Press

Kerry Dougherty

Virginian Pilot

April 7, 2001

If you ever find yourself manning a table at a high-school career fair, try to nab a location near Bobby the Clown. 

            His is the busiest booth in the room.

            I should know.  I was near that hot spot this week at the Virginia Beach Public Schools Career Connection at Tallwood High.

            Just my luck.  I thought as I set up, 108 exhibitors from foresters to funeral directors and I was in a corner with the clowns.

            After just a few minutes on clown alley, I realized that the major benefit to being parked near a coupe of guys in fright wigs and floppy shoes was the increased foot traffic they generated.

            On the downside, they made it mighty hard to sell journalism as a career.

            Bobby, who insists "The clown" is his last name, was trolling for apprentices by talking about all the giggles he has on the job.

I was trying to engage students on the importance of the Fourth Estate.

            Bobby had brought along his sidekick, Phillip The Clown, a graduate of the prestigious Ringling Brothers Clown College.

            I was alone, wearing a sincere suit.

            As the teens approached our little corner of the room, you could watch them playing a mental game of eenie, meenie, minie, moe:  Clown, journalist, clown, journalist, clown, journalist.

            Decisions, decisions, decisions.

            With little hesitation most headed straight for the pair in polka dots, apparently intrigued by a future filled with parties, pratfalls and poodles.

            "Sometimes the line between journalism and clowning is a blurry one," I told a couple of kids who wandered over to my booth after deciding they didn't want to drive around in teeny-tiny cars.

            "Lots of reporters have red noses," I told them.  "None of us dress well

            "And you'd be surprised to know how many editors you can stuff in a phone booth."

            The kids remained dubious.

            "Clowns don't have to sit at a desk," one remarked.

            There's that.

            And we don't get to toss water balloons in the newsroom, either.

            The students who did approach me for a serious chat about newspapers were usually accompanied by a skeptical adult.

            "Exactly how much money does a beginning report make?"  Asked one stern-faced mother of a high school sophomore.

            I told her.

            "Hrrumph," she said, pursing her lips and steering her daughter away.  "Let's check out the clowns."

            I couldn't win.

            "What exactly is the future of newspapers?" asked a computer-savvy mom.  "There will always be birthday parties and circuses, you know."

            How do you argue with that?

            "Can you work your own hours?" asked an eighth-grader.

            "Better go talk to the clown," I replied.

            "Do you get to travel a lot?" asked her friend.

            "Clown table's over there." I pointed.

            "Do you always have someone telling you what to do?" asked one polite boy who said he was sick of people bossing him around.

            "See the clowns," I sighed.

            Funny, before that night I'd never thought of clowning as a career.  But Bobby the Clown was mighty persuasive as he sought a few good graduates to join him to entertain at birthday parties and before the crowds at Harbor Park.

            "It's hard to get good people," Bobby said with a laugh.  "I tell them this is a great job.  You work your own hours.  You make people happy."

            But Bobby saved the best for last.

            "You get to go to all the Tides games."

            As I packed up my gear, I thought about the kids who had passed by our booths that night.

            Oh, to be young enough to peer into the future and ponder:  Clown or Journalist?

            A Metaphor for life.