I'm not clowning around 🤡

Who decides what's funny?

Photo by Ben Wicks on Unsplash

At a recent brunch, my friend R spoke in wide-eyed enthusiasm about an event he’d attended earlier in the week to support a friend and creative colleague. I retired those obligations when I got out of the acting business nearly two decades ago, but they continue to haunt me like that ill-fated Broadway production of In My Life, which ended—prophetically— with an enormous two-dimensional lemon descending from the rafters.

R is the eternal artistic optimist. I first met him (From a distance—in drag—him, not me, though I’ve worn a wedge heel in my day) when he made it into the finals for a short-lived reality competition to find the next Broadway star. He’ll see anything. In any borough.

This particular cohort, he explained, is called The Idiot’s Hour and billed as an “avant clown variety show.” I’m not sure which of those words terrifies me the most.

I’ll admit that I have a particularly dry (dusty?) sense of humor. I don’t guffaw. Bodily fluids, simulated or otherwise, are meant for closed quarters. I’ve mostly sworn off stand-up comedy and karaoke despite friends’ requests to convince me otherwise. In my last apartment, a pre-war third-floor walk-up, I lived across the hall from an aspiring comedian and yoga instructor. She encouraged me to follow her on Instagram, which should have forewarned me of the dangers of social media.

Exceptions can be made. Leave it to billionaire Richard Branson to build private karaoke lounges on his new fleet of cruise ships. I took part with my travel companion, and I’m not sure which was worse: our rendition of Billy Joel’s “The Piano Man” or the piercing headache from the high-fructose frozen cocktails the following morning.

Photo by Risto Kokkonen on Unsplash

IMC takeaway: You do you. I don’t need to tell you what’s funny. A college mate made a successful living as Ronald McDonald for years, so what do I know? Just don’t expect me to lol.