I despise Bozo the Clown. Why? Read on.
For those of you too young or too oblivious to know who Bozo is, I’ll fill you in. Bozo was a clown character created in 1946 by Alan W. Livingston – near as I can tell. Mr. Livingston developed books and records for children featuring the character. Popularity grew, television came along and eventually Bozo was syndicated into countless local media markets. He had a half-hour show on the local ABC affiliate in my hometown of Kingsport, Tennessee. This website has a clip from either 1968 or 1969 (depending on whether you believe the headline or the text of the story.) It’s a mind-numbingly boring clip, but if you want a visual, check it out.
http://www.vimeo.com/3814121
As a preschooler, I was riveted to our 26 inch, bulbous-screened, 400 pound, country oak finished, behemoth television every weekday afternoon. WKPT was on UHF – channel 19 to be exact. That meant I had to turn the upper dial to “U” and the lower dial to 19 in order to tune in the pasty faced jerk. I usually had to twiddle the rings around the tuning dials to get rid of the wiggly static lines and avoid buzzing in the sound. Suffice it to say that I put in a lot of work and energy as a 4-year-old to watch this clown. (Hey, it doesn’t really sound like an insult when the target really is a clown. Hmmm…)
Once I got it tuned in, the show generally consisted of some cheesy cartoons and lame clown tricks in front of a group of about 20 or 30 lucky kids who got to watch the show in person down at the station. Of course, given the fact that I was four and the entertainment choices for a kid my age in 1969 were limited, I ate it up. I watched it every day.
Like most memories people have from such a young age, mine are foggy and incomplete. Only the most joyful or traumatic experiences seem to remain in focus over the years. I vaguely remember the Bozo cartoons. I think there was a little blond haired boy in them who was Bozo’s pal. I can also picture the studio set with the small set of bleachers set up for the kids and Bozo prancing around in his clown suit and big floppy shoes.
By far the most vivid memory I have is of the hamster races. Even though they may have in fact been gerbils or even mice, I recall in great detail the little three lane race track device that Bozo had and the sight of the critters scampering down the track to the little piece of food at the end. What excitement! Adding to the excitement was THE FISHBOWL! I had to introduce it in all capital letters because of the enormous importance of it. It sat on a pedestal in the studio. In it were dozens of cards with the names and phone numbers of Bozo fans around the area. In response to my earnest request, my mother had sent my name in to the studio on a postcard so that I could be entered in the daily drawing. One lucky kid each day had his or her name drawn from the fishbowl. Bozo would take the card and go to a telephone on the set and dial the number on the card. (This show was live, folks.) If the kid on the card was home and answered the phone he or she was given the chance to win fabulous prizes. All you had to do was guess which rodent would win the race. If your choice won, you got the booty. I knew my name was somewhere in the fishbowl. Every day I held my breath while Bozo silently read the card and then began to dial. He wouldn’t say who he was calling. He would just dial. That added to the suspense.
Well, one day it happened.
I was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV just like I did every day. Bozo pulled a name from the fishbowl, read it to himself, gave a little clownish smile and picked up the telephone receiver. He then started to dial. I leaned forward on the floor toward the TV. Maybe I could see if he was dialing my number if I looked really closely. Please! Oh, please! Call ME, Bozo. Call ME!
Riiiiiinnnnnnnnggggg!
Gasp! Could it be? Without getting up, I spun my buzz cut blond four year old head around and gaped at the phone on the wall in the kitchen. (There was a pass-through in the wall between the living room and the kitchen in my house. You could see the phone hanging there.)
Riiiiiinnnnnnnnggggg!
I turned back to the TV, frozen by the enormity of the event. Bozo was waiting for the party on the other end to answer. My phone was still ringing. It might be him! No. It couldn’t be. Could it?
Riiiiiinnnnnnnnggggg!
Panic. What if he hangs up? Aaarrrgh! I suddenly pulled myself together enough to leap up from my place in the floor and dash into the kitchen. The phone was high up on the wall at grown-up height. I scrambled up onto a kitchen chair. I stared at the phone for a second or two.
Riiiiiinnnnnnnnggggg!
I grabbed the receiver and breathlessly said, “Hello?” I said it like a question because I still wasn’t sure it was the clown on the other end of the line. Nearly simultaneously, but slightly out of synch due to delays across the airwaves and telephone lines I heard Bozo say the words I only dreamed I would ever hear him say. “Is this Timmy Wright?” (Yes, they used to call me Timmy. My sister still does.) “Yes!” I said. It was all I could choke out. My heart was pounding in my throat. My mouth was dry. I couldn’t believe it! Bozo then asked me which hamster (or gerbil, or mouse, or whatever it was) would win the race. I can’t remember the names of all of the animals, but I do remember the one I guessed. It was my favorite one – Candy Shop.
