The Adventures of Tim Laughingstock. Four. In Boogle Hollow.

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It has come to this author’s attention that past tense and present tense are getting all mixed up in the story of Tim Laughingstock, causing readers some confusion and fussiness. The author wishes to state that he is not being lackadaisical about the matter, but is under a magical compulsion stemming from the residual magic of Svarm. Even though she can no longer practice any type of enchantment, Svarm’s previous magic was so deep that there are still manifestations of it extant. One of these manifestations is the altering and negating of the time continuum when writing about her. This means that Tim and Svarm and other characters may be described as doing something in the past -- or they may be described as doing something right now in the present. And there’s nothing that you or I can do about it. So grab a bowl of nixie nuggets and continue your reading unperturbed.

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Boogle Hollow was the closest village to Mountebank. It was about twenty miles due east, as the horse flies. And since horses don’t fly anymore -- the last flying horse had been shot and stuffed to put on display at the Jonesonium Institute back when Aloysius Laughingstock had been a babe in gilded diapers -- Tim was forced to walk through the Tiger Woods to reach Boogle Hollow to make his first sales pitch for pet lumdiddles. The regular road, of course, was chock-a-block with lumdiddles, and impassable. He wasn’t worried about the tigers that inhabited the woods very much, since they mostly rolled little white stones around while growling “Frowr!” incessantly. And they only ate cured hams -- so healthy actors and actresses avoided the place completely.

No, what worried Tim as he tramped through the weedy undergrowth beneath the trees were the McSkeeters. They are a tribe of savagely ill-tempered pixies, with long pointy noses as hard as steel. They don’t much like people tramping through their forest -- they consider Tiger Woods to be completely their property -- so anyone they catch in the woods is subject to a very painful poking around their ankles until they get clear of the trees.

Argyle socks attracted McSkeeters by the dozens, so Tim wore plain white socks. Every snick or click in the forest underbrush caused him to start and look wildly around while performing a sort of demented folk dance with his knees alternately pumping high into the air and his arms swinging blindly about.

But he worried for nothing. The McSkeeters were all on a long visit with their distant cousins the McHoppers over the mountains. The McHoppers had very long legs and enjoyed nothing so much as vaulting over anything that was taller than they were -- and since they all were only six inches tall, that included a lot of things. They were famous for jumping over conclusions and jumpstarting arthritic horses that didn’t want to move anymore. Their leader, Leapfrog Hoptoad, was summoning all the Wee Folk in the kingdom for a Council of War. He was determined to wage war on the Tall Tails (as ordinary humans were called) and drive them into the sea, for their many insults and bullying actions against the Wee Folk. He was a bit of a hothead and burnheart. So far none but his own kin had answered his summons, which made him even more hot in the head, and he was seriously considering declaring war on all the fairies and gnomes and others who had ignored his call prior to eliminating the Tall Tails. But since he was killed by a falling acorn soon after Tim arrived at Boogle Hollow, there is really no point in going on about him or the McHoppers and McSkeeters. Sick tranny glorious Monday, as the King of the Peacocks likes to tell his subjects.  

After spending a miserable night in Tiger Woods, Tim arrived in Boogle Hollow the next day at noon. He was tired and dirty and hungry, so he headed straight for the Boogle Inn, and, spending some of the gold the Council had generously given him, was bathed and fed and napped before you could say “grumpy gumption goes to gallows.” As evening fell, he strolled about the town to work out his marketing plan for the morrow.

Boogle Hollow had a perfectly good road going through it, with not a single solitary lumdiddle on it or near it. So there was lots of hustle and bustle going on throughout the village. Even as night fell. The street lamps glowed brightly, lit with hangfire, and the shops were wide open to cater to the tourists who came to town for a look-see. Tim stopped at a bake shop for a slice of watermelon cake. He was heartened to see so many children out with their parents of an evening, strolling about without any pets on a leash. With visions of leashed lumdiddles being dragged along by every family in town, Tim went back to the Boogle Hollow Inn to sit in the tap room and chew things up with the barkeep.

“Ho, barkeep” Tim called cheerfully. “A cup of your best licorice beer, if you please!”

