Beware of Rabid Badgers...

I used to think senior awards superlative awards were a farce. This stems mainly from high school awards. I don’t want to turn this into a bitter diatribe about cliques a la The Breakfast Club, but a blonde wearing an occasional feather boa does not a best-dressed senior make. I didn’t vote for her, and I don’t know anyone who did. But I digress. So when I found out that colleges, well, at least Valpo, held such a contest, I was surprised. Why, I wondered, would an institution of higher learning feel the need to hold such an empty popularity contest? I thought that right up til I friggin’ won one! Yeah, funny how that’ll change your whole perspective on stuff like that.

“Mom, I won a senior award,” I said gleefully on the phone later that week. “There were categories like ‘Most Likely to Succeed’ and ‘Smartest,’ but I won ‘Funniest!’” I said, thus demonstrating why I had won. “That’s nice, Lis. Those other ones would have been good to win, too though,” she said dryly. Ha, ha. Hey, wait a minute.

Even before this title was bestowed upon me from on high, there’s been an implied obligation that comes with being the resident comic relief. For instance, I have one friend in particular who promotes this obligation at any and every opportunity. “This is my funny friend Lisa,” she’ll say when introducing me to people, animals and houseplants. “She’s so funny! Say something funny, Lisa, and validate your existence.” Unfortunately, this is the exact combination of words that invokes an ancient gypsy curse placed upon me years ago. It caused the sections of my brain that control speech to seize up, allowing me to only emit monosyllabic noises that cannot, in a technical sense, be considered words and cannot in any sense at all be considered funny.

This, understandably, is a bit frustrating. So in lieu of avoiding this person and at the risk of not being able to put it together again, I’ve decided to dissect my sense of humor a little bit, until I figure out how it works, or at least until I think of something funnier to write about.

A lot of being funny, just like in magic, is misdirection. People expect you to say one thing, and instead you yell ‘Shazaam!’ and make the Statue of Liberty disappear. Oh, wait. I think that is magic. Hmm. I’ll get back to that. Anyway, another part of humor is the ‘Rule of Three.’ I don’t know if it’s really called that, if it’s called anything at all. An old Indian guide told it to me when I was bumming around Arizona for a few years trying to find myself. Or maybe I heard it on Nick at Nite during a special about Bewitched. Either way, here’s how it works. Basically, you need to be listing something off. Make the first two items on the list relatively normal, lulling your reader and/or listener into a false sense of security, and then whack them with something completely ludicrous! Big laughs if you set it up right. You can use it when conversing with your family, friends or schizophrenic head-voices. See how I slipped that in there? Simple, really.

Masterful techniques aside, some things are just funnier than others. This ‘humor quotient’ cannot be quantified, strictly speaking. It takes an experienced comic eye to spot. Sleep deprivation and certain over-the-counter cold medications might do in a pinch. For example- howler monkeys and llamas are funny, sloths and paralyzed puppies are not. Knock-knock jokes are funny, but anyone who knows my mother can tell you that drug jokes aren’t. Airplanes, as evidenced by every single stand-up comedian’s routine ever, are funny; while submarines and trolley cars generally are not. Some of these distinctions can only be learned by trial and error- error that is annoying and won’t let me alone. Learn from my mistakes: biologist haircuts and social workers are not funny. Yeah, it was news to me, too.

I think I’ll end my first lecture on the fundamentals of funny there, hopefully giving you an understanding of the complex inner workings of humor, and thus why I freeze up when put on the spot in the aforementioned situation. Maybe I should have a stock response on hand. Or a miniaturized copy of my ‘Funniest Senior’ certificate to display like an FBI badge. Or a rabid badger to toss at anyone involved in that conversation, giving me a chance to escape or think up a legitimate funny response. Heh, heh. Say something funny, Lisa.

Thumbs Down, Nature

I think we can all agree that for the most part, most available features on the human body turned out all right. Thumbs, for example. Without thumbs, we would live in quite a different world. Artists would have no way to hold their palettes, Roger Ebert would have no way to rate movies, and thumb wars would only be discussed theoretically. There’d be no spaces between words- how would you hit the space bar? Clearly a world without thumbs is one of confusion and fear. Seeing the simple genius of the thumb might lead one to infer that all human features would exhibit such flawless design. But you’d be wrong. There seem to be quite a few pointless extras included in the “person package.”

