Tim Torkildson's Clown Alley

   My Dear Kiddies; the mottled mountains holding up blue vaults of snow -- our cable is out.   the door swings both ways -- lets in cold, l...

  I wanna buy an Uzi or an AK-47. Shooting up my neighbors would most certainly be heaven. I am not a psychopath or crudely maladjusted; I j...

  If you have money; if you want money; if you steal money -- you need to read Allison Prang's journalistic essays on the subject of cas...

  Nobody can say that reporter Art Raymond minces words or beats around the bush. That's because no one dares use any such flatulent cli...

  Jennifer Brooks always knew she wanted to be a reporter. Even though her earliest memory of words is when she spilled a bowl of alphabet s...

Jason Horowitz was born with the sense that the world is ham on rye. During a tempestuous career that has spanned everything from Chautauqua...

  Some writers seek the limelight, craving its warming glow. Some writers are indifferent to the plaudits of the world, quietly going about ...

  If you happen to be riding the retro Lake Harriet Trolley some beamish day, you may notice your driver has that skulking, dyspeptic look t...

amy is knitting a cap for mary, a lady down the hall. we're watching Colombo, waiting to go to the senior center in an hour for their th...

 there's a half hour before amy and i go to the temple this afternoon, so i'm challenging myself to write out a complete story from ...