Acting like a clown
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.