I present exhibit A: the blush. It has been said that no one can embarrass you unless you let them. This helpful piece of advice speaks volumes about self-esteem and assurance, and was obviously said by someone who never attended middle school. What is unfortunate about this quote is that you can’t tell it to the blood vessels in your face. No matter how nonchalant you may appear about, say, walking into a freshly cleaned glass door or continuing to sing even though the music has long-since stopped, your face emits a glowing testament to what you’re really feeling. What’s the point of blushing? It seems like this is a practice that would have been stopped a long time ago.

Blushing seems, at least to me, to be one of the most pointless activities we as humans can partake in. You might think that this is inspired by a recent embarrassing experience. To this I say, shut up and stop looking at me. No, just kidding. I can only assure you that it was not inspired by anything that happened lately. And it’s not like I don’t do embarrassing things. I do extremely embarrassing things all the time. I have plenty of embarrassing stories, and that’s only counting the ones that I’m not repressing. I’ve done the classic favorite ‘make fun of your professor for something he said in class, not realize that he’s standing right behind you.’ I told all my friends I was going in for my driver’s test, and then promptly failed it. Then, another time, I was at a summer resort with my family, and I snuck up to the staff quarters with a guy who worked there. He introduced me to the head dance instructor, and all I could say was “I carried a watermelon.” Aah! I could have died! Well, I’m pretty sure that two of them are my experiences. The last one might be a scene from Dirty Dancing.

But this wasn’t inspired by any event in particular, other than me watching X-Men recently. Which did get me thinking: how did we end up with the standard response to embarrassment being that your face turns red? I’ve got a suggestion. Instead of turning red, how about… instant camouflage? So, for instance, you’re traveling in Scotland. Unaware of the prevalence of kilts, you make an offhand comment involving transvestites and a pleasing Tartan plaid. Instead of being well received, your comment draws the scornful attention of the surrounding Scots. How embarrassing! Luckily, with your newly evolved blushing abilities, you quickly blend into the surrounding ocean of plaid. No harm, no foul. And when your humiliation fades and you become visible again, surely your comment would have been forgotten. And if not, England’s a beautiful country. Head there for a while.

Now about crying. What possible purpose could eye seepage have in relation to feelings of sadness or happiness? In my experience, it has only served to let everyone sitting near me know that I, for one, think the end of the movie is very sad, even though I’ve seen it before and I’ve read the book. I will admit that tears are helpful if you get something stuck in your eye, such as a piece of dust or a finger. Not a piece of a finger. If you have pieces of finger in your eye, I don’t think tears are going to help you. I’ve thought of an alternative for tears. Whenever you start crying, your tear ducts would emit both tears… and tear gas. That way everyone can share in the beautiful emotion that you’re experiencing. Who’s laughing now?

Another thing I don’t understand is fainting. Back in the day fainting, or swooning, was all the rage. All the cool kids were doing it. Just about anything could be used as an excuse for fainting, too. Heat, danger, a scandalous situation, small mammals, Elvis- all were acceptable reasons to lose consciousness and slump lifelessly to the floor. Real good defense mechanism, Nature. Bravo. Nowadays people mostly faint due to pain or gore. Now, pain I can understand. That’s your own natural anesthetic. But gore? Perhaps I should clarify. By ‘gore’ I mean blood and guts, not the former vice president. Well, maybe Al Gore makes some people faint. Be careful, though, because ‘fainting’ and ‘boredom induced narcolepsy’ can look remarkably similar. Back to gore, though, what good does fainting do? Sure, you can’t see it anymore. But you’ll wake up and see it and faint all over again, creating a vicious circle. I think a better reaction would be a feeling of nausea, or maybe a sudden urge to get a mop and clean up. Or both, for that matter. Someone’s going to have to clean that up.

On the whole, we’re doin’ okay. We got our thumbs, like I mentioned earlier. Eyeballs and livers are some other successes that spring to mind. And that whole inner ear balance thing- whoa- my commendations, because I never could have figured that out. As a final suggestion, instead of foot odor, how about mental telepathy? And telekinesis? And metal claws that spring from between my knuckles? I may have to wait a while for that one. In the meantime, maybe I’ll watch X-Men again. Roger Ebert may have given it a thumbs down, but what does he know? As far as I’m concerned, he’s taking those thumbs of his for granted. Pointing them up and down all willy-nilly. You’d better appreciate your thumbs- who knows what you could have ended up with?

