Experiences with Dark Comedy

I really can't remember the first time I encountered dark comedy, but it wasn't in the classroom. I think it might have been when I saw a calendar for The Far Side. It was one of those rip off the day as you go calendars, and my friend had bought one. Each day I would look at a picture, reading the words beneath it, and connect the dark humor being created. Some were funny and some weren't. I can't remember any particular one, but recently I looked at this years calendar, and laughed at this one picture of these two monsters hiding behind a door in the dark, the one monster telling the other, "this is my street."

The Farside Calendars remind me now of this famous artist who used text in his work to make a point. I heard about it in a creative writing workshop during my sophmore year at Western. My profesor described a piece of his he either drew or painted, that depicted this disgusting, fat, hairy man, and then beneath him, these words: God Made Man in his Image. I'm not sure if this qualifies as dark humor, but I think it's pretty funny. It also makes you wonder what kind of man God would look like. Although I suppose that question has already been answered if you consider Jesus. Not that anyone really knows what Jesus looks like either. He's portrayed as thin usually with long hair, and in North America; white.

Without dark humor, the bad things that happen would get to people. So, I suppose it's a defense mechanism we all use. Although there are some atrocities that are considered too taboo to joke about (i.e. Holocaust) most things we can enjoy making fun of, laughing at them when were not supposed to.

To be Grotesque: Wing Biddlebaum and Homer Simpson

I read the story "Hands" from Winesburg, Ohio and I definitely saw where Nathanael West got the idea for the character, Homer Simpson. Wing Biddlebaum, the character focused on his hands in the story, is very different from Homer in that I don't think he contains a pent up violent streak. He could never do to Adore what Homer does, but they are both definitely repressed.

Wing Biddlebaum, a man in his forties lives as a recluse on the edge of town after being exiled form his hometown, accused of molesting the boys he taught at an all boy elementary school. The inhabitants of Winesburg know nothing of this, and are in fact proud of Biddlebaum for his hands because he's a hard worker. Biddlebaum though, is consumed by his past. He's disturbed and ashamed of his hands, believing that they are evil in a way. Like Homer, Biddlebaum's hands express his emotional state, and are restless and prominent. Homer's hands, at one point in the novel, mirror his sexual frustration while for Biddlebaum, his hands caress lovingly the things around him, like they did the young boys, when he gets caught up in a speech he's giving.

I think both characters are grotesque. Biddlebaum is unaware of who he is, defining himself by his hands and how they have punished him. He leads his life constantly worried about them, hiding them in his pockets, feeling guilty over a thing he won't even question himself about. Homer is also like this, trying to ignore his sexual side, and I believe it is because of his pent up sexuality, his inability to fulfill his desires that causes him to murder adore. Both characters are sad, and pathetic, but at the same time, they evoke sympathy in the readers.

Living Funny: Being David Sedaris in "Keeping Score"

In sixth grade I was considered dumb. In fact, I was considered dumb throughout my school years, starting in grade school when I was placed in a program for slow kids dubbed, “chapter one.” Then, while not in school, I was re-hashing times tables with Hooked on Phonics, sounding out s-i-l-e-n-t with the overseer of a disappointed mother. Her disappointment didn’t run deep though because she had my brother, who, with a mere nod, could recite all fifty states and every American president, alphabetically. When he was four. I never forgot my brother’s intellectual feats or my mother’s gleaming eyes when she would say, “he could be on jeopardy, he really could!” Hence my brother was declared to have book smarts and I, street smarts. Years later I found out having street smarts meant being a C student. Which, by the time I finished fifth grade, was exactly what I was.

I like to think the first time I entered West Middle was, in turn, my entry into the restive world of adolescence. It was in this school I met Mrs. Abbot, one of my sixth grade teachers and architect of my worst memory. She had a thick, blocklike frame made not less or more obvious by her billowing muumuus of calico print, polka dots, and gold sequins. Now, she reminds me of one of those birds on Animal Planet with a beautiful coat of feathers used to lure bedazzled prey. I won’t say I was bedazzled by her, but the prey part is definitely right, because it was in her class, my class, history, that I became her score keeper.

It was ritual that the day before a test we would review. This re-examination happened to come in the form of an interactive game of historical jeopardy. The irony. The game wasn’t horrible, and sometimes I even knew some answers. However this day was different. In the beginning of class when students were still animatedly chatting with one another, Mrs. Abbot walked over to me and posed a question that would, inexorably, change my life forever.

