a laugh track life

I've decided that my life would be much better if it had a laugh track.

Much like a sitcom on television, I need audience participation to truly enhance my life. Which isn't to say that I want anyone actually watching me, though. Because unlike those TV shows that are taped in front of a live studio audience, I want to live in front of a taped studio audience.
I don't think that nearly enough people appreciate how funny I am, and a laugh track would help. This way, even if the people I'm around didn't get the joke, the laugh track would let them know that it was, in fact, incredibly funny. A laugh track would make my life perfect.

Of course, other audience sound effects would improve things too. Like when I come home at the end of the day. By simply adding a sound effect of people cheering...just like when Kramer walks through Jerry's door in Seinfeld, or when Norm enters the bar in Cheers...I'd feel much more welcome when walking into my empty apartment. And an 'oooohing' and 'aaaahhhing' of the audience whenever I'm on a date and about to go in for that first kiss would really help me out in the romance department. Yes, with these two small improvements, my life would be perfect.

Though, naturally, a catchy theme song would be nice too. Instead of plain, old me walking into a room, a theme song would really accentuate my presence and keep people remembering me long after I'm gone. How could someone possibly forget me if there was always an addictive little tune stuck in their heads? Yes, an audience laugh track and theme song are really the only things I need in order for life to be perfect.

But, then again, with all these improvements, my life might actually get syndicated. And I could really use the extra money. So a laugh track, theme song, and syndication money, are all I'd need for life to be absolutely perfect.

Of course, I could also use a corporate sponsor and maybe a hair stylist and a personal assistant, and...

letters of the alphabet that don't belong in a civilized world

I was at the supermarket the other day waiting in the checkout line to purchase my weekly supply of microwavable foodstuffs…which is what passes for ‘cooking’ in my kitchen…when a guy with full cart and three kids got in place behind me.

The kids, all under the age of six, were in various states of what I could only guess was an extreme sugar rush. The youngest who was sitting in the cart’s child seat, was twisted around reaching for an open package of Oreos that was sitting just out of reach on top of the mountain of food in the cart.

Another was hanging from the man’s arm, singing, over and over again at the top of her lungs, the chorus from some Fergie song. And the oldest daughter kept pulling the Oreo cookies out of reach from her younger sister in the cart, telling her that they would ‘ruin your dinner’.

The man looked frazzled, and I was glad no bridge was anywhere in the vicinity…for he surely would jumped without hesitation.

I turned to him and, in the spirit of understanding and empathy, said, “I imagine you have quite a few bottles of aspirin at home.”

He wearily looked at me and said, “eff you.”

‘Eff you?’ I thought.

‘Eff me?’

I was speechless…and besides, it was my turn to proceed up to the cashier. But what would the correct response have been other than paying for your groceries and leaving?

The whole thing bothered me, so as I pulled out of the parking lot, I called my friend Gwen.

After relating the story, she asked, “he just looked at you and said ‘eff you’ - as in f*** you?”

“I can't imagine what other 'F' word he would have been referring to,” I told her.

“That’s strange…the guy is probably deranged or something. And to say this around his kids? You did the right thing by just leaving.”

‘Yes,’ I thought. I did do the right thing. I’m the bigger man here.

But it still bothered me. And an hour later I called Gwen again.

“Should a deranged guy like this really be caring for children?” I asked her. “I mean, to say ‘eff you’ to a stranger at a grocery store really displays some antisocial tendencies, doesn’t it? Isn’t there some type of law against this sort of thing?”

Gwen sighed and said, “Look…you’re obsessing too much about this. Truthfully, you shouldn’t have said anything at all to him. Just forget about it, alright? It’s over. It’s done. Move on.”

‘Easy for her to say,’ I thought. She wasn’t told to ‘eff you’ while innocently waiting to pay for her groceries at the supermarket. What was happening to society when complete strangers were telling each other to ‘eff you’? The complete fabric of society dictated that people didn’t just randomly go around saying ‘eff you’ to other people. The world was clearly going to hell in a handbasket.

I called Gwen later that day to lament about the state of the world that we were living in.

“WILL YOU JUST SHUT UP ABOUT THIS ALREADY,” she told me. “You should have just minded your own business. Bottles of aspirin? It wasn’t even that funny. GET OVER IT!”

She clearly didn’t understand the male-bonding properties that exist in a simple bottle of aspirin. And what did she mean by ‘not funny’? The aspirin bottle remark was very funny, I thought. Is it my fault that my wry, observational humor was over her head?

I mulled over the incident all evening. Alright, so maybe the bottles of aspirin comment wasn’t that funny, but it’s not like I had a whole lot of time to come up with something better. Still, being told to ‘eff you’ seemed very harsh. I was merely sympathizing with the guy. Shouldn’t my compassion have been a welcomed relief?

Later, as I lay awake in bed, I was still thinking about the whole ordeal. ‘I imagine you have quite a few bottles of aspirin,’ I had said…to which he responded, ‘eff you’.

And then, in the slow-motion instant replay that was being broadcast in my brain, I noticed something that I had missed before. Wait a minute, I thought, rewinding and replaying the incident frame by frame in my mind. It wasn’t ‘eff you’ that he said, but ‘a few’.

Did he have bottles of aspirin at home? Of course he did…a few. He wasn’t some antisocial psychopath after all.

I sat up in bed and immediately called Gwen to let her know that all was right in the world.

She groggily answered the phone and I told her what I had just discovered.

“You see? There was nothing for me to worry about. I just misunderstood what the guy had said. Hey, I didn’t wake you up, did I?”

She was quiet for a moment, as if pondering my revelation. Then, in a small and groggy voice, I heard her response from the other end of the line.

"Eff you."

Paradise

Like any city, mine contains seemingly tranquil areas such as Sunshine Village, Holiday Park, and Canterbury Woods. Perfect places in which to put down roots. Housing developments that promise years of unbridled joy and tranquility.

Though when driving through these communities, you quickly realize that life in Holiday Park is really no holiday. And there is no more sunshine in Sunshine Village than there is anywhere else in the city. As for Canterbury Forest, I question whether a mere twenty trees that line the street can truly constitute a ‘forest’.

Of all the wondrous sounding community names, though, the most flagrant offender of false advertising has to be Paradise Estates. Located on the outskirts of the city, Paradise Estates houses identical rows of box-like, split level homes.

Granted, when I think of ‘paradise’ split level subdivisions aren’t the first thing that pop into my mind…but who am I to define what constitutes paradise? Perhaps in years past people had a more relaxed definition of the term, grading paradise on a curve. So that instead of sunsets over the bay and the sound of the waves crashing upon the beach, identical plots of miniature lawns passed for ‘paradise’.

Far be it from me to tell anybody that their version of paradise is suckier than mine. However, fast forwarding years into the future, Paradise Estates has fallen victim to neglect. Paradise is actually quite an overstatement at this point in time. Low-Expectation Estates would be a much more accurate term…though, I’m quite certain, most Realtors would disagree.

So Paradise remains where it has always been, bookended by the Dairy Queen on Route 286 and the vacant lot that used to be home to a K-Mart store.

The once finely manicured lawns are now overgrown with weeds. The squat split-level houses are still squat and split, but now sit with peeling paint, missing shutters, and sagging roofs.

And one can’t help but feel that life in paradise just isn’t what it used to be.