. Flying involves strapping yourself into a 75-ton metal tube and speeding over the earth at altitudes around 39,000 feet. Equipment malfunction means plummeting toward the ground in a claustrophobic arrangement with justifiably panicked passengers screaming and clasping their hands in prayer. Yet, if the statistics are accurate, most of those passengers would rather be in that plane than see a man with a rubber nose making balloon animals. Go figure.

Everyone who fears clowns has their own personal reasons, and while I haven’t been able to locate any in-depth data on this, it’s a pretty safe assumption that a lot of this fear has to do with how clowns have been represented in popular culture. Books and films are too often dismissed as trivial entertainments; how they portray things actually matters. If movies depicted werewolves as furry, lovable creatures with cute little button noses who like cuddling, they wouldn’t make for very popular Halloween fodder. They’d star in their own Saturday morning cartoon show and have their likenesses reproduced on lunch boxes.

Poor clowns. They don’t stand a chance -- not when they have to go up against two very unflattering pop culture depictions. The first “scary clown” depiction that comes to people’s minds is probably Pennywise, the evil clown from the Stephen King novel “It.” Pennywise is a fang-dripping, bloodthirsty monstrosity that lives in the sewers and terrorizes children, and while he’s obviously pure fantasy, fiction has a way of sticking in one’s head. Especially when that fiction entails a pasty, bloated gasbag of a face speckled with the blood of his victims. Jeff the horror-lover thinks that image is totally rad. Jeff the bleeding-heart feels sorry for the clowns who drive those tiny cars in every parade. Here they are just trying to entertain people, and they have to contend with a character who’s wrecked more lives than John Wayne Gacy. Brutal.

Pennywise, however, isn’t actually a clown. He manifests himself differently to different children, and the main character of “It” sees him as a clown, as I believe a few others do as well. But there’s no ambiguity about the second “scary clown” in pop culture mythology. Though fictional, there’s nothing supernatural about him, which makes him even scarier.

I’m assuming you’ve heard of The Joker.

This menacing dude first appeared in 1940 as an antagonist in the Batman comic books, and since then he’s been portrayed by hordes of different actors in both animated and live-action adaptations. (The most notable is Heath Ledger in “The Dark Knight.” Simply put, he’s fantastic in the role.) In most of these depictions, The Joker is presented as an unstable, violent, murderous psychopath, which is set at odds with his colorful appearance: pale face, green hair, red lips. It’s the juxtaposition that’s truly frightening. It’s like if the Easter Bunny was a serial killer. If Batman’s primary foe was a giant pink rabbit who hid explosive eggs around Gotham City, you’d see children ducking for cover when they pass the bunny display at the petting zoo.

(Also, note to self: Develop killer bunny character for comic books, make fortune.)

The Joker and Pennywise have conspired to propagate an image of clowns as evil, twisted creatures. Part of me -- the part that should probably be institutionalized -- loves the whole motif. A flower on a lapel that squirts toxic chemicals? Poisoned playing cards and lethal laughing gas? I’m in. Sign me up. And throw in one of those creepy, maniacal laughs while you’re at it, just to get my hackles a-twitchin’. I live for that kind of stuff.

I just feel sorry for all the coulrophobes out there, not to mention the clowns themselves, who are just trying to be silly and entertain. Perhaps one of these days the cultural winds will shift and their image and reputation will be vindicated; an all-clown rock band will top the music charts, Bozo will discover a cure for cancer, and all will be right once more in Clown Town. It could happen.

In all likelihood I won’t be awake to see it, though. I’ll have gorged on cotton candy and slipped into a semi-lucid sugar coma. I always miss these things.

One-man hobby lobby

Reading has been a hobby of mine for as long as I can remember. It was a hobby before i could even technically read; my father would sit me on his lap with a Dr. Suess book in hand and regale me with tales about green eggs and ham, which in children’s books apparently have nothing to do with mold.

Decades later I’m devouring the classics (if you can consider “The Shining” a classic), thankful that I’ve picked up on reading as a lifelong hobby. Because not only is it rewarding, but it has a distinct advantage over certain other hobbies: You can do it indoors.

Around these parts that’s kind of important.

I’ve never spent much time in the southwest -- a 10-hour layover in Los Angeles was the closest I came -- so I wonder what life is like for Southern Californians in particular. The reality is probably nothing like I envision it, but I picture tanned youths in undershirts and cargo shorts riding skateboards from dusk ’till dawn. Middle-aged movie executives sipping mai tais on beaches reading Variety on their cell phones. Elderly couples strolling under palm trees, comfortably silent beneath a cactus-dry sky. Outdoor hobbies. Things you do when rain and snow are things you see on television.