Bored of the Dance

I recently had the opportunity to attend a statewide high school dance competition. And by ‘had the opportunity to attend,’ I mean ‘was strongly encouraged due to sisterly bonds pointed out by my mother and thus decided, possibly under duress, to attend.’ It was like being an extra in ‘Bring It On,’ something I never wanted and still don’t want to do. I learned a lot, and I’d like to take you along to explore the seamy underbelly of the high school dance association.

The competition was held at a local high school, which serves a dual purpose: to remind spectators how glad they are that high school is over and to reemphasize just how absolutely and totally bleachers suck. I developed an acute case of bleacher butt syndrome, or as it is known in the medical community, BBS, to gain this data. I’m not trying to add import or a sense of validity to the account that follows. Yes, I am. It’s all true because I suffered for it. And any mental anguish from the BBS in no way influenced my final opinion regarding dance in general. Pinky swear.

I realized that as an audience member, I was fulfilling an almost sacred bond. Audiences are important because they watch the dancers. If a dancer dances in a gym and no one is around to watch, will he or she still have an unnaturally large smile on his or her face? It’s a philosophical question that has plagued our society since the beginning of time. Audience members are also important because they yell. Not words, necessarily, just noise. Why? It’s anybody’s guess. I was there, and I couldn’t find any discernable pattern. This particular audience seemed to favor kick lines, rows of spinning and any males doing anything dance related at all. Seriously, the mere sight of a high school boy in a leotard and these people could have out-noised a DC-10 jet engine. And I was lucky enough to be a part of this seething mass of rabid family members, some of whom even had shirts declaring how they were related to a particular dancer: ‘Kasey’s Dad,’ ‘Jenny’s Sister,’ ‘Trixie’s Half Cousin Twice Removed Through Marriage.’ I saw a woman wearing one that said ‘Lisa’s Mom.’ I nudged the Lisa’s mom who was sitting next to me and asked if she had been lying to me all these years. She shrugged, glanced nervously away and then quickly changed the subject. I’m still not sure how I should take that. Luckily, a leotarded prepubescent lad flounced onto the floor and any awkwardness dissolved into mindless screaming. Phew… dance saves families!

On to the aspects vital to a successful dance. From what I could tell, one of the most important aspects of a dance routine is the music. Therefore, it was also the loudest. Optimal volume will result in eardrum ruptures, so you can use aural bleeding as a sort of guideline. But before you can set the volume to the appropriate levels, you’ve got to choose the type of music. Here comes the fun! One possibility is to choose a single song. This song can be from any era, as long as it’s fast and loud. Feel free to pick and choose parts you like and then add enough bass to induce a heart murmur in anyone listening to it. You’re ready to go! If one song isn’t enough to encompass the full range of your obviously impressive dance vocabulary, you can create what’s known as a ‘mix.’ Creating a mix is a complicated process, but I’ll try to walk you through it. First, put a blank tape into your stereo. Next, turn on the radio and press the ‘scan’ button. Begin recording, and stop when you feel like it. Don’t worry if you catch some talk radio- the judges seem to like that. Especially if it’s a talk radio show about creepy and/or mechanical futuristic things. To finish off your mix, you’ll need to add some arbitrary audio clips (whips, birds, the Windows log on melody, etc.) and enough bass to induce a heart murmur in anyone listening to it. The final music option is an extremely popular one, so feel free to jump on this bandwagon. This method entails dancing to ‘Bring Me To Life’ by Evanescence. Yes, that’s it. We, as audience members, cannot hear that song too many times. Just make sure you add enough bass to induce a heart murmur and… well, you know.

Next, we’ll have to work on costumes. Costumes are critical, because they keep you from being naked when you perform. How far from naked you wish to be will factor into your costume choice. Some dancers evidently wanted to be naked quite badly, while others wanted to have skin made out of neon spandex. There was a huge variety, though, and to illustrate this I present the following two vignettes. (Vignette, of course, being French for ‘humorous description of what I saw.’) The first group danced to a Disney medley or something equally wholesome. They wore pink fluffy fairy outfits. If I were to choose a theme for their dance, it would be ‘we love puppies and pink chiffon and you! But mostly pink chiffon.”

