Rant – The Flee Circus

 

Rant – The Flee Circus

That is NOT a typo. Nonetheless, I do want to start this rant by writing about fleas. Sort of.

Back in 1969 (or so) – despite the fact that I strive NEVER to say “back-in-the-day” – my favourite musician was Leon Russell. I think I’ve said that here before. I owned, and repeatedly spun, most of his recordings. To this day, when the mood strikes, I browse YouTube for a Leon tune or two.

A Leon Russell album that stands out for me was titled Look Inside: The Asylum Choir, co-produced by Marc Benno. I knew of Benno only through Russell’s musics, but if he was good enough for Leon Russell, he was good enough for me. My recollection is that some of the tunes on that album were connected; one of those connections was “fleas.” Yes, fleas. One is titled “Mr. Henry the Clown.” See, Henry was part of a flea circus, but being a flea has limitations; one of the limitations is lifespan.

“Two weeks have gone by, and Henry has died. Nobody came [to the flea circus], it must be the rain.” All the prep in the world is only as good as its lifespan.

That transience reminds me of a ditty I memorized during my years at the Chateau Laurier in Ottawa, then a CN Hotel, for which I was employed off and on for quite a few years. In the basement of “The Chateau” as most people know it, was a popular nightclub-cum-pub called the “Colonel By Lounge” in a nod to Ottawa’s nationalistic foundations.

A favourite entertainer in the Colonel By was Jack McPartland who expertly played a very large organ (which he liked to boast about rather lewdly) while singing songs and ditties peppered with jokes and stories – often at audience-members’ expense. I still like to quote one of his outrageous ditties. I hope I have it right. If not, close enough:

“Sometimes when you’re feeling important

Sometimes when your ego’s in bloom

Sometime when you feel the most qualified in the room.

Take a bucket, and fill it with water

Put your hand in it – up to the wrist

Now take it out. The hole that’s remaining

Is the amount of how much you’ll be missed.”

 ~~

Makes me smile every time.

We might upon reflection smile at the not-so-subtle ditty as performed in close proximity to Canada’s parliament. Politicians are like fleas. Not just because some tend to make us squirm, but because, like Henry the Clown, their performances are short-lived. How ironic, therefore, that so much time is devoted (some would say wasted) to short-lived performances. They strut and fret their hour upon the stage (Shakespeare’s Macbeth) only to be defeated, deflated if you will. They “bear the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” then “sleep, perchance to dream” (Hamlet).

I pen this a couple of days after a televised debate between two U.S. Presidential hopefuls. Watching snippets of that circus is what brought “Henry the Clown” to mind. It also caused me to reflect on the big picture and to wish the political circus would end.

Speaking (writing?) of circuses, the version that masquerades as civil discourse, brings to mind one of my favourite Month Python skits, seen on an episode of their 1970s TV show, Flying Circus.

A rather meek-looking gentleman (Michael Palin, I believe) enters a building and a long narrow hallway broken by many doors left and right. He knocks on one door and is rudely instructed to enter, whereupon he is subjected to a vociferous tirade of verbal abuse. I think the abuser was portrayed by Python John Cleese – a man who can loudly heap abuse the likes of which is rarely seen.

Anyway, after several minutes of this vitriol, the poor visitor finally gets a word in to say, “now see here, my good man, I didn’t come in here to be abused.”

“You didn’t?” asked Cleese.

“Well, no,” says the visitor. “I didn’t,” adding firmly, “I came here for an argument!”

“An argument?”

“Yes, an argument.”

“Sorry, my good man,” said Cleese deferentially. “Arguments are down the hall – third door on the right. This is abuse.”

Like fleas, performances pass quickly from memory, but their deeds, indeed their demeanor, linger long after they are gone. Makes you want to flee, to – like the clueless peons in Monty Python and the Holy Grail – “run away.” We can only hope any disease these fleas, these irritants, may carry will not turn out to be a “pox upon all our houses” (Romeo and Juliet) thanks again Mr. Shakespeare).

Take a bucket…

=30=