Photo by Lindsey Byrnes

In the July 2010 issue of Relix, Jack Antonoff (then of Steel Train, now of fun. and most recently Bleachers) shares “Lessons learned from being punched”

*****

When I was 11, a clown punched me in the face. No exaggeration here.

It was 1995 and I was attending the Big Apple Circus, sitting ringside when a clown came charging along for all the kids to high-five. One of those “distract the crowd with a high-fiving clown while we prepare the elephant props” type of moments, a job not typically reserved for the most professional of clowns. Regardless, at the age of 11, I had some sort of a three second high-fiving/personal space misunderstanding with the clown, which begs the question, what are the personal space lines when slapping five a clown? Apparently, I crossed them. He grunted, “back off” and in his defense, I didn’t. A second went by before he punched me in the face and I hit the floor. Truth.

I’d also like to note that this particular performance was a benefit for the Children’s Brain Tumor Foundation. What that means is that a large percentage of the audience was kids with cancer on chemo. Therefore, you might assume that of all days for a clown to fly off the handle and punch an 11 year old in the face, the brain tumor benefit day would be one of the worst. The only thing that could really trump that would be some sort of fragile bone disease day. Nonetheless, it happened and it was awful with hilarious and confusing undertones. Bear with me here.

Being punched in the face is one of the most offensive acts you can do to another person, and therefore raises massive life questions. Most notably: Am I that repulsive of a person that I need to be dealt with in such an extreme manner? I’ve had numerous altercations, but have only been punched in the face twice. Once by an unhinged circus clown (as you know) and the other by a man who looked like Shrek’s ‘roid-raging twin (while drunk like GG Allin). A terrifying combination.

This guy took the liberty of throwing me down a staircase as well (a bonus that the clown did not indulge in, probably circumstantial). The experience – although less visually stimulating – was more poignant, being that it was entirely unprovoked. I was standing in the street. He approached me, yelled some derogatory/homophobic slur, punched me in the face and then in my disoriented, ” Mortal Kombat -finish him” type of state, threw me down a long metal staircase ending in a heap of trash. This actually happened.

Lying in the trash, I thought of the clown. Logically, I should have been concerned with him “finishing me,” but rather I was worried with the fact that this had now happened twice.

It’s wildly confusing to be put in situations where you never get the answers that you need to move on – like a terrible break up where you’re left with your own distortions as the only tools to work with. I’d love to sit down with the clown and take it step by step. Was it me? Did you realize that you could have been punching a sick child? Nonetheless, why would you punch a child? Maybe he just forgot to take some vital mood stabilizer and we could chalk the whole thing up to circus pressure and mental illness.

As for the jock guy years later, why the staircase portion? Was it my outfit? Was he just on a crusade to mangle anyone he found to be an overly effeminate man? Perhaps he was dealing with some gender confusion himself and needed to throw a small 24 year old down some stairs to work it all out? Glad to help.

What I’ve come to is this: Although confusing and horrible, the punching stories have become a real fixture at Thanksgivings and such. I’m always telling these larger than life stories, and in some way, that brings larger than life situations to my existence. I guess I’m saying I’ll take responsibility. Clowns don’t just beat the shit out of a possibly ill kid and drunk Biff doppelgangers don’t just chuck McFly look-alikes down staircases.

I’m putting something out there that provokes these scenarios, and I’m pretty sure I’ll continue to do so. I just hope that my next attacker is a bit more courteous with my face. I can only handle so much before I resemble a current Mickey Rourke.