“Lacey, do you want to be score keeper?” I recall my body heating up at the thought, my fear taking root and growing as quickly as I uttered my answer.

“Okay.” Looking back I’m sure I could have said no, but at twelve, it was so instinctual to do what my teacher, or any adult asked, and although it was a question, I knew I was expected to say “yes.” Everyone wanted to be score keeper; it meant you got a piece of candy when the game ended, along with the table of winners. But being score keeper also meant standing in front of the class for the entire period, erasing numbers, and keeping a tally of points for each table. The idea of being in the limelight choked me with panic. It was the responsibility of the task that was so horrifying, and I mean that. I was horrified.

I walked to the board, and took a marker and began writing: group one, group two and so on. The class gradually hushed, a decrescendo that turned into silence. All that could be heard, at least for me, were the staccato squeaks of my marker and the subtle whines and groans of the chairs as students fidgeted. Then, Mrs. Abbot spoke. She assigned groups, and told table one to begin. I knew I had to turn around. So I did.

Today, I really have to wonder if my classmates could see the terror etched on my face, and my quivering hands. If there was ever a moment in my life deemed worthy enough to utter Conrad’s “the horror, the horror,” this would have been it. The class was a mix of colors and familiar faces, people I saw almost everyday, but at that moment they could have been monsters. I looked to Mrs. Abbot and back to group one and realized this was the part where I erase 200. My body shook and I erased the wrong number. I shook more and erased the right number. I can’t recollect all my blunders, they seem to merge together in a great mosaic of terror and error. I know I mixed the group numbers up, assigned points to the wrong team, erased numbers in the wrong categories and dropped the marker enough times to warrant a response from Mrs. Abbot. Although most of the forty five minutes of historical jeopardy passed in a blurry haze of humiliation, I remember what happened next so clearly, that I’m in awe it happened over eight years ago.

“Lacey, what’s wrong with you?”

Her words were shouted, and I was dimly aware, no pun intended, that this was one of those unanswerable questions people asked in either wonder, or to make a point. I had heard this question before, heard it for different reasons and in different tones, but the meaning was the same, and just as accusatory. What’s wrong with you?

I stood, marker in hand, staring at Mrs. Abbot and the rest of my class that had fallen silent. The silence was unpunctuated with even a whisper, and all the faces were blank, a wall of complete submissiveness. They were all waiting for what Mrs. Abbot would do, just like me. They weren’t monsters after all.

Mrs. Abbot went on to describe how I should have the tables memorized by now, because there were only five, and being score keeper really wasn’t that hard. I stayed quiet while she went on, and when she was done I continued my duty, moving as if I were running the mile and on the last lap, trudging along to the finish line, imagining the bliss of just stopping. She told me to count the points, and I was surprised because that was something she usually did, but not that day. I don’t think I want to know why. I, of course, messed it up, then fixed it, and quite suddenly, was done. I was finished. A winner was declared and they received their candy. The classroom was noisy again.

I sat down and smiled at anyone I happened to look at, as if to show I was unaffected, even agreeing with Mrs. Abbot’s sentiments that I was indeed, stupid. Then, to my surprise and immediate fear, Mrs. Abbot walked over to me, much like she did in the beginning of class, but this time she held out a piece of candy. She seemed hesitant to give it, and looked at me with dark brown eyes.

“Here,” she said, and I took the candy. I looked into her eyes, unsure, and smiled, saying thank you before she walked away. Maybe the years have added cynicism to this moment, but I’m sure it was contempt I saw in her face. I stared at my chocolate treat, and the guilt came. The truth was that I felt I didn’t deserve my small reward and when I swallowed my miniature almond Hershey bar, I swallowed my shame as well.

To accent that point, a boy walked over to me while students left for the next class, and stopped in front of my desk. It was a popular boy, so of course I was immediately alert and impressed. He looked down on me as I sat gazing up into his tentative face, and then said in a fairly matter of fact way, “You were pretty bad. You don’t really deserve your candy.”

I paused, heat filling me like I’d received a shot of radiation and I said, “I know.” He walked away, as if he had performed an obligation, exercised a responsibility, and left the room. I looked at my reflection in the glossy surface of the black table and two things happened.

