I could try to claim that John Wayne Gacy ruined clowns for me. But “ruination” implies that he destroyed something I liked before his intervention, and my mother has no recollection of my ever having a preference for the pale creepers during childhood, which passed in ignorance of Gacy’s offenses. For those of you who are unaware, John Wayne Gacy was a rapist and murderer of at least 33 young men during the 1970s. I should also mention that Gacy often had block parties where he dressed up as “Pogo the Clown,” entertaining the neighborhood children. I should note that at least two of his victims were as young as fourteen…therefore his target audience as “Pogo” didn’t exactly differ greatly in age from that of his victims. When I learned about Gacy, probably some time in my teens (I’m 23 now,) I’m sure that among fright and disgust I found another emotion brewing: vindication. I knew it. There is something creepy about clowns.
I’m from Boston. It’s a source of enormous pride. Even here, however, we’ve had our share of clown scares. Back in the spring of 1981, children were reporting that they were being approached by people dressed as clowns, who were attempting to entice them into their vans.
Is my fear regional? Did these events six years before my birth somehow effect how I came to view these people? Honestly, probably not. It’s likely that my simple mistrust of the balloon manipulating fiends has to do with an irrationally heightened survival instinct fueled by mistrust and a dislike of the covertly macabre.
I was asked to explain my fear of clowns recently and what I managed to summon, flustered as I was in attempting to invoke my dislikes in order to give an impression, was this simple and rather unsophisticated statement….. “they’re all…..ulterior motive-y.” Honestly, I simply have a difficult time believing that these people have good intentions. There is something frightening about covering one’s face so that you can approach others via the ruse of a certain cultural image we’re automatically expected to trust. I find people with personal space issues not only vulgar and difficult to tolerate, but frightening and rude. I also find myself associating a high level of pathology with the desire to put on makeup and shimmering striped clothing on the weekends to go talk to little children…every time I see a clown my first thought is inevitably “Ugh. Stay away,” and my second is invariably “Yep. He lives in his mother’s basement.” It could be my paranoia kicking in, but I find myself imagining a clown, in said basement, perhaps with his mother’s long preserved and petrified corpse, plotting my demise. If you find my dead body abandoned on the side of the road covered in cheap caked makeup, I have been killed by one of two perpetrators: a creepy clown, or one of the hundreds of girls I’ve justifiably declared a whore. Hopefully, my blog will be the first destination for the police attempting to find my killer.
Note: I apologize if you find this particular entry boring due to lack of photos for illustration and entertainment purposes. I have one excuse for this: any relevant photos would be photos of clowns….and I’m afraid of them.