“Right away, good sir!” the barkeep called back happily. He had seen how Tim had paid for his lodging with good gold coin, the King’s gold coin, and was determined to keep Tim happy and well supplied with whatever expensive fripperies he wanted.

“Have one on me” Tim said expansively when the barkeep came over with the cup of licorice beer.

“Thank you, your good graciousness!” replied the barkeep. “Might I ask what brings you to our perky little village tonight?”

“Lumdiddles” Tim replied.

“Beg pardon, but what did you say? Sounded like lumdiddles.”

“Lumdiddles. That is exactly what I said. Let’s have another round of this excellent licorice beer!”

“As you wish, sir.” The barkeep was no longer certain he wanted to cozy up to this particular customer, no matter how much gold jingled in his purse. Nasty things, those lumdiddles. They took over the road to Mountebank years ago, and now the place was practically a wraith hole. But barkeeps are inherently curious fellows; they can’t stay away from a puzzle.

“Here you go, sir. And thanks for the same. You say lumdiddles brings you to Boogle Hollow -- how so?”

Tim produced a flask of pimento wine from his coat pocket, uncorking it to pour out a very groggy lumdiddle onto the bar top. The barkeep recoiled as if he’d been bitten by it already.

“Get that nasty thing off my bar!” he yelled at Tim.

“Tut - tut. No need to carry on like that. This is a domesticated lumdiddle. Perfectly harmless and good humored. It makes an ideal pet.”

To demonstrate, Tim gave the lumdiddle a little shove so that it weaved unsteadily about the bar, dragging its pincers behind it and issuing a series of tiny belches that sounded something like “koop koop.” It had taken Constable Keystone several hours to catch several beligerant lumdiddles in a quilted blanket and poke them into flasks of pimento wine for Tim before he left for Boogle Hollow. The Mountebank Council had had to promise Keystone a promotion to Field Marshall before he consented to do it.

The barkeep approached the lumdiddle cautiously.

“Domesticated, you say? What does it eat?”

“Oh any crumbs and leftovers -- it’s not a picky eater. Just keep it moistened inside a flask of pimento wine every night and it will give you years and years of unadulterated pleasure!”

“The doofus you say. Hmmm. Well, mayhaps I’ll just have to get me one for the customers to play with on a slow night. How much?”

“For you, my good man, it’s on the house. Please accept this one as a token of my esteem for your splendid taproom services” said Tim grandly, as he swept the lumdiddle back into the flask and handed it to the beaming barkeep.

“That is a handsome gesture, sir, and I’ll not forget it until the frogs turn blue!”

Just then several thirsty customers came into the taproom, asking loudly for a bottle of Old Camel’s Breath and some belly button chasers. They were in very high spirits, and looked like a reckless bunch out for as much fun as they could get before dawn.

After serving them their drinks and putting a bowl of nixie nuggets in front of them, the barkeep proudly brought over his new pet in a bottle and poured it out onto the counter.

“Here’s something you gents might enjoy” the barkeep said.

Looking steadily at the lumdiddle, one of the Old Camel’s Breath drinkers picked it up -- and swallowed it.

“Hey!” shouted the barkeep.

“Not bad” said the lumdiddle eater. “Tastes like a lumbago salad.”

So saying, he turned white as a bed sheet and fell over.

“Holy cakes of soap!” moaned the barkeep, pointing at Tim. “Look what your little pest has done -- it’s poisoned one of me best customers! Call the Constable! I want this highbinder locked up and charged with pesticide!”

Miracles

“. . . and they did despise them because of the many miracles which were wrought among them.”

If you believe in miracles you haven’t got a chance

Of making it in this cold world of science and finance.

Coincidence may be approved, but heavenly intervention

Is just a fairy tale, or worse, and cause for great contention.

Be careful who you share your sacred stories with, my friend --

The world is full of people who delight your words to bend.

And you may find yourself locked up if angels you descry.

For laws are coming that will make all miracles a lie.

David and Saul (and Trump)

If Trump would only fire all the government at once

He’d be the only one around -- a solitary dunce.

And then he could run up and down the Oval Office stairs

And throw his quirky tantrums and pull out his golden hairs.

Playing hide and seek with White House press would be so fun

That he might even soon forget he hates them, ev’ry one.