The second group, on the other hand, wore black. “Well, what’s wrong with black? It’s slimming and chic and easily hides blood stains,” you say, assuming you are a homicidal maniac who is also into fashion. Well, I would reply, after backing to a safe distance, allow me to continue. Black is usually fine, except I think they ordered their costumes from the wardrobe department on the set of the Matrix, and were sure to ask for extra skank. Pleather, zippers and buckles. The theme to their dance, were I to assign one, would be ‘If you come near us we’ll kill you and then hack into the government and bring this country to its knees. But first we have to apply some more black lipstick.’ Very scary. And I’m sure their parents in audience were so proud.

Other costume highlights included some sassy little neon pink and orange numbers- I think the girls on that team were ambassadors who were competing on behalf of 1983. Another group looked like their costumes were made out of fire, apparently they went shopping in Hell to find them… and there was a sale. Basically, your costume choice can be based on lots of factors, including your music, dance moves and whether or not you want me to think you’re a whore.

I suppose another important aspect of the dance would be the actual dancing. Now, aside from a few years of tap starting when I was seven, I freely admit my utter dance ignorance. Even then, I didn’t know all the feet parts and my teacher put me in the back. As it turns out, the ‘feet part’ is rather important in tap dancing. Who knew? But dance teams aren’t about tapping. They’re more on the leaping-wiggling-jumping-and-landing-on-your-pelvis end of the spectrum. But I can tell you what I saw, in the hopes of helping you on to dance superstardom.

If you’re into tossing people, an activity which is usually frowned upon in say, a professional setting, the world of dance might be a good place to get that out of your system in a way that won’t end in litigation. Another group choreographed their dance according to the beliefs and teachings of Sir Mix-a-Lot. ‘We have butts,’ each of their dance moves proclaimed, and at the end of that dance, every single audience member was convinced… they did indeed have butts.

From what I can tell, you can pretty much turn anything into a dance move. “Hey guys, look! I call this one, ‘eating sushi!’” And then five minutes later, “I call this one, ‘I forgot I had a crippling seafood allergy!’” Feel free to get creative. Dance is, after all, life, if the hundreds of t-shirts being sold at the competition are to be believed.

I’ve got to be honest; I cut out long before the awards ceremony, having fulfilled my dance quota for the next thirty-odd years. As it turns out, there are a lotof dancers in Indiana. Perhaps they should consider seceding and forming their own state- of funk! You might think that’s a little extreme, but if so you obviously didn’t go to the competition. If you ever do get the chance… don’t. You’d be better off staying home and watching ‘Bring It On.’ At least then you don’t have to sit on bleachers, depending on your living room furniture, and you’ll have a mute button right there. Use it and be glad: you can slake the thirst for dance that burns within you without that pesky hearing damage.

Stalked by Electrostatic Discharge: A Day in the Life of Me

There is a monster lurking in the laboratory where I work. This monster waits silently and patiently for an opportunity to strike. He has no glowing red eyes or any razor sharp teeth, no low warning growl to allow me to prepare for the ineluctable attack. He prowls the lab, randomly assailing the innocent. He is terrifying. He is treacherous. He is static electricity. Come on, now. Stop laughing- getting zapped hurts.

Allow me to set the scene in a less dramatic tone. The lab I work in is very dry. Your average desert, should you happen to have one, has about 10 to 20% humidity. We have to measure the humidity in the lab every day, and it’s a red-letter day if it reaches double digits. “Grab the ponchos!” we shout. “It’s like a rainforest in here!” No, we don’t. Working in a lab is serious business. One day I think the humid-o-meter in the lab will report a negative number. If that’s even possible. I think the air would instantly crystallize and come shattering to the ground. Or, if you set foot in the lab- what’s the polar opposite of drowning? That’s right, instant mummification. I haven’t found any scarab beetles on my person, so I’m pretty sure the humidity hasn’t gotten that low. It’s really dry in here, that’s all I’m saying, and a dry environment is the natural habitat of static electricity.

Another aspect of the lab that makes static electricity come a-runnin’ is that it’s partially carpeted. This is totally unnecessary, and could probably constitute cruel and unusual punishment. It’s equivalent to coating yourself in Shake’n’Bake before going swimming with Jaws. He’s gonna eat you whether you have a tasty, crispy coating or not. Might as well save yourself the trouble. Dropping that simile and moving on, the lab does provide us with shirts that are supposed to deflect static electricity. Uh, they don’t. It’s a nice idea, though. They look like button up football jerseys, but without the numbers. Maybe they thought numbers might encourage horseplay. “Hey, Bill- would you pass me that beaker of Ebola?” “Sure! Go long!” If you can’t tell, I don’t put much stock in these ineffectual pieces of clothing.

