I was already a clown but never a serial killer
despite the amount of sperm I threw away…
Bukowski and Monica Drake would be proud. This is sex and hard drugs and love and the general misfiring of everyday life when nothing is really everyday life. This is the scene in the movie, after a long Halloween party where everyone’s face is a bit too blurry with a bit too much of a drip. It’s the wondering if things will ever be clear, but also just really not giving a shit.
Tom Bland’s Death of a Clown (Bad Betty Press) is self-psychoanalysis when it’s probably the last thing anyone actually needs inside this quick paced, clown-faced, trek through existence. This is not searching for an end. This is searching for whether or not there will even be one.
Be prepared to be honest with yourself. Are you the clown or just in a clown mask?