Amid the excited squeals of the studio audience, Bozo set up the race track. The vermin were in position. The gates were set. The treats were in place. “Ready, Set, GO!” Bozo yelled and tripped the lever that simultaneously opened all three gates. Never looking back, Candy Shop streaked to the finish line and hungrily gobbled up the treat. She won! She won! Better than that – I won! The bleachers in the studio erupted in screams and cheers. Yay! We have a winner! Then, Bozo went over to a huge cache of toys that were arranged in a mountainous pile that was at least half as tall as he was. Stunned, I gazed back through the pass-through into the living room in sheer ecstasy. All of those toys – all mine! They were the cool toys, too. All new stuff. Games, cars, trucks, action figures and even some toys that ran on batteries! Bozo went on to say, as he always did when somebody won the race game, that all you needed to do is have your mom or dad drive you down to the studio and pick up your prizes.
Town was a fair drive away. It took about 30 minutes or so to get down there. We never went unless we had a good reason to. I waited through what seemed like years for the chance to get down to that TV studio. In reality it was probably just a couple of days. I’m sure my incessant begging and whining would have worn my mother down by then. However long it was, the day came. I spent the whole trip gazing sightlessly out into space dreaming of the incredible play experiences that awaited me. Which toy would I play with first? Where would I put them all. My toy box was pretty full. It was an old vacuum cleaner box in my closet that had most of my playthings piled in it. I would have to make room. Perhaps a shelf could be cleared off. Maybe Mom would buy another large item and bestow the cardboard box upon me so that I would have another container for my treasures. Oh the burdensome joys of the wealthy! I finally understood. Yes, I was the Toy King, the Toy Czar, maybe even the Toy Emperor!
We finally got to the studio and Mom parked our behemoth Mercury station wagon. I leaped out of the car and into the parking lot. “Come on, Mom! Come on! Let’s go! Come on!” Leaning forward at about a 45 degree angle gripping my mother’s hand like a vise I pulled her to the door. I yanked it open and we went inside. The lobby was a bit of a nondescript affair. It wasn’t fancy or anything. It looked a little bit like the waiting room at my pediatrician’s office. That should have been my first hint.
Mom went up to the counter to identify us and point out that I was the winner from the Bozo show. In the next sixty to ninety seconds or so, all of my joy and exuberance fell in a nearly audible avalanche of despair and woe. The clerk at the desk said something like, “Oh. The Bozo Show. Well, that’s been cancelled. They pretty much cleaned everything out. I’ll go back there and see if they left any prizes.” Still clinging to some hope, I was thinking that maybe this peon didn’t know what she was talking about. Bozo? Cancelled? What folly. It couldn’t be. Besides, I was a winner. The kids cheered for me. Bozo displayed the sprawling array of toys that were to be given to me as my reward. Surely it would all work out.
It didn’t.
The clerk came back and said, “This is all they left. You can have it.” My grand prize had been reduced to two toys. One of them was a Slinky. Wow! That was maybe a 50 cent item at Woolworth’s, right? The other one was essentially a six foot long, two foot wide Slinky covered in blue cotton fabric called the Tunnel o’ Fun. It was collapsed down into what looked like an extra, extra large pizza box.
Disappointed, crestfallen, stunned, chagrinned, despaired, angry, devastated, furious…
So many emotions for my preschooler brain to sift through. Which one to pick? Over time I think my reaction kind of evolved. I cried. Mom tried to appeal to the peon to no avail. I sucked it up and took my measly awards and moped back to the Mercury. On the way home, Mom did her best to console me, but the rollercoaster had reached its nadir. The ride was over.
I did have fun with the Slinky for about an hour until it became hopelessly tangled upon itself. The Tunnel o’ Fun lasted a while longer, but eventually the cheap fabric that covered it started to come apart at the seams and tear - ending whatever Fun the Tunnel contained. I think it was then that the anger really surfaced. That clown did me wrong, man! He lied to me! He told me that I won that prize package and then he blew out of town. That’s not right. Stupid clown!
Maybe after 40 years it’s time to let go. Maybe it’s time to put all of this behind me and forgive the Bozo Show. Maybe I can move on.
Nope.
