At a recent lunch on the Westside of Los Angeles — generally improv territory, if you divide the city by comedy types — I overheard two women passionately discussing the problem with clowns. (Clown, as I understood it, dominates the town’s Eastside.) One of the women was waiting for confirmation of a plan, desperate for a work drink to happen, because if not, she had no excuse. She’d have to go to her friend’s clown show.
“I want to support her, but I don’t want to see her naked again,” she said, sighing. Her dining partner looked confused. “Clowns are just always getting naked,” she sputtered.
Before she could say more, I had to lean over and interrupt: “Excuse me, but are you guys talking about the L.A. underground alt-clown scene?”
