I can't speak for Ludwig, but we did have a curious encounter in The Slaughtered Lamb last night which may or may not shed light on this.
It started when he took the stool next to me at the bar. "Knock-knock," he said.
"Who's there?" I answered, playing along almost against my will.
"Ludwig," he said.
This was already getting tired, but at least we were on the home stretch. "Ludwig who?"
At this point he twirled around on his stool in what I presumed was as a wind-up to his killer punch line, then toppled over, jostling the man next to him and causing him to spill part of his drink. That was Audubon, who had earlier bragged to his wingman that he could "pull a bird" (guess who) in no time then promptly struck out.
I helped Ludwig up and he dusted himself off. "So a horny orinthologist, a protofeminist, and an analytic philosopher walk into a pub," he then offered, somewhat bewildering me. At this Audubon, having been glaring into his half empty glass and now primed for a fight, took exception and suggested the two meet in the parking lot.
"How many owls does it take to screw in a lightbulb?" said Ludwig by way of reply. The entire pub fell silent, whether by coincidence or because they were genuinely intrigued, I'll never know. He then donned Audubon's hat and walked out. Audubon glared at his back but made no move to follow, nonplussed and perhaps disarmed by the man's inscrutableness.
The bartender examined the stein he was polishing. "Isn't that the bloke who once suggested a serious and philosophical work could be written consisting entirely of jokes?"
It's true, I'd read that. Was his string of half-witticisms a provocative philosophical experiment? A comment on the human condition? Or plain old forgetfulness? The bartender shrugged his shoulders: "Beats me."
Poll