Mainers don’t have these kinds of luxuries, at least not in February. Sure, you’ve got the skiers and the snowmobilers, but every once in awhile you get choke-slammed by a Nor’easter so thick and nasty the only thing you can do is hunker down and ride it out. Right now I’m sitting in my living room, glancing out the window at a storm so relentless I don’t even dare poke my head out the door. If I craned my neck out for even a second I’d come back inside with a snow-beard and a pair of inch-long icicles dangling precariously from each nostril, both comprised of about 60 percent booger. Ice boogers were fun when I was 7. Now I’ve got a mustache. Do the math.

So I crack open my books and read for a while. Good clean indoor fun. But it occurred to me, as I was enjoying a novel about a serial killer who drives an ice cream truck, that not everyone reads for pleasure. They read strictly out of necessity, because otherwise they wouldn’t know that the fajitas at Applebee’s come with a side of coleslaw. Surely they must have different hobbies, things they do to combat the cabin fever. But what could they possibly be? Television? Amateur taxidermy? Bagpipe practice?

The internet is a blessing and a curse. Turns out people are even weirder than I imagined.

If you’re Chuck Lamb, for example, your indoor hobby is to play dead. Nothing fancy here. He essentially lies around and does nothing, only he does it with his eyes open and sometimes a couple of props at his disposal, like a streak of fake blood trickling down his forehead or a rubber knife sticking through his shirt. What’s scarier is that Lamb has an audience. He takes pictures and videos of his fake deadness and posts them online, with his website scoring about 32 million hits in the course of a year. That’s 32 million people who have sat at their computers or phones and watched a grown man with six kids literally doing nothing at all. This is what you would call a minimalist hobby. In fact it takes minimalism to a creepy, metaphysical level. At least his videos don’t have any weird sex stuff in them. I’d have to shower for a week to still my crawling skin.

Audrey Horncastle -- I swear that is an actual name -- takes things to a whole new level of strangeness. Her indoor hobby is knitting woolen breasts. Now in her case there’s actually a good reason for doing this: She gives them to her daughter, a community nurse, who uses them to teach new mothers how to breastfeed. It’s a good and noble purpose for what is still, let’s face it, a rather bizarre way to pass the time. What’s slightly unnerving is how … um, anatomically accurate she makes these faux body parts. I’m glad they serve a somewhat medical purpose, because if they were meant as gifts for family and friends, that would make for some super awkward moments at little Timmy’s birthday party. Although Timmy could always tell his grandma, “Thanks for the mammaries.” Zing! Rim shot! High five! OK, I’m done now.

These hobbies are not normal. In fact they’re borderline disturbing. But they’re also creative, and if these weirdos can come up with inventive ways to pass the time without leaving the house, that means there’s a chance for the rest of us. I mean, we don’t have to spend an entire blizzard reading about murderous psycho clowns, do we?

I’m tempted to do something that will land me on one of these internet “weird hobbies” lists. To invent an activity, essentially. Off the top of my head: take the black tape out of an old cassette and make a funny hat; paint my face with all my leftover Halloween makeup and do a Facebook photo shoot that’ll leave friends scared for my sanity; see if I can suspend a stapler in a gallon of Jell-O; and make a drum kit out of pillows and sofa cushions and try to keep time with the beat of “Rock and Roll Ain’t Noise Pollution.” If I digitally track my progress, at least one of these inane pastimes is bound to land me some dubious, fleeting Buzzfeed fame.

Desperate times call for desperate measures, as they say. And lately it’s been pretty desperate. Maybe once I’m done painting myself to look like a Zebra I’ll whip out the food coloring and try to make some actual green eggs and ham. As long as I’ve got the time, I might as well see what the fuss is all about.

You are what you eat

Almost everyone I know hates grocery shopping. And when I say “hate,” I don’t mean they find it sort of annoying, or a minor inconvenience. I mean they loathe it with the kind of fiery passion that could melt the grille off a Studebaker.

Granted, it’s not exactly a ride on the Tilt-A-Whirl. For many of us it falls under the category of “dull necessity,” a chore we tolerate because avoiding said chore would result in us dying, or at the very least being too out-of-our-minds with hunger that we can’t concentrate on the dentist’s old copy of “Entertainment Weekly.” We run low on food, we buy some. Simple. Nobody walks into the bread aisle shouting “Yippee!” Well, almost nobody.

