Some of my earliest memories center around the stereo room in my grandparent’s house, a.k.a my grandma’s clown room. Listening to a plucky rendition of Dr. Zhivago’s Theme play from a music box, rifling through my mom’s and her sister’s old record collection (and always pulling out Frank Zappa’s “Valley Girl”), carefully dusting around the clowns with a feather duster for money and thinking I was such a big help.
I’d like to use my (hopefully brief) employment hiatus to do some kind of project in this room, but my damn aunt is fucking possessive about the house now that I’m not sure if I can find a way around her.
It would be fun to have people dressed as clowns, chilling out around the fake ones. Hiding in corners, rolling blunts on the chessboard. I need to send my aunt to a fucking day spa and get this done.
My aunt seriously hounded me all weekend about coming to visit, but then as soon as she caught me taking pictures in the clown room, she got all flustered and pushed us out of the house. She must have fucking Hoffa hidden under the floor boards or something.