Everybody Loves a Clown

My birthday present this year was a pair of tickets to see Cirque du Soleil at Radio City Music Hall.  While the various acrobatics seemed to be tied together with some vague, overarching plot, I couldn’t tell you for the life of me what it was.  As best as I could tell, the non-tumbling man in the cape was in love with a buxom space flower, so he decided to shoot clowns at her from a cannon until she got the hint. And, as she’s a bit slow on the uptake, he chose to occupy himself in the meantime by putting together a floor show that would make Ricky Ricardo hang up his bongos and weep.

I might have missed some of the nuances, but the show was fairly enjoyable nonetheless.  Juggling, tumbling, and spandex-wearing were found in plentiful supply, as were comic relieving clowns.  Though if there’s one thing more terrifying than a clown, it’s a French-Canadian clown.  As I’m sure they teach on the first day at Harvard Business School, never trust a man whose mustache matches his necktie.

-TC