The Politics of Laughter
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Me: “So what is it that makes women happy?” Maggie: “That’s a dumb question, Dad. Women are complicated. We’re just not wired like you think we are.” Me: “That’s a good answer. Thank you.” Maggie: “Can we talk about something else now?” Me: “I have a few more questions, if that’s ok.” Maggie: “There’s just not much more to say about it.” Me: “That’s a good answer, too. OK. Thanks.”
I just had a ski trip cancelled…which forced me to also reconsider my FB profile information. I list skiing as my favorite sport. When I filled out my FB profile a couple of years ago, it seemed like a good idea. Skiing as my “favorite sport” made me sound sporty and interesting–and I even believed it at the time. But today’s cancelled ski trip got me thinking. I’ve actually only been skiing twice in the past 28 years. I really don’t think that should qualify as a “favorite sport” —even for a person who has been deceased for 3 decades. I’ve spent more time playing skeet ball the past 28 years! So, in a flush of full disclosure, I’m getting brutally honest and changing my favorite sport from the cosmopolitan sounding “skiing” to the more mundane but factually correct “taking the stairs” –which I’ve done more than 3 times the past 28 years. I think.
7:15 am –read inspirational quote “Be not afraid of greatness: some are born great, some achieve greatness and some have greatness thrust upon them”. –Shakespeare (Twelfth Night) 1:15pm –Start revising downward Be not afraid of mediocrity; some are born mediocre; some achieve mediocrity and some have mediocrity thrust upon them. 5:45pm Begin suspecting… Be not afraid of failure; some are born failures; some try but always fail and some have failure thrust upon them.
A lot of people hate going to the dentist, even for just a regular teeth cleaning every six months. It’s that time again for me this week and although it’s a hassle, it’s important, and I can’t say I dread going–but admit that it could be a more upbeat experience. I think it’s because dentists, as a group, aren’t great sales people. And could learn a thing or two from Valvoline. I’m also getting my oil changed this week at Valvoline. And what a contrast to my dental visits. I’ve never seen so much enthusiasm and activity over something so trivial. When you pull into Valvoline for an oil change, you feel like you are about to get some sort of transformative car treatment –possibly one that could improve your overall quality of life. You feel that somethng important and mysterious is taking place in the bowels of the service station where oil is being changed out for newer, clearner oil. There is clapping and shouting that is part military protocal and part circus troupe act. I do love the enthusiasm and theatrics. And it’s good sales strategy. But I think Valvoline over does it. And I wish they’d just charge, say, $2 for the show rather than to fold in the performance price by trying to convince me every visit I need a new air filter. My dentist, by contrast, is an uneventful visit. The dental hygenists don’t clap or bark orders back and forth in rapid fire style. It makes me wonder sometimes if they received as good training as the people at Valvoline. And they don’t create the sense that something urgent and profound is happening to me. Mostly I just feel like I’m getting my teeth cleaned. And that’s it. And now that I’m adult, I don’t even get a free toothbrush when I leave. Sometimes I wish my dentist were more of a showman and I felt like getting my teeth cleaned was going to be as memorable and as inspiring an experience as, say, getting an oil change. And if it were I may not even mind having to buy an unneeded air filter at the end of my appointment
When I was about eight or nine years old I tried tricking my mom into giving me money I could spend at Thornbury’s Toys. I told her I was curious about how checks worked and wondered if she could teach me. My mom was impressed with my curiosity and desire to learn and that I took the initiative to ask. She happily pulled out her check book and started going over each line and how it needed to be filled in. “So, for example, let’s say it is going to be for $10. Where would you write that?” I asked. My mom showed me where on the check that went and wrote in the amount in numbers and then in her beautiful cursive longhand. Next I pointed to “Pay to the order of” line and suggested, “Let’s say it’s for, I dunno, like, Thornbury’s Toys. Is that where you’d write out ‘Thornbury’s Toys’?” “Yes! Exactly!” My mom replied, excited to see I was really paying attention and understanding