When I ask people why the thought of grocery shopping fills them with such vitriol, the most common response I get it that it sucks up a lot of time. Picture it: Harry’s just put in a full day at the office. It was a bad one. People screamed at him over the phone relentlessly, his boss told him his work was sloppy, and when everyone gathered in the breakroom to celebrate Janet’s retirement he got the cake with the least amount of frosting. Plus his last name is Butts. That’s more of a life issue, but still, it didn’t help.

Then, after all that, Harry’s got to run down to the local supermarket to grab the items on his shopping list. They’re big items. He walks up to the cashier with a 10-lb. turkey, a gallon of 2 percent milk, 18 eggs (his wife loves omelettes), a loaf of pumpernickel, 14 boxes of Fig Newtons and two large jugs of Jim Beam, because yes, his day was all kinds of horrible. And since his wife is at her book club discussing “37 Shades of Off-White,” he has to lug this haul up to their third-floor apartment on his own. Did I mention Harry has a bad back? Yeah, Harry has a bad back.

The whole ordeal eats up about an hour and a half of a perfectly fine evening, and now he no longer has time to finish his oil painting of Patrick Duffy’s wristwatch. I can see why he doesn’t like grocery shopping. I mean, c’mon.

Call me a contrarian, but unlike Harry I’ve come to rather enjoy groceries. Despite the fact that, yes, it can be a massive time-suck, it doesn’t have to be an all-out grueling experience. As with many things, it’s all about mindset -- the attitude you bring into it.

For one thing, most people love food. (Most, in fact, love it a little too much, which is what keeps fitness clubs and Weight Watchers in such swingin’ business.) Can’t say I blame them; food is amazing. You get to stick something tasty in your mouth and in exchange you receive nutrition, a full and satisfied stomach, and in some cases a bout of hiccups so severe you end up slobbering seltzer water all over the living room rug. Of course, if you overdo things or make the wrong decisions you can also end up with diabetes and heart disease, but that’s not the point. The point is that food is great, and when you walk into the store and you’re surrounded by it, there’s a transcendent experience to be had. Think of the possibilities.

I mean, you can eat anything in the store. Anything. Assuming you’re lucky enough to have the financial means, walking through the aisles is like a choose-your-own-adventure book. Two people can walk into the same store, and one can load up on cookies and gummy bears while the other strolls out with oozy beef slabs and 14 cans of asparagus. Neither of those schmoes has got what it takes to put together a healthful meal, but they’re both exercising the unique freedom to choose. They’re deciding, in this outsized cornucopia, on the edible items that will keep them walking and breathing and playing slap bass in their funk bands.

Because as the saying goes, “You are what you eat,” and what many people don’t think about is how true that is in a literal sense. The cells in your body are continually dying and regenerating -- you’re made up of completely different cells than you were 20 years ago -- and they regenerate using the nutrients from the food you eat. So if you were to eat, say, nothing but peanut butter and cabbage for the next couple of decades, your body would be made primarily out of peanut butter and cabbage (and potentially Botox, depending on whether or not you live on the West Coast). You’d be extremely unhealthy and smell like a plastic bag filled with old seaweed, but hey, it’s your own fault for only shopping from the aisles closest to the register.

While most people walk into that store with slumped shoulders and an agonized groan, I’m thinking, “OK, what would I like to be made of this week?” This is, in all likelihood, an insane thing to think, and if one of you people reading this is a psychiatrist, maybe you can give me an armchair diagnosis and hook me up with some rad meds. But that’s my method of avoiding the dejectedness of hauling around gargantuan piles of stuff for long stretches. I imagine I’m picking out my constituent ingredients, selecting myself from amidst colorful aisles of multitudes.

It’s weird, but it helps.

As for Harry, things have gotten worse, I’m afraid. That three-flight haul with armloads of groceries is now more difficult following an ankle injury sustained while kicking a dying Maytag washer. It’s going to be a while before the cast comes off, and even then things will be touch-and-go for a little while. And did I mention his last name was Butts?

Not to worry, though. He’s made up mostly of Chef Boyardee beef ravioli and Campbell’s Chunky Jammin’ Jerk Chicken. That’s some pretty hardy stuff right there.

Keepin' it real

Unless you’ve spent the past several days floating aimlessly through the heavens in a malfunctioning space pod, you’ve probably heard a thing or two about so-called “alternative facts.” For all you wayward interstellar travelers out there, here’s a quick refresher on how this became an actual term.

