Over Christmas, all the clowns got omicron. The Swiss clown lamented his big new years bash, and plotted a midnight debut back into polite and healthy society at midnight as the year turned and his isolation was lifted. The New York clowns huddled and hustled around the streets, slobbered all over each other, kept each other warm with powders and hot toddies. The English clown drank pot after pot of nettle and oat and ginger, honey. The Italian clown sent love notes to the Austrian clown, night after night after night, until they felt sicker of each other than the omicron.
I am back in Clown Town. When I got to France I was immediately informed by a local colleague the cops were looking for me at my residence. When I got here was swam in the freezing river and felt a little shy around each other. The Vegas clown was flourishing, long black hair and pierced tongue. We shuffled around in the sickly pale sun of early January and warmed our toes in each other’s arm pits.
On Monday, we begin Vaudeville.