On The Scene With Andy's Frogs

ANGELS CAMP, Calif. - When Seattle's Andy Koffman asked if I wanted to help jump his giant African frogs in this year's Calaveras County Fair and Frog Jump Jubilee, it was an offer I couldn't refuse.

Miss an opportunity to drive all night over mountain passes in an open jeep? Not get a chance to sleep with nine malodorous frogs in a snug little RV? Avoid bedrock American phenomena such as swine and beef contests, corndog-crazed rodeo fans, carnival rides, second-rate country rock bands and party-hearty bikers - not to mention the deeply fried food?

Give up show business? Forget it. Art is my life.

So, this past weekend, there I was, an official frog jockey. Besides me, Team Koffman included his wife and children, Seattle frog expert Perry Thomson, a variety of family members, friends, hangers-on and well-wishers.

For the record, the frogs didn't do as well as we'd hoped in yesterday's finals. They were beat out by a domestic 1-pounder named Help Mr. Wizard, who leaped 19 feet, 3 inches in three jumps. Wizard's owner, Gregg Jaschek of Concord, Calif., said he hadn't been worried about the competition from our giants: ``I saw them on TV. They weren't so hot.''

Maybe it was the stress of being constantly exposed to people that sapped our Goliaths and cost us the $500 first prize - or any prize. Maybe they were just lethargic in the relatively cold temperatures of Angels Camp.

Regardless, this was your was your basic country-fair crowd, one which did't take lightly to disappointment. They let Koffman know that in no uncertain terms. ``Hey, Andy,'' one yelled after a disappointing jump. ``When ya gonna open a giant-frog restaurant?''

Still, even if they didn't leap tall buildings, the Goliath frogs succeeded spectacularly at their other job: to attract and wow record crowds: 8,000 attended the 62nd annual contest.

The shows - separate from the jumping competition itself - at which the big boys were shown were chaotic backstage and freewheeling onstage. Several of Koffman's longtime friends showed up to watch with amusement as he reveled in his 15 minutes of stardom. And they all agreed that his uncanny knack for collecting oddball characters served him well. Some of them he even managed to work into the show.

There was Kenny, a slightly manic costume-maker who appeared onstage dancing and hopping in a giant-frog costume. There was a totally crazed country singer named Ed who sang his not-yet-platinum tune ``Frogman Andy.''

There was Accordion Joe, the world's only accordion-playing Elvis impersonator. Joe left after being roundly booed. And finally, there were five peppy cheerleaders from Ribet Academy, a private school in Los Angeles, whose mascot is the fighting frog.

My role in all of this was to stand onstage during the show wearing a pith helmet and a giant frog T-shirt, waiting to catch the frogs before they jumped into the audience. I was lucky. None came in my direction.

I really did sleep with these guys, by the way. The first night I was here, the heater for the frogs' trailer was malfunctioning and so the RV I thought I had to myself was given over to them. I, however, chose to stay, rather than bunk elsewhere. I had dire visions of what could have happened. Mostly they took the form of tabloid headlines: ``Forced to Sleep with Killer Frogs'' or ``Writer Buys the Farm; Done in by Toxic Frog Fumes.''

As it turned out, I had nothing to fear. But there was a surreal quality to the whole affair that lent itself to this sort of overheated hyperbole.

In addition, Koffman's own aims - on the one hand, an educational, ``let's show the world these amazing creatures'' sort of consciousness, on the other, a giddy, P.T. Barnum showmanship - were often at odds. A mild-mannered importer of rare birds and animals for zoos had suddenly found himself in the middle of a whirlwind and it was enough to make even the most seasoned frog jockey a little goofy.

Still, the whole thing was an experience. There was something strangely exhilarating about being at the center of all that weird energy - where the snake-oil salesman met the educator, where raw American hucksterism intersected with something like higher moral principles.

At least that was something of what it was like, hanging out with Andy and the frogs.