I took the class because it the name of it was “The History Of Film Comedy” and I thought that it might be fun, because I was a freshman and it was the only course available to me in the giant blue book of offerings that didn’t sound either impossible or overwhelming.
First class; the professor introduces himself and goes straight into the life of Buster Keaton, who as a baby was part of his family’s vaudeville act by having two of his relatives each hold one arm and one leg and then swing swing TOSS him into the balcony of the theatre, where other relatives caught him and tossed him back on to the stage. They lived out of a suitcase, tragically poor, disaster and ruin, tragedy and mayhem…
This really wasn’t funny at all. I mean, the movie was, but the class really wasn’t.
…and then the professor asked the class, “How many of you have ever gone to bed, not sure where your next meal would come from?”
I raised my hand. Don’t get me wrong, I was protected and provided for every day of my life, but for a while there we were really poor, and sometimes had to stretch food and the very concept of it and just have faith that we’d make it. Honestly, I thought everyone had that same experience at least once, because I was from Kansas City and it was the early eighties and it was the second week of school and I was a really long way from home.
Two other students also raised their hands. Then time kind of stopped, because we looked at each other, and all of us were of some sort of color, and NO ONE ELSE had raised their hand, and the three of us had the exact same expression on our faces: surprise that we were the only people with our hands raised. Whatever classrooms we had been in last year, maybe most of that class might have had their hands in the air, so there was this beat where we were just acknowledging each other, and by then it was too late.
“Keep your hands up, keep your hands in the air.” the professor said. “Stand up, you three.”
First class, long way from home, sure Mister, I’ll stand up.
“These three know comedy. They’re the only three of you that understand it. They have had to face the world without certainty, and find something good where the rest of you wouldn’t have seen anything. They know what comedy means.” Then to us he added, “Everyone else may laugh, but you three will be able to understand. Ok, class dismissed.”
Now everyone stood up. A random girl patted me tenderly on the back, her head lowered. I picked up my bag and went outside, where the three of us, apparently blessed by the Goddess of Comedy, introduced ourselves.
“I don’t think my life is all that bad…” one of them said, “I don’t really feel like I’ve suffered or anything.”
We each agreed.
“At least we’re not afraid of being poor or anything.” I added.
“Yeah...” said the third. “though I get the feeling that if some of them grew up where we did, they might not have enjoyed it as much as we did.”
I think I got a B in that class.
I don’t want to become a curmudgeon, mostly because it’s so difficult to spell, so I’m continually reaching out to learn something new. But the modern world is awash with infinite amounts of fresh images, sounds, and information, and I am not infinite, I am maybe 12 hours a day of fairly drowsy middle aged black man. I can only do so much, eat so much, see so much, pay so much attention.
But I appreciate that I can appreciate things. I’ve met people who can’t, who, no matter where they are, are forever in a state of “oh gosh I’m super bored right now.”, always seeking something more.
My goal has always been to have enough, because you can actually have enough of something. More is by definition unattainable: it’s infinity plus one, the elusive parabola.
Three TV networks? Just fine. Cable? Wow, that’s… a lot of stations. A VHS player? Amazing. And now? Netflix has 36,000 hours of available programming at any given time. According to SIRI, who I politely asked to do the math for me, that’s 4 years of 24 hour a day programming, yet what I inevitably end up watching the most is trailers. I am lucky enough to live where food is abundant, but I can’t eat most stuff due to allergies. And Hamilton is right; history is happening in Manhattan and I just happen to be in The Greatest City In The World, but I’m too tired to go out at night, thank you very much, I’m just gonna go back home and not eat stuff in front of some Netflix trailers and hit the sack.
But that’ still fun to me. It’s important to be able to be satisfied, to truly have a sense of recognizing something you might like wherever you happen to be.
Auntie Mame, a 1955 novel by Patrick Dennis,
was later turned into a Broadway play,
and then a very successful movie,
and then a musical (also on Broadway),
and then a movie of that,
though don’t watch that movie because it’s not very good.
In the original (non-musical) film, the altogether fabulous Rosalind Russell is giving her diminutive wallflower of a secretary a “total makeover.”
She convinces her to step out for the evening, saying
“Live! Live! Live!
Life’s a banquet, and most poor suckers are starving to death!”
At this point in the film, Mame’s character has been rich, poor, single, married, single again, rich again, employed, various types of unemployed, somewhat famous, and somewhat infamous. She has, by any measure, lived, seeing the opportunities in every situation and circumstance, and passing this perspective on to her young nephew, who is, somewhat, in her care.
The author of Auntie Mame seems to have taken his own literary advice; he was an ambulance driver, a very famous author, and then a butler for the man who founded McDonalds. Apparently he loved that job.
I’ve tried to eat at the banquet, even when it seemed more like foraging in the wilderness with a paper napkin. Every experience doesn’t have to be a good one, goodness no; some of the best ones are awful until they’re over and then they become stories to tell.
But my professor was wrong; misfortune doesn’t make you understand comedy or life any better than anyone else. At most, it probably does make you appreciate it a little more.
Besides, I don’t have a fear of missing out anymore, I clearly know I’m missing out and it excites and delights me. The smiling evenings I sit at home wearing pajamas and thinking of all the places that I am not – are gloriously legion.
The Banquet.