different

I woke to bird song and the misty remnants of dissipated dreams. No doubt the sun in my eyes did its best, but that's why I wear sunglasses. It's easier than moving the bed. A cool breeze wafted through the open window as was its habit, and I breathed in deeply, blinked my eyes, felt rather groggy, and pondered the fleeting memories of last night - jazz even smokier than the air, a sea of trench coats and fedoras, a barman named Joe, and some sweet thing whispering sweet nothings into my ear. Someone else's memories, that was for sure. Briefly I wondered where mine had got to, and if this was anything like waking up in someone else's clothes, but it was too early for extensive mental action.

Really, it was too early even for getting up, what with the heaviness of my lids, I mean, and the temperature differential between in bed and out of it. I yawned and retested the latter with my arm, with the same results. Scientific method, check. I snuggled down in my little cave, closed my eyes once again, and of course this is when the fiddle music had to start on the street below. I think there must be a sign on the casement outside my room that tells those self-styled 'players' when they can achieve maximum damage. Still, this is old hat. I chucked a handy brick out the window, and after an inexplicable but brief increase in the noise, blissful silence returned. Thank goodness, because I'm running low on bricks. Well, I mean, I tell a friend of mine on a regular basis that she's a brick, but I don't plan on throwing her out the window.

Anyway, the air was still fresh, and the birds that had been scared off by the fiddlers returned and began singing once more, and I was warm and comfortable as I sank back into the pillow with a sigh and closed my eyes and began to mediate on serenity and its role in promoting man's artistic and scientific achievements. Everything was right, there was not a care in the world, sleep was impending, the fiddlers were unconscious, and with such a setup how could it possibly last?

It did last, for all of forty-five seconds, and then my alarm clock went off. Thanks to the wonders of modern technology, this was a serious matter. It used to be you could just slam the snooze button and then toss the clock out the window without even emerging from the depths. If you lacked a brick, but were sufficiently disciplined to hold out for a bit, you could take care of two bothers with one throw. Not any more, though. Oh, no. Unless this was all just another woozy dream brought on by insufficient quantities of the fruit of the abyss and possibly the vine, but in any case when the clock changed I was conscious of my plane of repose shifting as my beloved bed went vertical and dumped me on the floor.

Well, that was OK. I'd slept often enough on floors not to resent the idea now. But the accursed bed had other plans, and as I tried to settle down and catch those Zs that kept eluding my grasp, the bed extended a foot and booted me in the behind. Well, that got me pretty riled, especially as it was actually wearing a boot, heaven knows where it had found it. I was no slouch at the fisticuffs and was certainly not about to take any lip from anybody, especially a body that has no lip. I leaped to my feet and put up my fists, it produced some fists from somewhere (boxing glove-attired, no less) and another foot and put them up, except not the foot of course, and we began circling one another warily.

"C'mon, ya pug!" I said. "I'll pop you one right in the pate, pally. I'll pummel you in the pillow! I'll paint you purple, you pontificating pugnacious poseur! You ready for some pugilism, punk?" Well, I was pretty pleased with that bit of patois, and wasn't paying attention, and the bed purloined a passing moment to punch me a powerhouse. I went down, and the bed pulled a piledriver and pinned me to the plywood.

It must be Monday.

Ha...ha?

I probably should make a more in-depth study of psychology and anthropology than I have previously, because I find the question of why we do what we do absolutely fascinating. This is especially true of certain phenomena; I've already expressed some of my sentiments about music, but if there's one thing I'm even more invested in, it's humor. Humor is so complex, dare I say ridiculously so, that it doesn't even have to obey the cultural trends that have such a sway on our thinking otherwise. This isn't to say that it doesn't often do so, but people can be very similar in many ways, having been brought up in like or even identical circumstances, and yet get their yuks at entirely different things. Probably. I'm just a guy typing at his computer; what do I know?

On a related note, many brilliant minds of all ages so far have tackle this very question and, as they're all more qualified to answer it than I am, I won't attempt to explain anything. One needs to understand something before trying to explain it, or at least that's how it ought to work. However, because I also like to talk and occasionally think, here are a couple of tidbits I 'acquired' through various shady but entirely untraceable means.

