Circus Vargas

Class Clown Jason Love Becomes a Real Clown ... For One Glorious Evening

I arrived at the circus a little cranky owing to rush hour traffic -- six a.m. to nine p.m. daily -- but once I stepped into the big top and smelled that mix of candy apples and stable dung, I was the happiest kid in the world.

They didn't say what I'd be doing. Family and friends hoped they might shoot me from a cannon to put right some parts of my brain. I was up for anything except leotards, which don't match my body type ... MALE.

Circus Vargas is run by Katya and Nelson Quiroga, two of the friendliest people you'll ever meet, and by that I mean they laughed at my jokes. They were nothing like the single-toothed syphilitic mutants you hear about.

"You're thinking of the carnival," said Nelson with a chuckle. "This is a family show."

For family, by the family. Katya's father is the tentmaster, her brother-in-law an aerialist, her nephew a trampoline...ist. At one point I was marveling at a high wire dancer and said, "Isn't that the sno-cone girl?"

"Yes," said Katya. "My niece, Nicolette."

Nelson likes knowing that the children are being watched. If they weren't in the circus, they'd be at risk to join a street gang or, worse yet, get hooked on "American Idol."

Whereas I gained weight being downwind from the concession stand, everyone else was fit like gymnasts. Nelson's brother-in-law was, in fact, a gymnast in the 1988 Olympics. Now he dazzles children from the teeter boards and, would you know, runs the concession stand.

"Your whole body has to be in shape," says Nelson. "We train most nights after the show."

Circus Vargas no longer rolls with exotic animals thanks to people like Pamela Anderson, whose cleavage has inspired overzealous activists to spray paint the trailers.

"It happened to us four times," said 24-year-old Matthew Esqueda, a juggler from Florida. "They also slashed our tires."

Katya said it was mostly a permit headache. Since that McDonald's hot coffee ruling, we've come to a point where carousels are made of fiberglass for fear of splinters. Soon we'll just post a sign on the outskirts of town: Society Closed for Liability Reasons.