So Funny I Forgot to Laugh

My life is fairly simple. I wake up, put on clothes that would be suitable for church (adjusting the tie as necessary), drive while listening to a podcast that describes some comedian’s torturous rise to fame, sit at a desk and click a mouse button, eat a healthy lunch, sit at a desk and click a mouse button, then drive home (finishing off the podcast as I go) and arrive just before sunset to look into my wife’s eyes and ask her how my day should begin. And we begin it. And it is good.

Work — real work, as opposed to the sort of job one takes because it is fun or interesting — occupies this disproportionate chunk of one’s day. Like sleep, it adds up. Unlike sleep, the minutes are acutely present, marching in circles like an anthill death spiral. It’s the kind of thing a person complains about, if that person is daft enough to forget that sitting around and clicking buttons while raking in thousands of American dollars is not something worth complaint. Work is stressful; work is easy. Work is the time we donate to others, uncharitably, so that we may find a measure of joy in the remaining time that is rationed to us. Work is whatever you don’t want to do. Work is whatever they want you to do. Work is a negotiation between life and death.

On Tuesday, after work, V and I attended yet another Meetup in the cavalcade of Meetups. This one was for beer lovers, though, so it wasn’t like I was dragged by the nostril hairs. There was some special for a beer called the Thirsty Goat Ale. Every pint came with a glass that could be taken home. We made sure to collect a full set.

In the process, as will sometimes happen by happenstance at a networking event, we met some delightful people from all over the country who have relocated to Austin on the rumor that there’s gold (and happiness) in these here hills. As fellow gold (happiness) rushers, we struck up the usual conversations about neighborhoods and culture and low real estate prices. The last item I always feel slightly guilty about, since my enthusiasm comes at the expense of long-time residents who used to really have it cheap before the rest of us suckers flooded in and believed that rates twice as high were still a bargain. Then again, no sympathy. I lived through the Great Denver Growth Spurt. I’ve seen the aftermath that is still bringing economic renewal (in the depths of a “don’t call it a depression” recession!) to blighted neighborhoods. Austin will change, but it will thrive. Complaining about an influx of new money to the city would be like complaining about a job that requires button clicking.

At about the second beer, I started to feel funny again. Not funny-oh-crap-having-another-stroke, but funny-ha-ha-maybe-I-should-give-stand-up-another-chance. What is this itch? I’ve been talking myself into and out of it on a constant roller coaster basis for weeks. Listening to podcasts about comedic careers isn’t helping, but also it is, but also it isn’t. Maybe it’s the non-creative nature of my work (something I haven’t had to contend with for six or seven years), or maybe this is the early onset of midlife crisising, but something is drawing me to the stage, and for some reason the thing I’m compelled to do once up there is tell lame jokes until I’m booed into a corner.

Typical of most of my fantasies, I imagine the entire experience (usually positively) while in the shower. It’s wordless. I mean, I picture myself saying words, with a certain sound and a certain rhythm, and the crowd laughs, but I never imagine the words. I never write the damn show that plays in my head. This was my problem when pursuing fiction as well. I had the rhythm and the idea in place, but the details of, you know, the words … never quite happened the way I’d imagine. Everything always popped out as an absurd sheen of language, like I was lacquering over the real idea for fear that it might be dull or obvious or mediocre or boring even to myself. 

Do you ever get bored of yourself, diary? Do you ever bury your nose so deeply into navel-gazing and self-analysis that you figure your own joke out, explain it to yourself, and no longer find it funny? The answer I haven’t heard yet, in all these podcasts, and the answer I desperately want to know from professional, successful comedians is: what’s the secret to a straight face? Because if it’s repeating your own wit to yourself until it’s no longer funny, I think I’m doing it wrong. I think I’m destroying whatever spark of confidence and joy I have until doubt crushes my sense of humor and I’m left with a pathetic diatribe of half-assed philosophy instead of comedy.

Then again, most comedians come across as pretty fucked up. I might be doing this right. I might be doing this soon. I might. After a few beers.