To laugh or not to laugh

Many readers took offense at my diatribe on weekenders last month. Many others laughed, appropriately, I thought, at my sense of irony. That is what I intended.

What is it, then, that distinguishes humor from its rival? And what do you call the opposite of humor? In theatre, my training ground, tragedy and comedy are the two faces of drama. Behind my humorous intent lurked some unpleasant truths that many try to leave unearthed.

Some locals do resent weekenders. Some weekenders look down on locals. I didn’t invent this—it’s an observation. In order to expose the inherent absurdity of a situation, it often helps to laugh at it outright. Leaving the truth unsaid allows it to fester and multiply like mold in the attic. The fresh air and light of discourse exposes its toxicity and hampers its ability to flourish.

It is said that comedy is tragedy plus time. That is one definition that has always intrigued me. I could laugh at a zinger about the Inquisition, but the Holocaust and 9/11 are still too near for humor. “Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, how did you like the show?” still garners a chuckle, but I have never heard a quip about President Kennedy’s assassination and I hope never to hear one.

It is sometimes hard to laugh at ourselves, but worse yet to have someone laugh at us. My husband’s humor often falls flat with me, especially when he is too much amused by my frustration with a dog or a child’s misbehavior. He wins a glaring stare from me dare he giggle. Yet, my ability to make him laugh out loud is a driving force in our relationship.

My brother Chris was a professional comedian. Like many of his colleagues, he used humor to deflect his insecurities. Used to being ridiculed as a child—he was too smart, too chubby, too ebullient—he adopted the bully persona onstage, intimidating his audience, to their eternal delight. Like many of the best comedians, he pushed the envelope when it came to politics. The hotter the topic, the better. He exposed our liberal white parents’ decision to move from Chelsea in the ‘60s, saying they decided over the breakfast table to “move to Harlem so Chris can meet some Negroes.” To her credit, our mother always laughed heartily at that one.

One of my favorite routines of his involved him trying to cash a check at a bank with an expired driver’s license. “I’m not trying to drive the bank!” he sputtered. “It’s my license to drive that’s expired, not my existence on this temporal plane!”

I remember the frustration of trying to parse adult humor when I was a child. Punch-lines like “Chickens, ewww!” left me stymied. I had neither the age nor the experience to understand them. But children know best when it comes to physical humor—just try slipping on a banana peel in front of a six-year-old.

A comedian’s humor is polished, rehearsed and perfected for timing and delivery. But as much as I enjoy vintage George Carlin, sometimes the most fun happens in chance encounters. Spontaneous humor between friends and neighbors can light up my day.

Then there are the catchphrases that become family heirlooms. In our family it’s a New Yorker cartoon. In the printed version, a man says to his wife disaffectedly, “That dead guy is still on our lawn.” For us this represented the apathetic self-involved adult-in-name-only of the late 20th century, and it made us hoot derisively then and now.

My husband often repeats his favorite New Yorker caption when my gardening activity becomes too frenzied. “Aphids on the heliotrope!” exclaims a hag in flowery garb as she rushes through the living room with a spray bottle. The remembered phrase can ease my frenzy and relieve it with a laugh.

So relax, dear reader, and remember to look for the humor.