Joking Around

Friday, September 19, 2003. 7:27 P.M. 621 W. Lombard Street, room 425. Darkly hazy, yet concertingly clear sunset.

I could have entered the Peace Corps instead of coming to law school. If I’d done that, I’d only know how to get to my educational center, the place where I parked my bike, the local sporting venues, various restaurants and bars, and how to get to the city. Instead, in Baltimore, I know how to get to the law school, the parking garage directly behind me, Camden Yards and M&T Bank (Ravens) Stadium because I can see them, the pubs close to school, only because they are on the way to the Inner Harbor, which is a straight shot from my dorm.

I could be in China right now, in an intensive crash course learning Mandarin Chinese, as well as being trained in how to teach English to people that might not have necessarily wanted to learn it, but were there only as a prerequisite for bigger and better things. Instead, I am in law school, in an intensive crash course learning Torts, Property, and Contract laws, as well as being trained in how to counsel people in their legal difficulties, even though they might not want to hear the truth, that they cannot collect.

I could be hating my classes with a passion, damn the eight hour days of training. In addition, I’d be bonding with a few of my classmates through our united hatred of the training, as well as the simple fact that we are in a foreign land, and have no one else save each other. Instead, I hate my classes with a passion, damn the (what feel like) eight hour days of Socratic method. In addition, I am bonding with a few of my classmates through our united hatred of the whole law process, as well as the simple fact that we are in a foreign environment, and have no one else who would understand, save each other.

I could be stuck living in a cinderblocked tiny dorm room, cooking for myself, which would mean cold rice, canned soup, maybe a Chinese sausage now and again. No internet access in my room, no television, no means of diversion, save the leisure books I brought with me, and my Game Boy. Instead, I am stuck living in a cinderblocked tiny dorm room, cooking for myself, which means cold sandwiches, canned soup, and maybe a hot dog now and again. No internet access in my room, no television, no means of diversion, save the leisure books I brought with me, and my Game Boy.

I could’ve completely lost track of United States affairs, and indeed, the affairs of my world at large (which consists of the latest television shows, the greatest internet hoaxes, and football). Instead, I’ve completely lost track of U.S. affairs, and indeed, most of the affairs of my world (damned if I give up football.).

For once, I would’ve appeared like everyone else externally, and would probably have felt like a trespasser on their land. Instead, for all intents and purposes, within the constraints of the law school within the City, I look like a law student (non-black, sad to say) to everyone else in the city. I still feel like I’m trespassing on City land.

I could’ve joined the Peace Corps, and at night, when I’m working while everyone else is taking a break, I could look up at the stars, and pretend that I recognize them, even though the only times I really look up at them is when I feel alone, lonely, away from where I belong. Instead, I entered the U of Maryland Law School, and at night, when I’m working while everyone else is taking a break, I look up at the stars, and find that I’m slowly starting to recognize them.

[The saddest words of all? “What might have been.” –K]

***

Cute Waitress (C.W.): I moved away from Virginia Beach. It will drive you crazy if you're liberal and have half a brain.
R.: What if you have two-thirds of a brain?

I'd been there for five minutes, and R. was hitting on C.W. pretty heavily. There's nothing wrong with hitting on a waitress, so long as you do it respectfully, which R. was doing. However (and yes, I know I am far from the first person able to critique without getting critiqued myself), once R. said this, there was an awkward five second pause, before C.W. turned to me again and asked what, if anything, I wanted.

I know inherently what is funny. Many of us do. When pressed, few of us can determine what makes something funny. I wish I could have, to prevent situations like that. R. was possessed of the intellectual-type wit, that which, while clever, is also best suited for after-dinner sherry, not a sports bar. This is one of those things that really screws people up, not knowing the audience.

And we've all fallen prey to this mistake. How many times have you told a joke that met with a cone of silence, not because it was unfunny, but because it was inappropriate for the crowd? I wouldn't tell the "I'm a little teapot" joke the same way to kids that I would to adults (less cursing. And if you've never heard the joke from me, call me out on it the next time you see me. I swear it's funny.).

That's one of the crazy things about humor. It might be about you, but it isn't for you. Ultimately, it's for the person you're telling the joke to, the person you're (trying to) make laugh. This is another failing I've seen in people, when they make themselves laugh so hard that they exclude the other person from the joke. Damn it, man, you can laugh later. Tell the damned joke!