If all the clerks and bureaucrats and Cabinets were gone,

Old Trump could have a jolly time just putting on the lawn.

Then he could bring in Russians to run things the way they ought

To be run in America -- with gulags and garotte.

Fire whom you please, O mighty President of all --

But just remember David took the crown away from Saul.

The Adventures of Tim Laughingstock. Three. Creating a Demand for Lumdiddles.

CREATING A DEMAND FOR LUMDIDDLES

“Gentlemen, it can’t miss!” Tim Laughingstock cried in the Town Council Room, to a small but growing number of city councilmen, and a skeptical Mayor Hissy.

Tim stood at the lectern in front of the group, with several posters and graphs he had hastily drawn up the night before being held up for inspection -- not by Miss Poodle, who normally handled these things, but by Svarm. Her alluring smile riveted the council members attention like a railroad spike. And Councilman Pertwee had actually gone out to spread the word among the absent members of the council -- “It’s Svarm, not Poodle, with Laughingstock today -- hurry up!” Even retired and former council members were showing up now. Soon it was standing room only, as clerks and a few janitors pushed their way in.

“So what you’re proposing” began Mayor Hissy, “is that we send you out to create an interest, a demand, for lumdiddles in other towns. Am I hearing you right?”

“Yes, ma’am” replied Tim. “When other towns realize we’ve cornered the market on lumdiddles, and further realize what a valuable commodity they are, they’ll be coming back here in droves to take them off our hands. No, not take them off our hands -- beg to buy them from us!”

“But who would want to pay good money for those useless creatures?” This from Councilman Tucking, the town’s fat butcher. “They can’t do anything but hiss and pinch and crawl up your leg!”

“Ah” replied Tim, “that is where some creative marketing comes into play.” He pointed at a poster, in the delicate hands of Svarm, crudely drawn, showing little children happily playing with docile lumdiddles on a green patch of lawn under a bright yellow sun. “Lumdiddles can be marketed as an inexpensive but affectionate pet!” He motioned to Svarm and she pulled up a different poster, this one showing a lumdiddle floating in a bottle of pimento wine. “We simply soak the lumdiddles in some pimento wine to make them groggy -- then tell the kids to keep soaking the lumdiddles in pimento wine once a week to keep their skin nice and shiney . . .”

“And not only do we get rid of those rotten pests” interrupted Councilman Flimbert, who was the town’s biggest wine retailer, “but we can sell their folks all that pimento wine that got wasps in it this year! It’s brilliant!”

“Brilliant, my carbuncle!” snorted Councilman Wangleman. “It’s pure lunacy. Nobody will fall for such obvious fibbery. It can’t be done, not with intelligent people. Why, we’ll be the . . . the . . . chucklebait of the entire countryside!”  Wangleman happily fingered his lucky twine knot as the room exploded in applause.

Svarm put down the posters and graphs to step forward. The room went dead silent, except for Mayor Hissy -- who tried to continue a quiet conversation with Councilman Flimbert, until he whispered “shut up, your honor” to her as he, too, ogled the lovely former sorceress.

“Mr. Tim, council members, your honor the Mayor -- if I may?” she cooed. Heads nodded violently. “Thank you.”

Svarm walked up to Councilman Wangleman, who began to sweat profusely while grinning like a simpleton. “May I see your lucky knot please?”

He handed it over immediately. She turned it around in her hand, then held it up for all to see.

“How many of you have such a lucky twine knot with you right now?” she asked.

Nearly everyone in the room squirmed about briefly to bring out their lucky twine knot and hold it up. Even Mayor Hissy sheepishly held one up.

“And how much did you pay for your piece of string?” asked Svarm, still exhibiting a smile that would turn crabgrass into roses.

There was a general coughing and humming in the room -- nobody wanted to admit paying an outrageous price for their twine knot. You could only get them from the twine knot man when he managed to get to town through the woods during the Winter Carnival. They were made by flaxen haired maidens somewhere to the East, who always plucked one strand of their golden hair to include in each knot. That’s what made each knot unique, and so lucky. And so expensive. In Mountebank you weren’t considered fully clothed if you didn’t have a lucky twine knot with you wherever you went.

