Did you ever laugh so hard for so long that the next day your abs hurt? I have, and I miss it. Belly laughs seem to be in shorter supply these days.
I don’t know if it’s the times or me that’s changed, but I’m laughing less than I used to. There are still funny people out there, like Stephen Colbert, but a chuckle is not a belly laugh, and cleverness, sarcasm and wordplay are not particularly contagious.
Before he died fourteen years ago, I used to visit my friend Kurt von Meier a couple of times a month. Kurt loved to laugh, really laugh, and with our other pal the late Cliff Barney (pictured), we’d smoke, eat, soak in the hot tub and belly laugh all afternoon into the evening. His brilliant humor was not just word-based, but physical. He was a master of sight-gags and clowning around, and we’d regularly get overcome with hysterics.
I’m a funny guy, too, but I’ve learned to restrain myself. My wife reminds me that a Hollywood writer who stayed with us when we owned a bed and breakfast inn told me I suffered from CCD, Compulsive Comedic Disorder. It’s true; it’s tough for me to pass up the opportunity for a one-liner.
When I was a schoolboy, I earned my chops by being funny. Some boys were good athletes, others superb Grade-A students. I was neither, but I had a talent for humor. Although this earned me a place with the boys, my teachers generally frowned upon it. Mr. Mahoney, my English teacher in 7th grade, found me funny, however, and turning his back to the class I could see that he was laughing. Sometimes I could successfully leverage humor into my schoolwork. I wrote my term paper and earned an “A” in Mrs. Breslow’s 12th Grade English class by writing about Jonathan Swift’s use of excrement in “Gulliver’s Travels.” No shit.
On the other hand, being funny added little to my romantic life. While the boys enjoyed belly laughing, the girls clearly were not amused. I decided that upon entering high school I’d restrain myself, and that’s what I did, for a while. The kids I’d grown up with in grammar school were just a small proportion of the student population, so my reputation did not precede me. I kept my mouth shut, only to discover that it meant making no new friends. My resolution did not last long. Within a short time, I’d found the belly laughers, and we bonded.
I have some serious acquaintances, but the joy of laughter is an essential ingredient in my closest friendships. For me, laughter softens the rough edges of the world. Even now, after 30-plus years of immersing myself in the mostly serious business of local government and policy making, I find humor helpful. When facing a complex problem or incredibly boring discussion of sewer rate calculations, there are times when laughter is the only sane response.
There’s something powerful about laughter: it heals. I don’t think it’s possible, for example, to be angry while laughing, or to maintain a self-righteous manner. Laughter is the great leveler, a sharing of the absurdity of our human situation. Although they cannot yet talk, babies and toddlers laugh, as if there is something funny about life itself, and there is, obviously.
Don’t get me wrong; life is tragic and none of us will get out of it alive no matter how seriously we try. Now that’s funny.
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