this lesson….and gladly filled out that line “Thornbury’s Toys.” I asked her to please finish filling it out and asked if I could keep the check to study and memorize. She proudly signed her name, wrote “Toys’ in the “For” line and handed over my homework assignment for me to “study,” as I requested. Well, you see where this is going. I proudly took the check and went back to my bedroom to try to now figure out how I could get a ride to Thornbury’s—and not from my mom. But something awful and unexpected happened. Guilt slowly crept in. A loyalty to my mother and to honesty began to displace the excitement I was feeling about the possibility of buying a new toy. And the sense of cleverness started to feel heavy and burdensome like something I should be more ashamed about than proud of. In fact, the feelings were so horrible, without understanding what was happening to me, I immediately tore the check into tiny little pieces and threw the pieces away behind my clothes drawer–where no one would find it. Several years later when we moved to a new house—and the clothes drawer was being moved–I was standing there to pick up those little shreds of paper, which signified the still alive little shreds of guilt. I hadn’t forgotten them…or the lesson I had learned. The Politics of Laughter German Artist Perscheid on US Culture [comic] Immigration [comic by Jeff Parker] Step 2 really clarifies things. [picture] It really puts things into perspective. [chart] How to picture yourself in the zombie apocalypse. [comic]
For centuries, commentators have debated whether Shakespeare really wrote Shakespeare’s literary works. The recently released movie, Anonymous, which I saw last week, examines the evidence in depth and comes to some interesting conclusions. Perhaps it was Christopher Marlowe. Perhaps it was someone else. But I’ve decided there is an even a bigger and more profound way of asking the question: “Should it even matter if Shakespeare wrote Shakespeare since most individuals who claim to have read Shakespeare, really haven’t read Shakespeare— and are only pretended to?” When I was asked in college what Shakespeare plays I had read, I answered Macbeth, Hamlet, A Midsummer Night’s Dream, King Lear, Romeo and Juliet, and Othello. But that wasn’t true. I had seen the movies for those plays with the exception of King Lear, which I read. But even with Lear much of my reading was done by relying on Cliff Notes. So, until we get to the bottom of whether people who claim they have read Shakespeare are real people who have actually read Shakespeare (and aren’t just pretending to), we should hold off investigating the authorship question altogether. And remember, “To thine own self be true.” I love that quote from Cliff Notes.
One of my theories about life is that one day, unannounced, we stop living forward and start living backward. We stop accumulating new experiences….stop living sequentially. On that day we begin to become nostalgic. We look backward and start to painstakingly yet lovingly make sense of our lives and our world. We have a new job…a new mission. It is the day we stop thinking of stealing second base because we are assigned to be the new third base coach. The daily currency of life isn’t new adventures anymore–but piecing together in a sensible way old adventures –which we play with like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle—until the life we lived starts to make sense. And that is a good thing. But the day we become nostalgic, is the first day of our death, which may take decades to complete, but have moved into a state of decay. That’s why, on this day, today, I urge you to join me and commit to yourself and your family to stay the heck away from jigsaw puzzles.
It was a gentle, friendly comment. Not insulting. I said, “Well, I’m involved in a international protest and am on a “diet strike” until justice prevails. This is day 14 of not going on a diet.” My friend paused for a moment and then realized it was safe to laugh–and did. “What protest?” he asked? “Well, that’s sort of fluid right now….I haven’t exactly decided yet. But I was ready to commit to my form of protest and wanted to get a head start.” “You ain’t right” came back the answer. I get that response more often than I care to report. The important point is “You ain’t right” isn’t the insult it seems at first blush. In fact it’s kind of a back handed compliment. Anyway, that’s my status update. And I’ve narrowed my choices for protesting. And today is day 19 of my “diet strike”—and there is no turning back at this point. Whatever I end up protesting. |
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