In college I read a fascinating article on the subject of humor's basis, one by an author from whom I would not have expected such a treatise. Aristophanes, perhaps? OK, I don't remember the name, but I do remember the primary assertion, which is that the urge to laugh at the ridiculous or bizarre is rooted in relief that it is not we who are in the unfortunate position. Sort of the same attitude as that found in one passage of the stoic Epictetus (maybe) where a man looks out his window and is relieved that it is not he who is currently drowning in the ocean in the midst of a storm, only less tragic and topical (but equally tropical).

This would certainly explain why slapstick is such a, er, hit. Ever since the first banana peel on the floor, or perhaps it was a bit of mammoth fur, it has been a heroic struggle - with questionable and varied success - against the impulse to laugh at the poor sap who went heels over head. Really the advent of acting and certainly the technological innovation of the screen (somewhat later than the mammoths) must have been a tremendous relief because all of a sudden we were free to laugh without guilt at others' pain.

But this unchristian selfishness does not explain all humor. Telling a joke and linguistic humor, for example, put nobody at risk and, with the exception of some lower-rung puns, require no suffering on anyone's part. Much of today's humor is rooted more in expert timing for humorous effect than in a particular kind of writing. There are other examples. What's the deal? Why am I asking me?

Still, I can at least attempt to analyze my own experiences, and having done so in a highly unprofessional and unscientific manner, I have found that I'm especially tickled by the incongruous. By this I mean people saying and doing things I would not expect of them (not an example: writing an essay on the basis of humor), and things happening that seem out of place or uncharacteristic. Out of place is probably the best descriptor. It doesn't work for everything, obviously - I would be surprised if someone I knew started talking in immaculate Hungarian, but not amused - which just goes to show I need a more specific set of criteria and perhaps an explanation for why I find such things funny (that is is incongruous is not in itself an explanation). I am not prepared to give either of these, so here instead are a couple examples that I do find funny.

There's a moment near the beginning of the first episode of the medical sitcom Scrubs where lead character J.D. and his friend Turk are in class and J.D. leans over and whispers "Hey, Turk, you know how I'm down with the rap music?" I really like lines like that. Perhaps most people would not crack a smile at this point, saving their energy for Turk's response, but I'm grinning already. Here's why: I would expect him to say "you know how I'm down with rap?" or maybe even "you know how I'm down with rap music?" By putting that extra 'the' in there, the sentence becomes strangely - and amusingly - complex and even formal in its construction. Sort of like a prominent political figure talking about 'the Google.' That latter case is different because it's funny that he's not 'savvy' enough to know that Google is an Entity that you don't put 'the' in front of, and thus it becomes an instance of the explanation given by the mysterious author above, but probably at base it's the same principle.

For a more general example, I turn to A Prairie Home Companion, on which a recent rebroadcast of an old show featured folk singers Robin and Linda Williams (not that Robin Williams) performing a medley of various tunes, including 'Jenny from the Block' by contemporary pop singer (and seductive sensation) Jennifer Lopez. But they didn't sing it the same way she does - they're folk singers after all - instead recasting its aggressive sensibilities into their own folk duet mold, with hilarious results. It's not exactly satire and it's certainly not an homage. But it is incongruous, and very funny. More, please.

That's what I've got. I admit that I have more than an academic interest in the matter; anyone who wants to write in a certain style needs to know its mechanisms if he wants even the slightest success. Happily, it isn't necessary to know everything, which is why I can write these blogs and produce this. Whether they are funny or not I leave for others to decide.

By the dock of the bay

Maybe it's because I've moved around so much, or perhaps it's in my personality, or perhaps some of both; in any case I have never felt much of an attachment to a specific place. Some grow up and live a significant portion of their life - if not the entirety - in one location, either loving or hating it (I think one of those must be inevitable under the circumstances); others move around but are drawn to specific environs that impassion them. Neither of these has been my experience. However much I wish to be in the neighborhood of certain elements that my current home lacks, when I actually get them I take them in stride. It's rather depressing, actually - sort of an inability to feel the spirit of the land, or care.

Still, living near the water sure has its benefits. When I go down to the marina and sit on the dock and watch the wind on the waves, the many tiny ripples of raindrops hitting the water, the elegant, synchronized flight of geese just over the surface only a few yards from the bench on which I'm perched, I find tranquility I have not attained elsewhere. It's a kind of silence that is in the world rather than divorced from it - the sounds of the cars on the road back on shore, the hum of boats in their parking spaces, the cries of seagulls as they wheel over the water all give me peace without alienation. It may not be a windswept mountain peak, but it is in refreshingly stark contrast to the isolation that may be found in the other kind of privacy.

