Rats. Erased Mark's joke about Jeffy et al.
Things I like about this: creepy clowns. Grotesque carnival hijinks. A nice tonal highwire act which grounds the surreal in a sense of mundane, concrete reality. (The author is upfront in interviews about his own schizophrenia, and it's tempting--though he claims the novel's not related--to see its themes of dissociation as echoes....) But even with such hooks--
I'm just not caught up. So I put it down. And there it sits, underneath the bed, near a copy of Hari Kunzru's Transmission and assorted anthologies and a few other things. This is either the island of misfit books or the way-station for intermittent reads, and I fear Pilo's been pegged for the former.