March 2017 – HUMOR IS NO FUN UNLESS YOU LAUGH

What we Wear

Lately I notice an uptick in discussions about what is proper to wear, or not to wear. Until last week I had never heard of the nineteenth century English writer C.F. Forbes who reportedly brought religion into the discussion when she stated that “the sense of being well-dressed gives a feeling of inward tranquility which religion is powerless to bestow”. I assume she was a humorist. But even if she wasn’t I still think that is funny.

It is funny to me because it reminds me of an anecdote involving some young women somewhere in Polynesia, some time in the late 1800s, who thought they were very well dressed, and thus well equipped for inward tranquility, and probably not in need of religion for this purpose. They were assembled there on the occasion of the visit of an important cleric from England, a bishop.

The Bishop, of course, was also well dressed for the tropics, all in black and a stiff collar, true to the stereotype of mad dogs and Englishmen. The young ladies’ outfits, on the other hand, were grass skirts designed for lower body coverage only. When the Bishop’s handler stepped off the ship he could see right away that this was not going to work. He explained to the women’s chaperone that so many bare breasts would surely offend His Eminence the Bishop’s modesty. The woman obliged, probably mumbled something like “chaqu’un à son gout”, and gave a command to the girls. They promptly lifted up their skirts to cover their chests.

But even a grass skirt cannot serve two masters at the same time. It’s either upstairs or downstairs. We do not know what the bishop said, or if he even was able to say anything when confronted with this situation. I would assume that this is when the classical education of an English gentleman pays off. He must have known his Dante. The good advice from Purgatory must have shot into his mind: “Non ragioniam di lor, ma guarda, e passa” — one read such things in the original in those days — “Let’s not talk about that. Just look and move on”.

On Humor without the Fun

To many readers the title of this blog appeared at first to be a contradiction, a non sequitur. True enough, and I always try to stay on the light side of things. I often feel that Camus was right, however: the world is absurd but with a little bit of luck we will inch yet a bit closer to the truth.

So when I hear a person spout off about making America great again I find that humorous because it seems so nonsensical. I always feel that I already live in the greatest country on earth. Pardon my immigrant’s patriotic zeal. But then I stop: o-oh, I have heard this before. I gew up in Nazi Germany. Nothing to laugh there.

But you see, absurdity takes hold of the situation when a week or two later we find out how that regeneration is to be brought about. Yes Sir, in America we shall abolish the arts and the humanities and the associated endowments. Now if that is not funny! The English, too, will abolish Shakespeare, I assume, the French will do away with Moliere, the Germans with Goethe, the Italians with Dante, the Spanish with Cervantes, and the Russians with Dostoyevsky. America, the newly cleansed Leader of the Free World, will bring about Utopia. It is too late for 1984, but 2084 will do. If that does not make you laugh I don’t know what will.

If you need to feel better I recommend Lord Ross whom Shakespeare makes say: “I dare not speak much further… things at the worst will cease, or else climb upward to what they were before.”

No. You better just laugh.
(c)2017 by Herbert H. Hoffman
Picture credits: miamifineartsacademy.com

No Bull

I remember the acrid smell produced by the coal fired power plant which I, then aged 16, was under orders by my (German) government to defend, should the Allies decide one day to attack it. They never did and I wasted a year practising at the vertical controls of my 88mm gun. I now think that the Allies decided not to bomb the power plant because it was more efficient to let it continue to poison the neighborhood, a sort of reverse chemical warfare.

When the war ended and I was no longer an enemy I found it very easy to become a friend of the United States. I moved to California in the Fifties, only to be choked by the pervasive and equally acrid smell of Los Angeles smog.

So I do know something about air pollution, and also how miserable it was to drive my employer’s, the Gas Company’s, truck day by day all across Los Angeles County, wedged in by big rig stinky Diesels. Back “in those days” we just worried about our lungs. In the meantime we have found out that it is more of a global problem, that it is not just the smell, but perhaps the ozone layer and hard to reverse global climate change that should concern us. We now know about hydrofluorocarbons, diesel exhaust, black carbon, and tons of methane from dairy farms and feed lots.

When I say “we” of course I don’t mean everybody. There is a solid body of citizens and politicians who deny that all this is real, that it may be just fake news, or as some say outright, that it is all “bull”.

Well, I have it from good authority: the Regulators at the Air Resources Board are recommending that we target, specifically, methane emissions from cow manure. I always suspected that the bulls were getting a bad rap.

Under the Slab

Strange things come into my field of vision, often in strange surroundings. The Church of St. Mary’s in the old Hanseatic city of Rostock in Germany, for example. I noticed that there were, all around the nave, small chapel-like alcoves. “The elaborate graves and memorials of the more wealthy families of their day”, the altar guild lady explained. The church is paved in stone that looks old and worn, having been trod upon for more than 500 years now. The entire floor of the huge church has been partitioned into small slabs, each bearing names hewn into the stone in an old script. “The graves of the less wealthy”, the altar guild lady observed. “Somebody is buried under each of these slabs”.

I visited Rostock in the month of July yet the floor was ice cold. Not much going on under those slabs, I thought. Five hundred year old memories. Macabre maybe, but nothing to provoke a shudder any more.
Unlike my kitchen floor. Now this did produce a shudder, only a week ago. I am positive: no relatives are buried under that ceramic floor, “less wealthy” or otherwise. There was nevertheless one spot that was warm, cosily warm. “Oh, oh”, my wife said. “There is something going on under this slab!”

