THE LEGEND OF THE BLUE MONKEY SIDESHOW By S. Bart Simpson In the midst of the worst sandstorm to ever hit the village on a Tuesday morning, the world traveler known as the Amazing Krembo dashed under the flap into the closest tent to discover a pale fakir floating above an unusual array of hardware and broken pottery. The stinging blast of the sand interrupted the Swami’s concentration. As he landed abruptly on the jetsam below, he cast a withering glance at his intruder. The momentary eye contact between the two sparked a mutual recognition of kindred spirit and talent in the ancient arts of flimflam. After years spent making a living juggling in the alleys, byways, and parks of the Eastern hemisphere, Krembo knew at last he had found the object of his search. He could surely make real money exploiting the act he had just witnessed. A glimmer of a smile came into the Swami B’mon’s visage. Was it lady luck or the fickle demons of fate that had guided this eccentric traveler into his presence at just this moment? Krembo had arrived just in time to see the culmination of the Swami’s years of study and practice. The Swami’s exertions to influence the flow of the universe with the power of his mind finally rang a payout. Here was his path away from the rutted mule trap of a town he’d been stuck in for decades. It was flat out bitter cold half a world away as Swanky swept up the butts and bottles outside the lobby of Studio Mondo. The irony was not wasted on this jack-of-all-trades, master-of-fine-arts, who never took a business course in his eighteen years of education. The posters plastered across the boarded over windows announced the coming premiere of VALENTINE SNAFU on February first. February fools day was the foreboding appellation Swanky applied to the event. The show was a hodge-podge of Shakespeare, Shaw and Sam Shepherd, or at least was going to be until last night. That was when the dish ran away with the spoon. Why actors would want to spend the winter at Clown College perplexed Swanky, and he wouldn’t lend them the bus fare to Florida, either. After all, his bucks were all tied up in the advertising campaign for the hit show that no longer existed. The wind elicited a soft whistle some where behind Swanky. It was a sound only made by a twelve mph wind through the giant pierced earlobes of the guy who helped him paint the banners for the show. Swanky mumbled a disheartened greeting to the approaching bundle of scarves, coats and camera bags called Mojo. The challenge in front of them was to find new talent, teach them the bits, get them to the TV spot tomorrow a.m. and exchange enough cans and bottles to pay the printer something. On the other hand, with only a month left on the lease, Swanky could grab the instruments, tools and lights and use the can money for gas. As Swanky bent down to pick up an intact package of soup crackers that had strayed from the nearby deli, a shiny blue snakeskin shoe caught his attention. It stopped beside him and another joined it, along with a rack of hairy toes in weed sandals. Swanky’s eyes followed the blue shoes’ pinstriped pants up to a cheery face topped by a red bowler. Krembo was spiff in his new pound the sidewalk togs. “Good title. How’s the Show?” he asked. “Great. A veritable romp on suckers in relationships! Want to buy a ticket? Only twenty bucks till tomorrow,” replied Swanky, eying the stranger closely. He looked like a civil war general or carnival barker or hippy folk singer. Could probably wear the size 44 costumes, he thought. “And how much tomorrow?” “Don’t think I’ll be selling tickets tomorrow.” The blare of the smoke alarm in the lobby had Swanky dashing inside a moment later. Mojo was shooting pictures of the smoke filled popper. “I guess you can’t just heat up last night’s popcorn, can you Swanky?” quipped Mojo. At 5:15 a.m. Swanky, Krembo, Mojo, and the Swami B’mon were still regaling themselves with tales of personal success when the camera crew showed up for the morning live spots. “So what is a Valentine Snafu? What’s this show about?” queried Bob Twit, the station’s remote reporter. “I don’t believe you’ve met my colleague Krembo. Tell him about your stuff, K,” countered Swanky. “What we have here is a show that demonstrates the clash of cultures so prevalent on Valentine’s Day: the wanna go out vs. the wanna stay home, the get closer vs. the have nothing to do with it. It’s a show of skills that run the gamut of shocking to sublime with a good dose of ethereal punning thrown in to masquerade as art. Any audience member at this show will never forget it and I think that about sums it up.” “Any thing unusual about this show?” asked Twit. “Glasswalking, levitation, fakirism, flame manupulation and nontraditional weightlifting,” replied Krembo “Any tigers or monkeys?” “No tigers. And if you see any monkeys, holler, and we’ll paint ‘em red or blue,” quipped Swanky. “Then I’m ready. Let’s go live. Four Three Two…We’re here at Swanky’s sideshow of a theatre, where the management will even paint monkeys blue if you think that’s entertainment…” That evening over three hundred people crammed in to see the premiere of the Blue Monkey Sideshow in Valentine Snafu, largely due to the People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals day-long protest against painting monkeys. A successful run ensued.