"It's not the most disgusting thing I do," he says.

That could be pulling a long balloon up his nose and out his mouth. Or breathing fire. Or swallowing fire. Or pounding a 16-penny nail straight into his head.

The walking carnival sideshow demonstrates them all, then finishes with a shrug of boredom.

"It doesn't impress me," he says. "I know how to do it. Big deal."

And that begs the big question behind Truwe, the Mystery Man of Medford whose reasons for perfecting odd feats are as weird as the acts themselves.

Not spurred on by money or fame, Truwe instead is motivated by a kill-the-cat curiosity to hone enough bizarre body stunts to make even an old butcher gag.

"I'm a curious person; I like understanding things," says Truwe, as he picks singed beard hair after his spitting-fire routine turned a tad sloppy.

"Most things are easy to understand -- you get a book, read it and you're done," he says. "These things aren't in books, so it takes research and experimentation."

All of which does not embarrass Truwe's 15-year-old daughter, Matie, who views her dad's off-beat hobby as interesting if not unconventional.

"It's more interesting than golf or coaching Little League," Matie Truwe says.

Truwe's true tale starts in 1989, when he took Matie to see an Italian clown whose act included fire-breathing.

"The clown advised everybody not to try it at home," Matie Truwe recalls. "Of course, Pop did."

Delving into physics and anatomy and carnival secrets, the elder Truwe -- who owns and operates a downtown Medford printing business -- soon began the fire stunts.

With the help of sticks soaked in a unnamed flammable liquid, he lights his hands on fire, snuffs burning sticks with ease, ignites his tongue and spits big balls of fire.

After that, things get strange.

In one maneuver, he pounds a 3-inch steel nail straight through his nostril into his head. "In your nose," he says. "Not up your nose. That would be dangerous."

The up-your-nose move is reserved for the long balloon. The balloon includes a small ball of air, which is then squeezed from one end of the balloon to the other.

Truwe insists these are not tricks, but maneuvers conquered through practice, daring, a keen understanding of anatomy, strength and ability.

"People assume I'm deceiving them, that it's a trick," Truwe says. "The trick is, there are gaps in their understanding of anatomy."

His most recent tinkering with anatomy is the sword-swallowing.

"Doing that's unpleasant," he says. "It sticks."

Apparently, there are several spots a sword tip can get stuck as it slips from tongue to the pit of a stomach. So far, he's able to get the sword down just a foot.

"I'm not a magician," he says. "I don't do tricks. Everything I do is real.

"I suppose you could call my act, `things you can do with your head."'

And you should use your head before doing things with your head.

As did the Italian clown, Truwe sternly warns against trying such maneuvers without the right kind of supervision. In the wrong hands, a hammer pounding a nail into someone's head can be dangerous.

"I don't do anything dangerous," he says. "I don't stick needles through my flesh and I don't eat light bulbs."

So far, Truwe has shared the results of his carnival curiosity in just small venues -- his kid's classrooms, a family reunion, a local children's museum and a few other professional shows.

"It was pretty hard getting a gig," he says.

And harder to get his daughter to do much more than assist.