A priest would have been of little use in this case, so we called the magician, our plumber. Like Julius Caesar he came, he saw, and he conquered the situation within minutes: we had a hot water leak under the kitchen floor, was his diagnosis. “The pipes must be repaired before water seeps up into the drywall”, the man said. The jack hammer was one option. “No!”, we said. “Not on our expensive Italian tiles”. Another method involves inserting a thinner pipe into the existing leaky pipe. Struck us as a Micky Mouse procedure inviting the jack hammer, should another leak occur under the same slab later. While waiting for a second opinion we anxiously examined the walls. By luck, no seepage had occurred. The last option, and our choice, was a complete re-routing of the pipes over the attic that would certainly give us better access during the next crisis.

We have hot water again and we are grateful. More than that: we now can’t help thinking of the old cathedral with the slabs. We can see them now, in our minds’ eyes, the good citizens of medieval Rostock as they kneel down after each slab burial, praying for mercy, glancing up to heaven in supplication.

We, too, now live in a mild state of paranoia as we furtively glance every so often at the kitchen ceiling above, hoping for the best and keeping our fingers crossed.

On Pack Ratting

We knew Tim and Mattie, both widowed, from way back. The two found each other and promptly moved in together. There was no problem in terms of their compatibility. Far from it. They had the right stuff, so to say. If there was a problem it was that in their combined household they now had more stuff than space.

One of the two dining room tables and six of the twelve chairs, for example, had to go to storage. They made inquiries. The Easystore Inc. facilities were new and clean. The friendly lady in the front office explained the different types of contracts. A notice displayed on the wall precisely defined what this business was about: “Storage of furniture or other unused or seldom used items in a warehouse for an indefinite period of time (Tipp vs. District of Columbia, 102F2nd264)” . No funny business in this establishment, they felt, and rented a standard 5ft x 5ft dead storage bin.

The power of perception makes an empty bin of this size seem large. The power of 2 reduces it to a narrow 25 square feet broom closet. It held the table and five chairs, just barely. The sixth chair would have fit if its legs had been sawed off. It had to go home again, to be used in the bedroom. That was the excuse. An old sleeping bag and the Coleman stove ca.1950 still found some space on the side, and several boxes of papers and old college textbooks as well. A few weeks later it transpired that the old sofa bed, two ottomans, a mattress, and a rug were also excess baggage. No sweat, Mattie said Tim said. They moved everything to a considerably larger 10ft x 10ft bin.

Problem solved, life and happiness were back on track. For a while, anyway. Eventually, though, it dawned on them how Tipp vs. District of Columbia fit into this picture. By using the term “indefinite period of time” that decision clarified that “dead” storage had nothing to do with dead in the sense of gone or finished. There was nothing gone or finished about stored old furniture. The whole adventure was a paradox, or what else would you call it if you can define a storage facility as a thing you use for things you don’t use. If there is some truth in the old saying that you lose it if you don’t use it the danger may be that in time you not only lose “it” but even forget what “it” was in the first place.

All this is actually humorous, the stuff of lighthearted banter. Provided that “it” is not yours and the Easystore Inc. tally of two thousand dollars per year is not addressed to you.
(c)2017 by Herbert H. Hoffman
Picture credit: blogs.discovermagazine.com

The New Conciergerie

I had been to Paris and I had visited the Conciergerie where they forced the much maligned Queen Marie Antoinette to eat her last cake. So when my doctor anounced that he would go “concierge” I was puzzled at first, not knowing what to make of this word in this context. I figured it out, of course, as I think you must have too because doctors do this sort of thing now everywhere . My friends in Paris who live in old fasshioned Parisian apartment buildings would probably be shocked to hear that I am about to entrust my healthcare to the concierge, the elderly lady in warm slippers who sits downstairs in the “loge”, eager to clue the tenants in to the mysteries of the other tenants’ lives. This misunderstanding arises from the fact that the French consider “concierge” to be a noun, and it is usually a woman.
One of my dictionaries also mentions an English noun by that name, designating a person in charge, a warden or caretaker. But then my doctor was already my caretaker. It would not be terribly logical for a caretaker to go caretaker, would it?
The word is not related to “concert” or “conservative”, in case you wonder. According to the etymological dictionary the word “concierge” is derived from the Latin “conservus” and means “fellow slave”. My Doctor and I, are we fellow slaves then? Slaves to money maybe? I know we both need money all the time. But I don’t think that is the true meaning of “going concierge” although it is probably approaching the mark.
I believe the real meaning of “going concierge” emerges when we realize that this word is also an adjective, like “good” or “tall”. My doctor happens to be tall, and he is good. From now on he will also be concierge. He will be a tall, good, and concierge doctor. I am joking, of course. But not really: a “concierge physician”, I read somewhere, is one who “administers medical care for an annual fee”. There you have it! It is a question of money after all. Thank God the doctor I have will also remain a tall and good caretaker.
None of this helps much, however. I still have to pay as before, only more.
(c)2017 by Herbert H. Hoffman
Picture credit: en.wikipedia.com

Vulcanic Phenomena

The ancient Romans, and that is not new, Had lots of deities, quite a few. The beauty of Venus we still admire. Her husband was Vulcan, the god of fire.

That Vulcan was strong and according to myth
He worked under ground in his forge, as a smith.
But Venus, they said, had her eyes on another
Which Vulcan, of course, found distressing, rather.
He pumped on the bellows in anger so well,
The fire he blew at grew hotter than hell
And everything melted, rocks, iron, and all.
That magma then pushed up Vesuvius tall,
And Etna, Colima, and Mauna Loa,
Pelé and St. Helens and Krakatoa.
Way down in his cave, at the heavens’ back portal,
We think he’s still scheming, for gods are immortal!
Lest Vulcan and Venus restructure their nuptials
I fear we’ll have more of those frightful eruptials.

Picture credits: spaceplace.nasa.gov