I love a good circus. Of course, I was especially fond of the original — Circus Maximus. You could always count on the Romans for a bloody spectacle. But times change and so do tastes. Now I find myself sentimental for a good old fashioned traveling circus. The smell of greasepaint, the antics of the clowns, the exotic animals, the acrobats … and of course all those graceful necks with heads tilted up to watch the derring-do of trapeze artists.

My kind saw great potential with the traveling shows that puttered around Europe and later America. It’s the stuff of legend how people tended to disappear in their wake. Typically, people suspected young girls or boys ran off to “join the circus” and escape their boring lot, but in fact they tended to stagger off and bleed out in the shadows. Sawdust is so wonderfully absorbent and aromatic.

With the throngs of people out past their bedtimes, all primed to experience something new and exciting, they were veritable lambs to the slaughter. It’s a tradition that has served us well for hundreds of years. We often established bonds with the Roma performers, buskers and other con artists; for the gold in the pockets of our prey, our secrets were kept safe and traveling was easy. No one noticed one or two coffins hidden amongst the elephants’ trunks, especially when railroads became the norm.

Except for one horrible experience when I overstayed my welcome and awoke one night in Ringling, Montana, only to be stranded for an entire winter (to the now depleted population of Ringling, I apologize for my gluttony — I was irritated and there wasn’t much to do in those days except eat), I have only fond memories of the circus.

Sadly, the heyday of the traveling circus seems far behind us. Humans are content to get their thrills staring at the palms of their hands and the never-blinking eye of their smart phones. Or their computers and plasma TVs. About the only thing left of note are those dreadful stuffed-leotard, mind-numbing extravaganzas such as Cirque du Soleil — the bastard child of strip clubs and soccer matches. I swear, all those masks and ribbons and theatrics, it almost dulls my appetite. If there was a Cirque de Nuit, then perhaps, but only if unlucky members of the audience could occasionally be hung upside down and opened up like a crimson piñata.

Grudgingly, I find myself thankful for the shabby little amusement park operators that travel from city festival to festival. While I’m never going to bond with the meth-addicted ride operators as I once did with Roma performers, the chance to drag a wide-eyed young thing behind the funnel cake stand and drain them, their screams masked by the thrumming hard rock of the hurricane ride, is truly a guilty pleasure. And I do like curly fries.

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