dispensed prizes to the kiddies. But after donning a clown costume in one episode, to the audience’s glee, he became Clarabell Hornblow, a baggy-pants prankster who had three thatches of hair sprouting from his powdered dome, two above his ears, and one above the cranium. His mirthful makeup choice, highlighted by an upturned grin and arched eyebrows, was the antithesis of Weary Willy, Emmett Kelly’s downcast, heavy-bearded hobo clown, so popular in the 1940s. Like Willy, though, Clarabell was mute. To make a point, he’d squeeze the rubber bulb of a bicycle-style horn belted to his waist, honking in a style reminiscent of Harpo Marx. Clarabell’s fizzy answer to most any comedic impasse was to douse a cast member with a shower of seltzer from a spray canister, although once, as a special guest on NBC’s prime-time comedy cavalcade, Texaco Star Theater, Keeshan (as Clarabell) hit Milton Berle right in the kisser with a cream pie.
Second only to Berle’s live show, Howdy Doody was the hottest ticket in television. You had to know someone who knew someone who knew someone to snag a ticket for your child. Smith told People magazine that “Forty Peanut Gallery tickets were issued a day, and a sponsor got ten. I got four, and each cast member got two or four a week. The station relations department got all the rest. So actually, hardly anyone who wrote in for a ticket ever got one.” 11
On a half-dozen occasions or so, Sam Gibbon, a matinee-idol-handsome NBC production staff member, was assigned to keep an eye on the Peanut Gallery. He was, to say the least, overqualified. A Princeton grad and newly repatriated Rhodes Scholar, Gibbon had completed a study of children’s theater in Europe before landing at NBC Studios. That his standards for children’s entertainment were highly refined, while Buffalo Bob’s were not, meant that Gibbon found Howdy Doody a deplorable waste of time. “The show was an abortion,” he said. “The kids would come in dressed in their Sunday best and excited beyond measure, and they’d always leave cranky and crying. The mothers never understood why, but the reason was Smith. Before airtime, the kids would be saying, ‘Where’s Buffalo Bob?’ When he finally came on, he would ignore them completely, except when he was on camera, and even then, he would sort of shove the kids aside to make room for himself in the Peanut Gallery. One time when a kid said something to him, he spun around and sort of kicked in the general direction of where the boy was sitting. Smith’s moccasin flew off and skimmed up over the heads of the Peanut Gallery.”
Years after Howdy Doody had completed its thirteen-season run (it ended September 24, 1960, after 2,343 shows), Smith admitted to some appalling off-camera behavior, citing two examples of his impatience with—and hostility toward—his overexuberant young fans.
One day I was doing a Tootsie Roll commercial. And this little kid kept interrupting with, “Buffalo Bob! Buffalo Bob!” I couldn’t stop because it was all live back then. Finally, I turned around and said, “Yes, sonny, what is it?” He said, “I can’t eat Tootsie Rolls’cause I’m allergic to chocolate!” I went on with the show and thought, “Well, there goes our client.” I was tempted to smack kids like that.
[Another] day, I was doing a commercial for Kellogg’s Rice Krispies. Every time the camera would be on me with this box of cereal, this little kid behind me would say hello and wave his hand right in front of my face. When the commercial was over, I was so angry at this kid that I took the box and swung it around to the left—I just wanted to hit him in the face a little, to remind him not to do that anymore. As I did, he ducked, and the sweetest little girl got the box right in her face and got a bloody nose. The camera jiggled up and down because the cameraman was shaking, he laughed so hard. It looked like we had an earthquake in the studio. 12
Gibbon,
Second only to Berle’s live show, Howdy Doody was the hottest ticket in television. You had to know someone who knew someone who knew someone to snag a ticket for your child. Smith told People magazine that “Forty Peanut Gallery tickets were issued a day, and a sponsor got ten. I got four, and each cast member got two or four a week. The station relations department got all the rest. So actually, hardly anyone who wrote in for a ticket ever got one.” 11
On a half-dozen occasions or so, Sam Gibbon, a matinee-idol-handsome NBC production staff member, was assigned to keep an eye on the Peanut Gallery. He was, to say the least, overqualified. A Princeton grad and newly repatriated Rhodes Scholar, Gibbon had completed a study of children’s theater in Europe before landing at NBC Studios. That his standards for children’s entertainment were highly refined, while Buffalo Bob’s were not, meant that Gibbon found Howdy Doody a deplorable waste of time. “The show was an abortion,” he said. “The kids would come in dressed in their Sunday best and excited beyond measure, and they’d always leave cranky and crying. The mothers never understood why, but the reason was Smith. Before airtime, the kids would be saying, ‘Where’s Buffalo Bob?’ When he finally came on, he would ignore them completely, except when he was on camera, and even then, he would sort of shove the kids aside to make room for himself in the Peanut Gallery. One time when a kid said something to him, he spun around and sort of kicked in the general direction of where the boy was sitting. Smith’s moccasin flew off and skimmed up over the heads of the Peanut Gallery.”
Years after Howdy Doody had completed its thirteen-season run (it ended September 24, 1960, after 2,343 shows), Smith admitted to some appalling off-camera behavior, citing two examples of his impatience with—and hostility toward—his overexuberant young fans.
One day I was doing a Tootsie Roll commercial. And this little kid kept interrupting with, “Buffalo Bob! Buffalo Bob!” I couldn’t stop because it was all live back then. Finally, I turned around and said, “Yes, sonny, what is it?” He said, “I can’t eat Tootsie Rolls’cause I’m allergic to chocolate!” I went on with the show and thought, “Well, there goes our client.” I was tempted to smack kids like that.
[Another] day, I was doing a commercial for Kellogg’s Rice Krispies. Every time the camera would be on me with this box of cereal, this little kid behind me would say hello and wave his hand right in front of my face. When the commercial was over, I was so angry at this kid that I took the box and swung it around to the left—I just wanted to hit him in the face a little, to remind him not to do that anymore. As I did, he ducked, and the sweetest little girl got the box right in her face and got a bloody nose. The camera jiggled up and down because the cameraman was shaking, he laughed so hard. It looked like we had an earthquake in the studio. 12
Gibbon,
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