I despise Bozo the Clown.
For those of you too young or too oblivious to know who Bozo is, I’ll fill you in. Bozo was a clown character created in 1946 by Alan W. Livingston – near as I can tell. Mr. Livingston developed books and records for children featuring the character. Popularity grew, television came along and eventually Bozo was syndicated into countless local media markets. He had a half-hour show on the local ABC affiliate in my hometown of Kingsport, Tennessee. This website has a clip from either 1968 or 1969 (depending on whether you believe the headline or the text of the story.) It’s a mind-numbingly boring clip, but if you want a visual, check it out.
http://www.vimeo.com/3814121
As a preschooler, I was riveted to our 26 inch, bulbous-screened, 400 pound, country oak finished, behemoth television every weekday afternoon. WKPT was on UHF – channel 19 to be exact. That meant I had to turn the upper dial to “U” and the lower dial to 19 in order to tune in the pasty faced jerk. I usually had to twiddle the rings around the tuning dials to get rid of the wiggly static lines and avoid buzzing in the sound. Suffice it to say that I put in a lot of work and energy as a 4-year-old to watch this clown. (Hey, it doesn’t really sound like an insult when the target really is a clown. Hmmm…)
Once I got it tuned in, the show generally consisted of some cheesy cartoons and lame clown tricks in front of a group of about 20 or 30 lucky kids who got to watch the show in person down at the station. Of course, given the fact that I was four and the entertainment choices for a kid my age in 1969 were limited, I ate it up. I watched it every day.
Like most memories people have from such a young age, mine are foggy and incomplete. Only the most joyful or traumatic experiences seem to remain in focus over the years. I vaguely remember the Bozo cartoons. I think there was a little blond haired boy in them who was Bozo’s pal. I can also picture the studio set with the small set of bleachers set up for the kids and Bozo prancing around in his clown suit and big floppy shoes.
By far the most vivid memory I have is of the hamster races. Even though they may have in fact been gerbils or even mice, I recall in great detail the little three lane race track device that Bozo had and the sight of the critters scampering down the track to the little piece of food at the end. What excitement! Adding to the excitement was THE FISHBOWL! I had to introduce it in all capital letters because of the enormous importance of it. It sat on a pedestal in the studio. In it were dozens of cards with the names and phone numbers of Bozo fans around the area. In response to my earnest request, my mother had sent my name in to the studio on a postcard so that I could be entered in the daily drawing. One lucky kid each day had his or her name drawn from the fishbowl. Bozo would take the card and go to a telephone on the set and dial the number on the card. (This show was live, folks.) If the kid on the card was home and answered the phone he or she was given the chance to win fabulous prizes. All you had to do was guess which rodent would win the race. If your choice won, you got the booty. I knew my name was somewhere in the fishbowl. Every day I held my breath while Bozo silently read the card and then began to dial. He wouldn’t say who he was calling. He would just dial. That added to the suspense.
Well, one day it happened.
I was sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of the TV just like I did every day. Bozo pulled a name from the fishbowl, read it to himself, gave a little clownish smile and picked up the telephone receiver. He then started to dial. I leaned forward on the floor toward the TV. Maybe I could see if he was dialing my number if I looked really closely. Please! Oh, please! Call ME, Bozo. Call ME!
Riiiiiinnnnnnnnggggg!
Gasp! Could it be? Without getting up, I spun my buzz cut blond four year old head around and gaped at the phone on the wall in the kitchen. (There was a pass-through in the wall between the living room and the kitchen in my house. You could see the phone hanging there.)
Riiiiiinnnnnnnnggggg!
I turned back to the TV, frozen by the enormity of the event. Bozo was waiting for the party on the other end to answer. My phone was still ringing. It might be him! No. It couldn’t be. Could it?
Riiiiiinnnnnnnnggggg!
Panic. What if he hangs up? Aaarrrgh! I suddenly pulled myself together enough to leap up from my place in the floor and dash into the kitchen. The phone was high up on the wall at grown-up height. I scrambled up onto a kitchen chair. I stared at the phone for a second or two.
Riiiiiinnnnnnnnggggg!
I grabbed the receiver and breathlessly said, “Hello?” I said it like a question because I still wasn’t sure it was the clown on the other end of the line. Nearly simultaneously, but slightly out of synch due to delays across the airwaves and telephone lines I heard Bozo say the words I only dreamed I would ever hear him say. “Is this Timmy Wright?” (Yes, they used to call me Timmy. My sister still does.) “Yes!” I said. It was all I could choke out. My heart was pounding in my throat. My mouth was dry. I couldn’t believe it! Bozo then asked me which hamster (or gerbil, or mouse, or whatever it was) would win the race. I can’t remember the names of all of the animals, but I do remember the one I guessed. It was my favorite one – Candy Shop.