We do have an alternate weapon in the war against static electricity: the wrist strap. These are worn, not surprisingly, on your wrist, and keep you ‘grounded.’ Not grounded in the sense of ‘I can’t believe you shaved the cat’s tail again, you’re grounded.’ More along the lines of ‘I’ll be able to walk around without building up enough charge to jettison my teeth from my still-smoking gums when I touch the table again’ grounded. The wrist straps work pretty well, if you wear one. It’s the wearing that presents the problem, really. The strap is connected to the table with a coiled cord, so that when I wear it I feel like an unruly toddler wearing a kid-leash. It gives me an urge to eat sugar, demand a new toy, and then sweep everything off of the table in a temper tantrum. And it’s pretty much unavoidable that I knock something over while reaching for a plate, because I forget that I have a telephone cord attached to me. I feel Pinocchio’s pain.

Prior to discovering the wrist strap, I had developed my own ways to combat the zaps. Firstly, if you try to just avoid touching the metal, it will only end in tears, and static electricity will win every time. The charge will continue to build and when you finally do touch the metal, your hand will explode. It’s true; don’t question me. Initially, every time I returned to the table from other lab-related (or not, depending on my motivation level that day) activities I would slap the table in an effort to lessen the sting of the zap. For some reason, this hurts less than having the spark jump to your finger, which is comparable to having a tiny crowbar used to lift your fingernail like the hood of a car. I did this enough that it became a habit, which was good in the sense that I didn’t have to think about doing it before touching the table, but bad in the sense that it carried over to my everyday life. Normally static electricity isn’t a problem for me, yet out of habit I now slap everything I came into contact with. Not a slap that could be passed off as ‘whoops my depth perception’s a bit off and I misjudged the distance from my hand to that object.’ It was a definite girly slap, in the same vein as those performed while squealing “Icky! Get it away!” or “Oh, you!” This becomes an immediate problem when I need to touch something, which I have been doing quite regularly ever since I discovered I had opposable thumbs, because it is also accompanied by an involuntary wince. This applies to everything I touch on a fairly regular basis, including car doors, finger food, circus performers (don’t judge me), plants… the list goes on and on. It’s a recipe for disaster, really.

A little while ago I discovered that the demon zap also travels through clothing. So, in the interest of protecting my fingers, I’ve taken to hip checking the table every time I approach it. Fortunately, this habit has thus far remained in the lab. Let’s hope it stays there, or I’ll look even more like an escaped mental patient than I do now: wincing as I slap or hip check everything in sight. At least mental patients can blame these behaviors on the electroshock therapy.

Inevitably, this shocking will have some disastrous effect on me. One day, after the atoms in my body have lost and regained electrons one time too many, a critical charge will be reached. My cells will begin to morph, my body processes will be irreparably altered, and I will become… a comic book supervillian. That’s right, I’ve been looking into it. And as much as I’d like to be the hero rather than the villain, an individual imbued with static electricity-based powers seems more suited to evil rather than good. I mean, come on- ‘The Static Avenger’ is a lame name. ‘Protecting clothes from clinging socks and underwear in a major metropolitan area near you.’ Nuh-uh. Besides, the hero is always saddled with annoyances like morals, a conscience, an exploitable weak point and the traumatic death of a beloved family member. As an evil villain, I’d be entitled to witty banter, peons to do my bidding, a chance at world domination and a lair. A frickin’ lair! Mine would be great- I’m thinking inside a giant Van de Graff generator. And just between us, my weak point would be something totally unrelated to my power- like, a mild peanut allergy. Nothing so obvious as dryer sheets. So back off, Snuggle. What superhero would try to fight static electricity with peanuts? I’m totally set!

So I guess copious amounts of static electricity is a mixed blessing, albeit a little heavy-handed on the negative side. No pun intended. Sure, sometimes I feel like a monkey in some bizarre psychological button-pushing experiment where all of the buttons are electrified, even though he was told that one of them would yield a banana reward. Or another monkey-approved reward- Cheerios, kittens, Bobby McFerrin tapes- whatever. Static electricity has become both the bane of my existence and the catalyst for my villainous transformation. What it boils down to is this: no pain, no powers. So if I’m gonna get this transformation underway, I got me some slappin’ and shockin’ to do. And then (mwah hah hah hah hah) let the Battle of Electronegativity begin. Bring it on, Snuggle. Bring it on.