Acting like a clown

Tim Cigelske
4 min readApr 23, 2016
Photo by Troy Freund

Clown nose adhesive smells like rubbing alcohol.

“It kind of burns the face a little,” says Andy Netzel, holding the red cap as it dries onto his skin.

It takes Netzel up to an hour of gluing his nose, applying make-up and lacing up his floppy shoes to dress for work. When he’s done, he becomes Tatters the hobo clown.

“When you put on your make-up,” he says, “you’re another person.”

This is how I cease being Tim for a while and become, um, Mr. Tim. Hey, it was the best I came up with on the spur of the moment.

Netzel streaks my jawline with brown paint, dabs my jowls with whiteface and draws black liner on my lips. I throw on a frayed jacket, take a toilet plunger and slip into beat up Chuck Taylors two sizes too big.

We look ridiculous.

“Looking really silly is the essence of being a clown,” Netzel assures me. “That and having fun.”

Some turn this silliness into a career. Netzel, who works full time with autistic children for Milwaukee Public Schools, conjures his goofy altar ego for parades and special events. He earns a measly $7.50 per outing — the remaining fees go to his clown club — but can make some extra bucks playing superheroes for birthday parties.

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