“So you see” said Svarm persuasively, “if you fine intelligent people are willing to pay such good sums for a piece of knotted string, why not let Mr. Tim try to get others to look upon our awful lumdiddles in the same way -- as something that everyone needs to become happier?”

This time the applause was deafening, rattling the very window panes in the room.

“Thank you, Svarm, for that thought” said the mayor brusquely after the applause died down. “We will take this under consideration . . . “

“I move we give Tim Laughingstock a large bag of the king’s gold coins to travel and promote the sale of our valuable lumdiddle stock!” cried Wangleman, ignoring Mayor Hissy’s baleful glare.

“Second! All in favor jump up and give Miss Svarm a hug!” shouted Councilman Pertwee.

It was unanimous. Svarm got the hugs, Tim got the heavy bag of gold, and Mayor Hissy got so mad she went home and threw her lucky twine knot at her husband while he was napping on the couch.

Sorry, We Can't Afford Any More Elections

Even conducting an election this fall could be beyond reach, said Reneé Kolen, the Curry County clerk, who has one full-time staff member left in her elections division, and is facing another possible 30 percent cut in funding this year in her budget.

From the NYTimes

Cutting the budget enough

Makes holding elections real tough.

So those that are in

Just sit back and grin --

They can’t be thrown out by the scruff.

The Adventures of Tim Laughingstock. Two. Svarm the Sorceress.

AUNT SVARM

After his interrupted nap was completed Tim looked over old travel brochures from his grandfather’s time, when thousands of people visited Mountebank every year. They came to see the new Meagerscope bobbit factory and take home a sample hand-crafted bobbit. They climbed atop the sprawling muffle tree that stood in the town square -- sound did not travel inside the dusky green foliage. There were village festivals where all the girls dressed up in ribbons and lace and flimsy sarongs to dance alluringly around the biddy stone -- an ancient boulder that was said to give village girls the power to attract any man they wanted if they danced around it long enough. The village men held monthly jackanape races. The open air market offered vintage pimento wine, along with mellow cheepers that turned the tongue gold and left the stomach dazed and amazed. Children scurried from tourist to tourist selling paper bags full of the village’s famous blunt beans. When you held one up to your ear it shouted “Beat it, ya lousy vagabond!” or “Nerts to you, boodle brain!” Very entertaining.

Tim sighed as he put the brochures away. Would such good times ever come again to Mountebank? The lumdiddles had really put a wad in everyone’s spigot. There was enough to eat and sturdy clothes to wear and lots of firewood for the winter -- the Civic Warehouse was open to anyone for necessities at any time. But the whole village was getting seedier by the minute. Nobody repaired their broken shutters anymore. Cockleberry bushes had sprung up between the cobblestones on almost every street. And the pigeons wouldn’t even fly anymore -- they just slouched around the biddy stone waiting for handouts. Nobody seemed to care anymore how the village poked along. Except the Mayor, and she was a congenital screaming mimi.

Tim waited for Miss Poodle to find her purse and deliberately make her way to the Chamber exit before blowing out the candles and locking up. He was home a few minutes later -- he lived in his parent’s home just a few blocks away.

Aunt Svarm greeted him warmly at the front door. Her radiant smile made it almost unnecessary to have candles at all. Tim thought she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. And all the tradesmen and merchants agreed with him. She ravaged everyone with her exceptional beauty.

Which was not unusual, considering she had once been the most powerful sorceress in the entire realm. The spells she weaved captured and destroyed marauding dragons. Her potions turned knock-kneed cowards into knightly heroes and cured hundreds of Mucous Pukous sufferers. Her amulets could charm grubs out of the greengage and strike terror into the hearts of ogres and snufflestinkers.

But she grew proud and scornful over her powers and set at naught the King’s request to make spinach taste like cinnamon buns. He in turn invoked a full Wizard’s Council, which banished the haughty Svarm to the podunkiest region of the kingdom -- in other words, Mountebank. Her spellcasting license was revoked and she is doomed to remain in Mountebank until the love of a confirmed bachelor redeems her. That is why she showed up at Tim’s doorstep the very same night, the terrible night, his parents went out for a walk and never came back. She told him she was his Aunt Svarm, on his mother’s side, and had come to take care of him. He was already nineteen years old, but did not fall under her beauteous spell in the least. In fact, above his bed hangs a pyrographic sign he made at the age of ten that reads: “Never Gully Girlies Unless Girlies Gully You!”