1. I never liked that boy again despite how much others did (although everyone ended up calling him a douchebag in high school), and
2. I became angry.

Mrs. Abbot’s question played over in my mind and I knew that it wasn’t right. What she did. What the boy did. Since I was twelve I lacked the ability to realize that I wasn’t stupid, just shy and nervous. I could never foresee either how well I would remember this event. Not that most people usually know which things will stick while they’re still happening. They don’t know until they’re older, when they’re beginning to realize that life passes by like an Amtrack.

I don’t know all the American presidents and frankly I think I speak for quite a few, and I still can’t list all the states, and definitely not in alphabetical order. I will say I can count to twelve flawlessly. But that’s really not the point, the point is that whenever someone asked what was wrong with me, it was because I made a mistake or wasn’t measuring up to a standard people set, and you can’t. You can’t measure up in everything, and there’s a lot I couldn’t do, still can’t do today. Yet if you add up all those wrong things, my errors, faults and memories of their outcomes, something happens. Something I never could have guessed at twelve, but was so essential to growing up: I became me. Sounds a little hokey, but it’s true. I can’t imagine my life without Mrs. Abbott. So honestly, and I have to say this, I don’t think I’ve ever been so thankful, so completely grateful, to have something wrong with me.

Stereotypes in Slaughterhouse Five

Stereotypes are predominant throughout the novel, ranging from stereotypes of the British, Russians, Germans, to Americans. I think the reason why this theme is so strong has a lot to do with the novel being a war story. The war, for most of the young men in it, is their first significant experience with another country. All the soldiers, from all sides, can only rely on what they've been told growing up, so when they're confronted with a different nationality, of course they're going to have a set of expectations and beliefs. By having these stereotypes Vonnegut is showing how childlike the soldiers really are, and it also creates a similarity between all soldiers that conveys the message that all the young men are the same. The bad guys are the ones putting the men, barely out of high school, to war.

One of the most humerous incidents involving stereotypes occurs with the introduction of the British war prsioners. These soldiers are "adored by the Germans, who thought they were exactly what Englishmen ought to be" (94). This is a great line, shoing how stereotypes can make people comfortable. It's a system of classification that puts things in order. The Germans, in their adoration of the British for adhering to their stereotype, are thankful, letting "them have four sheds" (94) to live in.

When the Americans arrive, the British, who've been preparing for their arrival, do seem to adhere to a stereotype, welcoming the Americans after their song, with "Good show," calling them "yank" (95) as they lead them into thier shed. At this point the British have still not realized the horrible condition of the American soldiers, and don't realize until they're about to perform their own version of Cinderella. Billy, exhausted, stands too close to the stove and catches on fire. One of the British prisoners helps him, and then looking at him, touching him "exploratorily here and there, filled with pity" asks "My God, what have they done to you, lad? This isn't a man. It's a broken kite" (97). This shows how surprised and forlorn the British are over the condition of what is supposed to be a mighty, American soldier. The British also have stereotypes of others, made evident, when the British soldier then asks Billy, "Are you really an American?" (97). He can't believe it. American's are supposed to be strong, and big, full of arrogance and pride, and Billy is none of these things.

By destroying stereotypes, Vonnegut is showing war as it really is. He's already showed that wars are not fought by powerful men but by young ones, without a bottomless well of strength to draw from, without wisdom and maturity. They don't display an incessant valor, but an incessant helplessness. The British man, who hasn't seen Americans or anyone else besides the Germans for so long, has clearly imagined a different kind of American than the one standing in front of him, in a miniature, ridiculous coat, unable to even keep himself from beinf enflamed. This is the eradication of a stereotype, and it causes the British prisoner distress, because he now has to change how he thinks, and rebuild how he imagines Americans and even the war. Asking himself, if this is what an American looks like, then how can the Germans possible be defeated?

Another incident where stereotypes are challenged occurs when the Germans at the POW camp meet the American's. Their reaction is much like the British Prisoner's reaction. They can't believe how weak and disheveled the Americans look. One German soldier, while measuring Billy's arm, "asks a companion what sort of army would send a weakling like that to the front"(83). Then, in unision, they take in the forms of the rest of the Americans, finding "a lot more that were nearly as bad as Billy's" (83). Vonnegut wants readers to see those bodies too, to realize that war is fought with little men. At one point, Derby in speaking with Billy after seeing all the clean shaven soldiers, explains that he had "imagined the war would be fought with aging men," that "he had forgotten that wars were fought with babies" (106). He goes even further, saying that when he saw the "freshly, shaved faces" he thought, "My God, my God-It's the Children's Crusade" (106).

