A clown school graduation story

I’ve only had two goals in life

I remember the day I graduated from clown school

It was late may in rural, Northern California - Humboldt county to be precise.

The locals used to call us the hippie clown faggots

It was a lumber town. The local bar was called ‘the logger’.

The Logger Bar ‘s walls were covered with timber industry paraphernalia. There were two handed buck saws and chainsaws with sixty four inch bars - tools build for felling giant redwoods.

The humid air of town was intoxicating. Amidst the tart saltiness’s from the nearby pacific, notes of manure from the near by ranch danced playfully with crisp hints of cedar and redwood. Underneath it all the murky scent of loam had a life of its own.

Every sunrise a delight. Each sunset a symphony

I fucking loved clown school.

It’s one of those memories that at the time I knew it was exquisite. My task while there? Get up every morning and make something. Get better. Play. Work out. But most importantly?

Be funny.

Well, that was the ethic of myself, Tony, Yama, The boss bi…