Some there were in the village that suspected Tim had made away with his parents so he could step into his father’s shoes as president of the Chamber of Merchants. Svarma’s sudden appearance did nothing to assuage their doubts. But as time went by it became apparent to even the most ignorant apple-knocker that Tim was ambition-challenged. He liked nothing better than to spend his days down at the River Glox, angling for snapping minnows. He had to be trussed up and physically taken to his hereditary office in the Chamber building to assume his new presidential duties. And told to stay there eight hours a day Monday through Friday or have his ears painted green.

Svarma thought that helping him succeed in his new duties would make him fall in love with her. But so far Tim has remained such a confirmed bachelor that he can sit all day on the biddy stone and never feel a twinge of desire. He classifies women with the lower phylum.

But that is not to say the other men in the village don’t appreciate Svarma’s charms. And this has worked to Tim’s unknowing advantage. The baker brings his freshest loaves to the kitchen door each morning in the hopes of catching a glimpse of Svarma in her apron. He always forgets to charge her for the bread. The grocer gives her the longest, stiffest carrots, and the biggest, firmest heads of cabbage for her stews and ragouts. He only thinks of her when it comes to big juicy melons. He also neglects to charge her anything. And the butcher himself, although he is so fat he hasn’t seen his own shoes in sixteen years, brings her his choicest cuts, huffing and puffing like an asthmatic pipe organ. He never, ever, asks for payment. So the money Tim gives to Svarm for the household bills just piles up in the kitchen drawer until it begins to overflow onto the floor. Then Svarm takes it to buy patches for all the children at the orphanage. They don’t need patches, since their clothes are always quite new and well maintained. But the orphanage overseer, a man in his late fifties who has a wife that snores, is deliriously happy to accept the patches personally from Svarm -- and sees to it that each orphan has a dozen or more patches sewn onto their Sunday best, no matter how much they whine.

Svarm is also an accomplished cook, even without spells. This evening she gives Tim a sizzling platter of bacon brocade with mounds of cheesed potatoes, and a greengage tart for dessert. But alas, although Casper the Conqueror once said that the way to a man’s loyalty is through his gullet, Tim remains unmoved by Svarm’s cookery.

After dinner Tim restlessly paces up and down the living room.

“How can I get rid of those awful lumdiddles or get the road crew working again?” he asks out loud. His brow furrows like corduroy.

Svarm slinks into the living room from the kitchen, with a hitch in her gitalong that would cause a mud turtle to do flip flops. Tim gives her a friendly smile. A friendly, avuncular smile. Romance is the last thing on his mind tonight. Same as every night.

“Thanks for that great meal, Aunt Svarm. I wonder why mom could never cook like that? Do you know?”

“Oh, she prefered to dig for mothballs and such like” replied Svarm evasively. Tim has never once questioned her conveniently showing up the same night his parents disappeared, or asked anything about the family -- thank goodness!

“Why don’t you concentrate on those lumdiddles instead of the New Road?” she says. “Those lazy villagers will never work an hour, especially since they are never getting paid.”

“Yes, but those little creatures are so menacing -- the way they hiss and click their pincers at everything. I wouldn’t go near one of ‘em for a king’s gold coin!”

Her eyes alight with memories of the old magic, Svarm mutters a thinking spell under her breath -- even though it won’t do a bit of good.

"I wish I could help you" she says. Then begins to joke with him. "Why don't you paint them all gold and try selling them?" She begins worrying when he stops in mid stride and gazes at her with his eyes popping out of his head.

“Wait!” he shouts. “I’ve got something -- something big!”

Going up to Svarm he takes her in his arms to waltz around the room. Svarm is delighted, and hopeful. Is he going to kiss her?

But no. He is just delirious with having thought up a plan. Which involves a bag of the king’s gold coins. When he lets her go, she droops and shuffles back into the kitchen to rinse out the wooden bowls and sand down the porcelain floor. She doesn’t hear him explain to her what his plan is all about. It’s hard to listen when you’re crying.

The Adventures of Tim Laughingstock. One.

