I grew up in Sharon, PA. My doctor, who just about every child in Sharon had as a doctor, was Dr. Stypula. Nicest guy ever. I loved him. He always had clean hands and he was the mellowest person you could imagine, even though he dealt with screaming, sick children all day long.
Anyhoo, he had these paintings on the walls of his examination rooms. Some Paul Klees, which I loved because they looked like messed up string, and some watercolors. And some clowns.
I hated those paintings. Even though they were supposed to show the humanity behind the paint, all I ever saw was a bunch of grown men wearing make-up and looking creepy. Over the years, I realized that the reason I don't like clowns is because of the same reason Mister Rogers always creeped me out - I never got why grown men would have kid's shows or dress up. The concept of grown men doing this freaked me out. Why, I used to think, are these guys doing this? What's Mister Rogers' deal? Why is there no picture of his family? Is he divorced? I used to look at him talking to the puppets and think, 'There's something really wrong with this dude.' There I was, in our livingroom, having to watch freaking PBS because nothing else good was on, around eight years old, flummoxed as to why this guy needed to:
1.) change his clothes all the damned time
2.) played with toys
3.) wasn't married
4.) didn't have a real job
5.) seemed to have a different house for playtime
Looking back, I think I'd have been totally whacked out had I known the meaning of the world 'pedophile', because he could have been a poster child for the stereotype. Poor Mister Rogers.
Over the years, the concept of what clowns are only got weirder and weirder to me. I think those pictures in Dr. Stypula's office started my discomfort, and Mister Rogers pushed it to the limit.
The clown in Poltergeist didn't help matters much, you know.
By the time It came out in 1986, I was well on my way to some serious clown hate. There was no stopping the train I rode, repleat with cars carrying excess childhood baggage and a caboose stuffed full of emerging adult knowledge. Nope. No clowns for me.
Bastards.
The gene pool could use a little chlorine......
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