In related news, my comic sure is great. Nine out of ten cartoonists would recommend it if they knew about it!

Wordstock

I hope it's localized to a few NPR unfortunates, but lately I've noticed 'woman' being used instead of 'female' with alarming frequency. Some examples include 'woman senator,' 'woman governor,' and the unavoidable - albeit hypothetical - 'woman president.' This is unacceptable. 'Woman' is a noun, not an adjective! That 'female' is primarily an adjective but may also be used as a noun is all the more reason why it makes no sense to replace it - people with flawed word choice, do you not understand the American principle of 'more is better'?

Even if the word 'female' did not offer a certain linguistic suppleness, a seductive flexibility denied its more activism-inclined variation (to say nothing of the clumsy but jovial oafishness of its opposite), what benefit could there possibly be to choosing 'woman' over 'female'? The former is no more divorced from its masculine root than the latter, as was at least attempted in a humor piece I recently read where 'woman' was replaced by 'womyn,' thus looking intentionally ridiculous (and, in its similarity to the fire-breathing 'wyrm,' conjuring up a very different stereotype, no doubt accidentally). I must conclude that political correctness is not the motivation behind the switch, which is good because the concern these days over stepping on toes is absolutely overblown. Step on those toes! The worst they can do is punch you in the face, and perhaps instigate a knock-down drag-out old-fashioned bar fight if you happen to be in a bar at the time and John Wayne is nearby. 'They' not referring to the toes, of course.

I fear that this is simply the next step in the exponential degradation of language; where before there was at least some semblance of reason behind the changes, now we are free to replace at will. Soon there will no longer be even the compulsion to use synonyms, and brag a fleece conjoined, ingots according why surface.

This to fulfill what had been spoken through the prophets, who foretold the End of Phrase.

uh-oh

There's nothing quite like the sensation of getting what you wanted but weren't expecting. Thank God. It's the most unsettling feeling.

It happens simply enough, and to everyone. Whether it's a relationship, job opportunity, chance for adventure, or some other sort of development, the process is the same: you express interest in something, not really expecting any results, and go your merry way. Later, like a reverse mugger IT leaps out from behind a bush or the next corner and demands action of you, to put up or shut up, and all you can think is "Uh-oh. What do I do now?" This is assuming you weren't really prepared to handle things, which for some of us is most of the time.

Making split-second decisions with serious ramifications can be hard and scary (surprise), as can be actually living dreams. You start questioning what it is you really want, and are naturally compelled toward rejecting the path of stress, hard work and the unknown (your potentially-former desire) in favor of the path of comfortable insignificance (your current circumstances). The true measure of strength and courage is how capable you are of piercing the vision-clouding mist of the immediate fear and the seemingly-compelling arguments it presents, seeing beyond to the true daylight of the reasons you wanted this in the first place.

And also, no less important, the capability to balance with honest weights the advantages and disadvantages such that a bad situation may be avoided. Because the temptation to seize an adventure just because it is an adventure can be every bit as powerful as the temptation to flee because it is new and scary.

...

I sure do hate using 'you' like that.

Artistry

I've never considered myself an artist, at least the visual kind, but I used to love trying. Even as I ridiculed, but was secretly proud of, my own efforts in mid-school art class, I enjoyed the experience and the outrageous, generally non-art-related tall tales of the teacher, who was one of my favorites as much because he encouraged my artistic pursuits as on account of those stories. I still try a painting or some such every once in a while, and I can do a solid perspective drawing (solely on account of the aforementioned class), but for the most part I'm lucky to make stick figures do my bidding. Peonic pretzel sticks.

Those who hold the rights are in the process of releasing the complete collection of Charles Schulz's Peanuts comic strip. It's an epic work-in-progress, and necessarily so, because near fifty years of work encapsulating nearly eighteen thousand strips does not get wrapped up into a tiny package, and consequently the collection is being released in something like twenty-four volumes, at a rate of two a year(!). They're really nice books, featuring fantastic cover art and lots of introductions and interviews by and with people who have been influenced by Schulz's work (these are not hard to find). Promoting this enterprise is not really the point of this posting, however.