                                               
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This story is dedicated to anyone who believes in Pixies -- and believes in them having to pay taxes just like the rest of us.
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                                            MAYOR HISSY THROWS A FIT

The village of Mountebank, in the kingdom of Generic (using a soft 'G' and pronounced "GEN-ah-rick, emphasis on the first sylable), has always possessed a Chamber of Merchants. The Chamber lured tourists to Mountebank so the merchants could pluck coins out of their pockets. But no tourist had set foot in Mountebank in over fifty years. The only road to the village became infested with lumdiddles, which nobody in their right senses wants to deal with. They are nasty creatures. So the merchants had no choice but to fleece each other, and the local villagers.

The president of the Chamber of Merchants is Tim Laughingstock when our story begins. It’s an hereditary office -- old Tom Laughingstock had been president before Tim, and grandfather Aloysius Laughingstock was president when the lumdiddles first showed up. Aloysius fought the lumdiddle invasion by getting the town council to start building a new road into town. Because it is known by every half wit and necromancer that lumdiddles are one road at a time creatures. The New Road, so called, was still under construction when Tim took over as president. The villagers were assessed a New Road tax each year; the money was duly counted by the town council; a staff party for the town council employees and their families was held, which lasted ten days; and then there was no money left to buy building materials or pay a road crew.

But a new mayor got elected and the town council found out too late that she was an honest nag. Council meetings became very unpleasant -- so unpleasant that many members stayed at home on Tuesday nights mending lard buckets instead of attending. When Mayor Hissy ran out of council members to call to account, she persecuted Tim Laughingstock in their stead.

Poor Tim was in his office, sitting at his desk, snoring gently after a good lunch of winking oysters poached in pimento wine, when the mayor burst in like a fireworks display to demand that Laughingstock take action.

“Either get the New Road built or clear the old road of lumdiddles!” she yelled at Tim, startling him into full wakefulness -- something that hadn’t occurred in nearly six years.

“I’m right on it” he replied automatically, waving a sheaf of papers in Mayor Hissy’s face. Waving papers is an artform that Tim is very good at -- it’s meant to placate angry officials.

“Very well” snorted the mayor, much placated. “Have the solution on my desk by sundown tomorrow or I’ll have the town council stop your salary and have your ears painted green!”

And she marched out like the Army of Prank.  

“No more salary? Green ears? Hecuba on a half shell! I’m a goner” thought Tim to himself.

He glanced helplessly around his office. On one wall was a flyblown calendar -- last year's calendar, featuring the luminous paintings of pill bottles and pickle jars by Kincaid Fez. On another wall hung a ragged poster announcing the opening of the Meagerscope bobbit factory in town -- two-hundred bobbit bibbers needed immediately. William Portal himself had come to Mountebank to open the factory. That was back in the days before the lumdiddles. Long before Mayor Hissy. The bobbit factory was now shuttered and padlocked -- nothing inside it but owl chuff and creeping chadwick.

In moments of great stress the president of the Chamber of Merchants always calls for his secretary, Miss Poodle. Miss Poodle has been the Chamber secretary for the past 75 years. She won’t retire until her pension kicks in at one hundred years.

Tim hit the gong by his desk and Miss Poodle came in very deliberately. She did everything very deliberately. She lost her taste for haste after the first 50 years as secretary.

“Miss Poodle” said Tim, “we must find a way to bring back the tourists so Mayor Hissy will not yell at me anymore. I want you to have a plan on my desk first thing tomorrow morning. That is all.”

Miss Poodle blinked several times. She didn’t move an inch.

“What do you want, Mr. Laughingstock?” she finally said.

“I said . . . oh, never mind what I said! I’ll have to come up with a plan or suffer the greening of my ears like any common snood sniffer!”

Miss Poodle blinked several more times, then turned around and left -- not like the Army of Prank; more like the Bog of Sluggery.

A man of simple tastes and direct action, Tim Laughingstock gathered up a sheaf of papers to cover his face while he resumed his siesta and dreamt about fishing.

Republican Lawmakers

Republican lawmakers find

That they’re in a terrible bind --

When visiting home

The strongest syndrome

Is that ev’ry Main Street is mined.

