Eduardo Benedeto,
Colin Burns,
Daniel Edwards,
Steve Ellis,
Johnny Fenix,
Steven Gagnon,
Jason Douglas Griffin,
David Hochbaum,
Justin Kirchoff,
Martina Kubinyi,
Travis Lindquist,
Brian Leo
GoldMine ShitHouse,
David Stoupakis,
David Tree,
Kevin Willis






CKFA pours Kelso of Brooklyn Nut Brown Ale

Sunset & St. Marks
The finest upcoming artists from Los Angeles, Miami, Boston and New York City.
July 15 - July 23 Opening night with the artists: Saturday, July 14th 7:00 - 10:00 pm

My Coulrophobia: Why I Dislike Clowns

By Daniel Edwards

Coulrophobia is an irrational fear of clowns.

I've never feared clowns, but learned not to like them. Their enticingly colorful costumes and false faces can be misleading, their appearances deceiving. Experiences growing up with my grandfather helped me prepare for that lesson.

When I was little, I feared my grandfather more than anything, or anyone. I would hide from him, terrified, during his routine drunken visits. He was a tall man with a loud booming voice and a rough exterior, always ready for a fight.

My brother and I learned to not be afraid of my grandfather after the first time he sat us on his lap to tell us about how his strict grandfather would whip him with a willow switch when he was our age. We could smell the alcohol and tobacco on him, and as he told us the story he would cry. I've never forgotten the pain and sorrow I saw in his eyes that day, a look I saw in him until the day he died. This early experience was echoed two other times in my childhood, though not with equal but lasting impact.

One echoing experience was cinematic, via "The Bride of Frankenstein." In "The Bride," the 'friend' scene between the monster and the blind man where the monster cries, came to me as unexpectedly as witnessing my grandfather cry. Karloff's tears in that scene still move me, perhaps by the association with my grandfather. Another echoing experience is associated with a memory painful to recall, involving clowns and a stage prank in which I was the unwitting recipient.

My uncle was a promoter. He booked a popular televised clown show to perform in our hometown for two dates. My brother and I were always given free tickets to these events, and seated close to the stage.

The first show was everything we expected. Kooky and Weaz-o were zanier in person than on TV. Afterward, we waited backstage excitedly to meet Kooky and Weaz-o, but two nondescript guys emerged instead. We had difficulty recognizing these two as Kooky and Weaz-o. We tried to conceal our disillusionment as they graciously signed autographs.

The next day we sat in the same seats with a little less enthusiasm. During the show, Kooky rounded up ten kids to participate on stage in a game of musical chairs. He specifically singled me out, I assumed for his familiarity with me from the day before.

The other kids playing were older and bigger. Though I was quick and did well, I was eventually caught standing. Those who were caught standing had to wait until Kooky escorted them to the side. I stood waiting, obliviously looking out at the audience. There was silence, and then a roar of laughter. Kooky had snuck up behind me and pulled my shorts down. I struggled to pull them back up for what seemed an eternity, since Weaz-o immediately drenched me in water, making it difficult to pull up my shorts. I even tripped with my shorts around my ankles, which caused even louder laughter. Humiliated, I ran off the stage and out of the building, and kept running until I got home.

I was convinced Kooky intentionally humiliated me for my inadvertent display of disappointment over seeing him without his makeup the day before.

My uncle called and asked me to come back, saying Kooky owed me an apology. I reluctantly returned and waited for Kooky to come out of his dressing room.

He asked nearby stagehands for privacy, and bent down on his knees to apologize. He said he had no idea that I would be embarrassed by the prank, and even said he expected that I knew it was going to happen, since he had discussed it with my uncle the day before. I could smell the alcohol on him, and noticed he appeared to be trying to restrain himself from crying. His eyes weren't convincing. Nothing like my grandfather's tears. Nothing like Frankenstein's tears.

My uncle denied the alleged discussion about the prank that supposedly entailed my having to wear large polka-dot boxer trunks under my shorts. It was Kooky's word against my uncle's. I believed my uncle.

I no longer wear shorts, and only wear pants. Polka-dot boxers would be out of the question.

I don't fear clowns. I just don't like them.