The first volume has an extensive interview with the man himself, who says many memorable things, the most pertinent of which is that he was always surprised at how few people could draw well. What with my efforts lately to produce a comic, this got me thinking once again about talent, and its culmination in genius. That some things can be learned and some cannot is obvious enough, which obviousness does not in the slightest dull its capacity to infuriate. But even skills attainable through rote find their true expression in people who can intuit what others must memorize. What's the deal with this? Why do some leap the hurdles of calculus like an Olympic champion while others trip, repeatedly, over the concepts of algebra? Why are some scientifically-minded while others pursue linguistics in an altogether unholy manner? Arcane! And why, why oh why, can some people put pencil to paper and replicate the world as if the pencil were an illusion crafted for the rest of us because the sight of the direct transference from eye to paper that's actually going on would blow our minds? While I, mind you, see a picture in my mind, but in attempting to send it through my fingers experience the same frustration as when I try to play some real piano?

I believe there must be a biological explanation for talent and even for genius, just as there is for so much else that once seemed entirely rooted in the spiritual, metaphysical realm. One day the cause will be discovered, at which point it will be possible to endow people with whatever abilities they desire. Quite possibly. This is a topic science fiction has gotten plenty of mileage out of, and for good reason. It's one thing to chastise someone for wanting to circumvent a lot of hard work (download knowledge of Kung-Fu directly into my brain, thus mastering in two minutes what in reality takes many years? Yes, please.). It's another no longer to be limited by what capabilities one was born with, to be able to transcend what is often described as "Fate dealing a bad hand."

There's a downside, of course. There's always a downside. When everyone's capable of anything, no one's special anymore. That in itself would be just a 'moral' concern to be sneered at, perhaps with justice. But it's quite probable that such a development would elminate the possibility of genius. If everyone becomes an Einstein, that might not be a problem, but at the same time I wonder if it isn't necessary to allow for people who can think differently than everyone else, in order for evolutionary developments to happen.

Arguably for any further understanding of the world to be gained, there must be a brain that operates in a unique way and can see 'outside the box,' at least when connected to eyes. Perhaps it is one that makes use of previously-untapped paths or resources. If everything we are can be explained physically, then as science proceeds and we find those explanations, what happens? When we understand everything about ourselves and can control our capabilities, do we achieve complete understanding of everything? Or do we screw up, and lock ourselves into believing that we get it all, when in fact we have misinterpreted something, and because of our 'mastery' we've eliminated the possibility that someone will come along and correct our mistake? Rather scary, in an amateur-science kind of way.

How did I get onto this topic by wishing I could draw better? It is likely there will be a lower concentration of metaphysics in the next posting. But I promise nothing.

Not adjusted for inflation

I must dedicate some writing time to Nickel Creek, even if the masses that ought to know about them aren’t going to learn from this blog. Because they’re not reading it, I mean. Nickel Creek was a contemporary bluegrass band, but those who are turned off by the ‘bluegrass’ label shouldn’t be. Don’t fear the fiddle. Actually ‘contemplative’ bluegrass might be a better descriptor: on their self-titled debut album there may be found plenty of ‘hot licks,’ yet it is the moody, reflective, breathtakingly gorgeous songs that steal the show. Also ‘The Fox,’ which is absolutely infectious. The group, now on hiatus and possibly defunct, appeared on ‘A Prairie Home Companion’ several times back in the middle of the decade; I stumbled across them only thanks to the generosity of Amazon’s MP3 Daily Deal and the brilliant Facebook Amazon MP3 fan who made the suggestion. The music is ethereal, beautifully melancholy, soothing, and entirely spellbinding, except when it’s unstoppably, toe-tappingly vivacious.

I understand that their two successive albums took things in a different direction, which is a shame because the musical style on Nickel Creek is exactly what I need, pretty much all the time but especially when skies are grey. The album is no longer at the discounted price, but is well worth the full cost, which for the MP3 album is still a steal. I am seriously in danger of overplaying this one; I am also confident that, when the luster of freshness is gone – an inevitability in any case – the music will remain compelling.

Standout tracks: The Lighthouse’s Tale, The Hand Song, Sweet Afton, The Fox, When You Come Back Down, Reasons Why. This list may also be titled ‘Tracks with words.'