Clown Decor

An interesting tidbit is making the rounds online today about a house for sale in Brantford, Ontario. It’s a small and undistinguished brick bungalow -- except for the fact that it is filled with over 1500 clown statues, paintings, and photos, according to WCTI12 News.  The elderly couple selling the house says that they began collecting clown memorabilia as a way to modify the man’s drinking habits. Whenever he wanted a bottle a beer he would buy a clown knick-knack instead. That guy sure had a powerful thirst. And a tough wife.

If you’re thinking of moving to Canada -- and who isn’t these days? -- you might want to take a quick gander at the place on Vimeo. By the way, all the clown bric-a-brac will be boxed and stored in the crawl space underneath the home when the current owners move out. They’re not taking it with them, but leaving it for the new owners to think about whenever they hear a crazed chuckle in the middle of the night.

The story is gaining traction on the internet, threatening to go viral, so I’m beginning to ponder clown decor -- specifically, how do clowns decorate their own homes?

When I resided on the Ringling ‘Iron Lung’ train car my dinky roomette, while cherished for the crucial privacy it provided, was hardly big enough to swing a cat in. And cat-swinging was all the rage back then. So there was little scope for decorating. I recall taping up some postcards, such as a photo of a jackalope from Arizona, and a studio still of Laurel & Hardy riding a tandem bicycle. But other than that I was content to simply watch the scenery through my roomette window. I was lucky; my double-paned window was still crystal clear. Many of the other clowns had windows where moisture had gotten between the panes of glass and fogged the whole thing up until you couldn’t see squat out of them. Granted, when the train was parked at a railyard my picture window decor was usually a pile of creosote railroad ties and rusting storage tanks -- but when the train was on the move I enjoyed a stimulating panorama of the American countryside. Everything from rolling fields of wheat to raw mountain gorges to placid riverbanks. And hundreds of small towns, when the train slowed down so much that I could read individual store signs on Main Street while crowds gathered on the asphalt pavement to gawk at our passing. I listened to the train gong’s strident call, reminding me of the church bells in Minneapolis that used to wake me up on Sunday mornings as a child.

The first real apartment I had of my own was in Williston, North Dakota, when I was on hiatus from the circus and working as a radio news director. At the time I was all mixed up about girls -- or rather, mixed up WITH girls -- trying to figure out which ones to date and then marry, and which ones to date and just have a fun time with. So I didn’t bother decorating my basement apartment with anything -- let alone circus stuff. The only thing I put up was a free calendar from Main Street Drug, showing a different prairie flower for each month.

When I married Amy we bought our first home within a year, up in Bottineau, North Dakota. From the get go Amy wanted nothing but religious and family photos and decorations. Since I had my library of circus books, I didn’t contest her resolve. Marriage is all about picking your fights. Over the years a visitor would never know I had had anything to do with the circus by the decor of our homes.

At this point let me say that I’ve been in the homes of some of my old circus pals, and they have uniformly brightened up their abodes with tastefully appointed circus-themed items that gave color and zest to their surroundings. And for the most part they managed to do it on a very slim budget -- getting most of their clown decorations at flea markets or from a cheap bid on eBay.  It made me wonder just what I could do if I had my own place.

Well, now I do have my very own apartment at the PHCA Valley Villas. And, as you can see, I’ve made an attempt to bring in a clown motif. But alas, I have the taste of an Ostrogoth. It’s all just a jumble of cheap and chipped gew gaws that my kids will undoubtedly throw away as soon as I’m pushing up daisies. And I keep adding more items, now that I’m comfortable using Amazon.com. My latest acquisition is a Bozo 3-D Bop Bag. As soon as I can blow it up I’m putting it in the bathroom, right next to the guest towels. I have also been looking at some porcelain Lladro clown figurines -- but since they cost in the neighborhood of 500 bucks a piece I think I’ll wait until I win the Lotto before sprucing up the joint with ‘em.

Truth be told, I much prefer decorating my apartment with maps. I have some excellent Michelin maps of Thailand, Mexico, and Scandinavia on my walls. They are real beauties, and keep me occupied tracing highways and railroads for hours on end.

I wonder if any of my faithful readers would like to share a view of their own circus/clown decor? I’ll be happy to post any photos here on my blog. You can email them to me at torkythai911@gmail.com

Never Argue with a Cop --

Their reply is apt to be shocking . . .