Kellyanne Conway, who is perhaps President Trump’s top advisor, was on “Meet the Press” recently talking to host Chuck Todd -- the “Chuckmeister,” as I like to call him. He was asking Conway why the new administration keeps insisting that Trump’s swearing-in ceremony drew the largest inaugural crowd ever, when aerial photos clearly showed evidence to the contrary.

“Sean Spicer, our press secretary, gave alternative facts,” said Conway.

“Alternative facts aren’t facts,” Todd responded. “They are falsehoods.”

Way to go, Chuckmeister.

It was a rare example of a television news host actually calling BS on a flat-out lie. Certainly laudable, considering how most TV pundits have become enabling and sycophantic. But Conway’s comments are a demarcation point of sorts. The term “alternative facts” gives weight and heft to a new era, one in which the truth is irrelevant, evidence is to be dismissed, inaccuracies are tolerated and reality is in the eye of the beholder. Civic life has become like “Let’s Make a Deal”: If people don’t like the facts that are tucked away behind door number one, they can swap them for whatever’s behind door number two. If the truth doesn’t comport with their particular worldview, they now have an alternative, and with the White House endorsing this philosophy, one no longer need be ashamed of one’s tinfoil hat.

My inclination is to rail against this trend, to stand on a high rooftop and beat my chest and proclaim, in my deepest Tarzan bellow, that there can be only one objective reality. You know what, though? Let’s roll with this for a second. Let’s adopt Conway’s premise that “alternative facts” are an acceptable form of information. That means I can make any number of outlandish claims about myself, and people have to accept it because it’s simply an alternative to what’s true. There are some deep creative opportunities here. A chance at reinvention. Here are a few alternative facts about myself:

While leading a scientific expedition across the Yukon, I was attacked by a bear the size of a small office building. Using only rudimentary jiu jitsu training and the butter knife on a Swiss Army keychain, I subdued the bear and became the de facto ruler of the northwestern Canadian forests. Now all I have do is snap my fingers and an army of badgers appears, dropping nuts and berries at my feet and genuflecting to their new golden god. True story!

I was the original choice to play CIA analyst and ex-marine Jack Ryan in the 1990 film adaptation of “The Hunt For Red October,” but I had to drop out of the project because I was in third grade and had a book report due. Luckily, after getting an “A” on the report, I was considered a top-shelf genius and was hired as a consultant by NASA. There, I led the team that developed a robot which automatically folds astronauts’ underwear while they’re out making repairs to the International Space Station. Believe me!

When I was in high school I was bitten by a radioactive spider and gained the ability to climb walls and lift objects several times my own body weight. I was going to parlay these newfound superpowers into a side career as a crime-fighting vigilante, but there wasn’t enough money in it, so I entered the world of professional boxing, dominating the sport for a brief period using the alias “Evander Holyfield.” No, really!

See, now I’m conflicted. I can almost see -- almost -- how blatantly making things up would be a fun exercise, a way to test the bounds of what people will consider feasible. Only here’s the difference: Sean Spicer is the spokesperson for the executive branch of the most powerful government in the world. People will believe what he says. If what he says is untrue, then you have legions of American citizens judging the new administration, and making future decisions in the voting booth, based on what the Chuckmeister correctly referred to as falsehoods.

It’s become fashionable these days to label politicians we don’t like as Hitler-esque, but the way the current administration is handling information is more reminiscent of Hitler’s right-hand man, Joseph Goebbels. A master of propaganda, Goebbels once said, “If you tell a lie big enough and keep repeating it, people will eventually come to believe it.” And you know what? He was right.

I hate making the analogy, because pointing the finger at politicians and public officials we don’t like and calling them a Nazi has become a tired cliché, and an overreaction in most cases. Only this isn’t most cases. Truth, and the public’s respect for it, is at stake.

Did I tell you I knew Kellyanne Conway once? Yup. Sean Spicer, too. We were all starring in an off-Broadway production of the 1959 film classic “Some Like It Hot” -- Conway played the Marilyn Monroe part, I was Jack Lemmon’s character and Spicer was in the Tony Curtis role. I had to learn how to play an acoustic floor bass, so for months I took lessons from a jazz maestro named Bubba Love, who was also a 12-foot-tall orangutan. I ripped on that bass until my fingers broke out in blisters, achieving veritable virtuoso status, and after the play’s run ended, the three of us toured the country as a power trio, thrilling audiences with instrumental arrangements of old hip-hop classics. You haven’t lived until you’ve heard Run DMC’s “You Be Illin’” on a French horn.

It all happened. Cross my heart. But if you don’t believe those facts, I’ve got some alternative ones for you.