The Best Medicine

“I can’t stop laughing.”

Nicole often says this when she’s posted a funny on her F***book page. Whether or not I get the joke, her statement always cheers me. The mental image of my dear poet friend doubled over and howling is a guaranteed smile. And if I happen to get the joke, I do the same thing.

I knew someone who once observed that crazy people don’t smile. If that’s true, then few truly crazy folks have crossed my path. Borderline is another story.

I’ve just survived another fiscal year end at work. It happens every year, and every year I warn my colleagues to beware, for I will lose my sense of humour in the crunch of balancing my budget to my forecast. In fact, it’s practically a given that anyone forced to manage financials on March 31 will do the same thing. I got through it okay this time (I think), but others lost their warmth and charm while struggling to get last-minute payments into a balky system before the books closed at midnight. We will recover. We always do. But man, it’s rough because it permeates life outside the office as well, and when that happens … grim barely begins to describe it.

I’m pretty sure that laughter is a gift that comes with us from before. I sincerely hope that we take it with us when we leave. I can’t imagine any sort of existence without it. I can’t imagine this existence without it, and I am extremely grateful for people who can make me smile or, better yet, laugh until my ribs ache. I appreciate a TV series that inspires one good belly laugh per episode (and it needn’t be a “comedy” series, either). A TV series that does it more than once per episode is gold. When a comic dies, like David Brenner, Robin Williams, and more recently, Garry Shandling, I sense the dimming of the world as a whole, because funny people make it a brighter place.

Laughs in literature are even more precious. Writing comedy is difficult. A lot of humour is in the delivery, so how do you make someone laugh at words on a page? It’s a gift, I tell you!

I was born into a group of very funny people. My sibs are each hilarious in his/her own fashion—even on a red-faced rant, my wee sister will crack me up with an unexpected turn of phrase. My brothers are wry and dry, and my older sister can tell a story with such wit that you remember it years later. And I’m pretty droll, myself. Even when a situation is impossibly contrary, I am able to inject some humour into it.

Except at fiscal year end.

Spelchek

My command of the English language is pretty good for someone who didn’t attend college or university. It might even surpass that of someone who did attend college or university—based on what I’ve seen in writing from folks who have important-looking letters trailing after their names, I feel fairly confident in saying this.

My favourite comedian, the late David Brenner, claimed to be a notoriously bad speller. On being caught in a written mistake, he asked his grade school teacher how the word was correctly spelled. She said, “Look it up.” He replied, “How can I look it up if I don’t know how it’s spelled?”

Bwahahahahahahahahaha!

I spell better by hand than I do when typing. Most of my errors are committed by typo—and some of them have been beauties. Drop the “l” in “public”, for example, and you get enough shaming to be extra-diligent for the rest of your life, especially in a professional environment.

Then there’s the “US vs UK” dilemma that has resulted in my turning off the spell checker in every computer I’ve ever used. It’s hardly an act of dare-devilment, either. I know people who run the program and still make mistakes.

My eagle-eyed mother caught a spelling gaffe in a very recent post. I’ve fixed it, so if you missed it the first time, don’t go looking now. But I fear for the future of proper English as a written language. Hypocrite that I am, for I use modern spelling compared to that employed by Samuel Pepys, and his spelling would have been atrocious compared to Shakespeare’s, I cleave to the spelling I learned in elementary school. If I’m dating myself by spelling “colour” instead of “color” or “all right” instead of “alright”, then sow bee it.

Make ʼem Laugh

The world got a little darker yesterday. David Brenner, my favourite comedian of all time, passed away from cancer at the age of 78. He was a ground breaker in the 70s, with a true gift for pointing out the absurdities in life.

I loved his south Philly accent, his flashy style and big Buick grin; he laughed at his own jokes and to this day, many of his quotes remain relevant; proof that genuine humour is truly timeless.

Regrettably, I lost sight of him over the past twenty years, though I did reacquaint myself with him via YouTube in 2011. I had also bookmarked his website with every intention of visiting on occasion. Just two days ago, I referred to his story about how the female mosquito doesnʼt buzz, but as she is the biter, if youʼre lying in bed on a hot summer night and you hear nothing, be afraid. I have no idea if thatʼs a fact, but the laughs were undeniably real. So many have rooted in my memory, so many belly laughs and hysterical tears. I remember more of his jokes than I do of anyone elseʼs (with the possible exception of my younger older brother). Thereʼs the legacy, right? That his humour is part of my history and part of my joy. A lot of people will be grateful that he lived.

Count me among them.