Amid the excited squeals of the studio audience, Bozo set up the race track. The vermin were in position. The gates were set. The treats were in place. “Ready, Set, GO!” Bozo yelled and tripped the lever that simultaneously opened all three gates. Never looking back, Candy Shop streaked to the finish line and hungrily gobbled up the treat. She won! She won! Better than that – I won! The bleachers in the studio erupted in screams and cheers. Yay! We have a winner! Then, Bozo went over to a huge cache of toys that were arranged in a mountainous pile that was at least half as tall as he was. Stunned, I gazed back through the pass-through into the living room in sheer ecstasy. All of those toys – all mine! They were the cool toys, too. All new stuff. Games, cars, trucks, action figures and even some toys that ran on batteries! Bozo went on to say, as he always did when somebody won the race game, that all you needed to do is have your mom or dad drive you down to the studio and pick up your prizes.
Town was a fair drive away. It took about 30 minutes or so to get down there. We never went unless we had a good reason to. I waited through what seemed like years for the chance to get down to that TV studio. In reality it was probably just a couple of days. I’m sure my incessant begging and whining would have worn my mother down by then. However long it was, the day came. I spent the whole trip gazing sightlessly out into space dreaming of the incredible play experiences that awaited me. Which toy would I play with first? Where would I put them all. My toy box was pretty full. It was an old vacuum cleaner box in my closet that had most of my playthings piled in it. I would have to make room. Perhaps a shelf could be cleared off. Maybe Mom would buy another large item and bestow the cardboard box upon me so that I would have another container for my treasures. Oh the burdensome joys of the wealthy! I finally understood. Yes, I was the Toy King, the Toy Czar, maybe even the Toy Emperor!
We finally got to the studio and Mom parked our behemoth Mercury station wagon. I leaped out of the car and into the parking lot. “Come on, Mom! Come on! Let’s go! Come on!” Leaning forward at about a 45 degree angle gripping my mother’s hand like a vise I pulled her to the door. I yanked it open and we went inside. The lobby was a bit of a nondescript affair. It wasn’t fancy or anything. It looked a little bit like the waiting room at my pediatrician’s office. That should have been my first hint.
Mom went up to the counter to identify us and point out that I was the winner from the Bozo show. In the next sixty to ninety seconds or so, all of my joy and exuberance fell in a nearly audible avalanche of despair and woe. The clerk at the desk said something like, “Oh. The Bozo Show. Well, that’s been cancelled. They pretty much cleaned everything out. I’ll go back there and see if they left any prizes.” Still clinging to some hope, I was thinking that maybe this peon didn’t know what she was talking about. Bozo? Cancelled? What folly. It couldn’t be. Besides, I was a winner. The kids cheered for me. Bozo displayed the sprawling array of toys that were to be given to me as my reward. Surely it would all work out.
It didn’t.
The clerk came back and said, “This is all they left. You can have it.” My grand prize had been reduced to two toys. One of them was a Slinky. Wow! That was maybe a 50 cent item at Woolworth’s, right? The other one was essentially a six foot long, two foot wide Slinky covered in blue cotton fabric called the Tunnel o’ Fun. It was collapsed down into what looked like an extra, extra large pizza box.
Disappointed, crestfallen, stunned, chagrinned, despaired, angry, devastated, furious…
So many emotions for my preschooler brain to sift through. Which one to pick? Over time I think my reaction kind of evolved. I cried. Mom tried to appeal to the peon to no avail. I sucked it up and took my measly awards and moped back to the Mercury. On the way home, Mom did her best to console me, but the rollercoaster had reached its nadir. The ride was over.
I did have fun with the Slinky for about an hour until it became hopelessly tangled upon itself. The Tunnel o’ Fun lasted a while longer, but eventually the cheap fabric that covered it started to come apart at the seams and tear - ending whatever Fun the Tunnel contained. I think it was then that the anger really surfaced. That clown did me wrong, man! He lied to me! He told me that I won that prize package and then he blew out of town. That’s not right. Stupid clown!
Maybe after 40 years it’s time to let go. Maybe it’s time to put all of this behind me and forgive the Bozo Show. Maybe I can move on.
Nope.
I despise Bozo the Clown.
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