The biggest stereotype Vonnegut is bringing down is this one: The heroic ethos of war, that it is a place of true men and honor when it is really a slaughterhouse for children.

Snap! There's madness in me

I was able to really visualize this play. My favorite skit was The Gospel According to Miss Roj and a close second was Symbiosis. The section dedicated to Miss Roj struck me the most because of the character. The scene is merely Miss Roj telling the audience who he is, (supposedly a terrestial) and what he thinks about everything-the decline of New York City, style, revenge, and Aretha Franklin. His character is dynamic and powerful, but what really drew me to him was how threatening he was. He's an effeminate man in woman's clothes yet ironically has the power to "steal one beat" from a person's heart every time he snaps his fingers. He even describes those who wronged him, citing a young thug he gave a heart attack. Miss Roj is a being of opposites; a preacher, a man, a diva. This duality mixed with a dangerous aura is what makes him so engaging and my favorite character of the play.

In Symbiosis, a man is struggling with his identity, trying to recreate a more "white" one in order to survive in a world that frowns on African American culture. This scene uses a man throwing away childhood memorabilia to convey a larger problem going on: The disesteem of African American pedagogy. This reproach of all things black is what leads the man to kill the kid. Yet in the end the kid cannot be destroyed, showing that you can't eradicate where you come from, that the man will always be black. I was glad the kid lived. It shows how life is successive, that in order to grow old you must first be young, and that youth will always be inside you, or found in the smooth melodies of a Temptations song.

Paper Topic

As a creative writer I was exceedingly impressed with how Nathanael West used imagery and metaphor in both The Day of the Locust and Miss Lonelyhearts, another novel of his I read. My working thesis is that West uses grotesque imagery and description in The Day of the Locust to acheive satire. I've found some good journal articles supporting this, and I think I'll enjoy dissecting his work, especially when it comes to characters. He presents Hollywood in such a subtely horrific,revealing way and ends up with satire.

Colbert Report: South Carolina's Favorite Son...or not

When I initially heard that Colbert was running for president, I realized that he's more famous now than John Stewart. I also thought it would work. I figured he would run, and it would be funny and he'd continue to rustle his bag of Doritos, and belittle other candidates. This was not the case.

Halfway into the episode Stephen received an on air phone call from Carol Fowler, Chair of South Carolina's Executive Democratic Committee. Colbert had been building up to this moment, showing clips of his time among the SC people and members of the committee. In one of these clips he's even given SC's favorite son award, surrounded by a crowd of southerners holding "Colbert 08" signs. The episode is loaded with satire, especially when Colbert wines and dines the committee, "sucking up" as he puts it, like a good politician. When Fowler finally calls to give Stephen the verdict, she says that the committee is still drunk. Sadly, Stephen, as Fowler gently puts it, "didn't make the cut." She tells him to run for the next election, and to make sure to come back and "win the hearts and minds of SC." (with more sucking up)

Stephen soldiers on, a mournful site as he frowns behind his falling victory balloons, and brings on his guest, Walter Kern, who tells Stephen the only way he could have won was if he'd done what Fowler said, spending time in SC for the next four years "doing nothing but kissing butt there." Stephen quickly responds to this, with a trace of genuine ridicule of the election process, and says, "this is how we choose our presidential candidates."

The truthiness here is that our elections seem fake. Colbert is showing just how ridiculous they are, from the amount of cozying a candidate has to do, to how theatrical they've become. My first impression of Colbert running for president was that it could work. I thought he could get his name on the ballot, and of course not win, but be an option. This shows just how much our culture has assimilated to theatre in the government, in places where it's not supposed to be. How can you take a presidential election seriously when a comedian is running in it? You can't. How can you take a presidential election seriously when the candidates are suck-ups? You still can't.

When I saw that Colbert would not be in the election, I was disappointed. I wanted to see how it would play out, how many laughs I could get out of watching Colbert parody presidential candidates. The government is fighting funny here in order to gain back some dignity and I guess that's fair. It could use some.