humans are funny

Category: life

  • News & history for aliens. Jurg.

    It’s much easier to appreciate how funny humans truly are if we try to explain our everyday goings on to those who don’t understand. Like aliens. If I had some aliens over for dinner and tried to explain human culture, they’d surely burst with laughter. Or just say, ‘jurrrrg.’ I don’t know.
    This is how I’d sum it all up:

    Jesus
    There once was a man who came to town and told everyone that his father lived in the sky and controlled the whole world. Some people didn’t believe him.
    Those people were persecuted then and even 2000 years later. Some of them escaped persecution and have become heads of Hollywood movie studios, but others are still really hated for collectively killing the son of the man in the sky thousands of years ago.

    Muhammed
    There are some people who worship a god. Nobody is allowed to draw this god even though they have no idea what he looks like because nobody who actually saw him ever drew him. It’s forbidden to even draw a fork or a wagon and say it’s this god. If you do, the worshippers will try to kill you.

    Abortion
    Sometimes, when a man makes a woman pregnant and she doesn’t want to be pregnant, a doctor takes a vacuum and sucks the baby out of her womb. In order to elect a president, the people of the United States need to know how the candidate feels about this vacuum.

    Media
    Certain things happen in the world. Humans need to know about it. We pay certain people a lot of money to get their hair styled to look like a brick and read about these events to a TV camera. Sometimes, they have nothing to report so they make up stories. Powerful people who don’t want anyone to know about their events persuade the people with brick hair to NOT talk about them. Also, there is competition among the people with brick hair, so they add details to their stories to sound better. And they love to use the word ‘exclusive.’

    Kim
    There is a man who rules a country called North Korea. He will not allow anyone to enter or exit his country. He doesn’t allow the people in his country to know anything about any other country even though there are 195 countries in the world. He does not even let them watch any people with brick hair. Instead, he shows them pictures of himself and tells everyone that he is the best.

    BP
    People use cars and trucks to move themselves around. But there are so many cars and trucks that the world is having a hard time keeping up with the demand for oil, which is what makes them run. Some oil companies decided to dig for oil in the middle of the ocean. And then everyone was really surprised when they spilled a lot of oil into the water.

    Lohan
    There is a girl who was in a few movies. None of them were that good or memorable. She put a lot of illegal and unhealthy chemicals in her body and got in trouble. Then, she put more illegal and unhealthy chemicals in her body and got in more trouble. She went to court and wrote ‘fuck you’ on her fingernail to insult the judge (‘fuck you’ is considered very rude.). Nobody knows why the people with the brick hair talk so much about this girl. But many people in the USA know more about this girl than all of the other things listed here.

    As is evident, Martha MacCallum reports on very significant issues of the day. She also carries one brick in her hair.

  • One Joke = Bye bye aliens

    Remember that time I bombed on stage at The Comedy Store?
    I’ve been scared to look at the tape (or whatever tapes are called these days, kiddos), very frightened to see my own face as it digests the fact that nobody’s laughing.

    I opened the file today (because it’s actually a file and not actually a tape).
    I have only been able to watch the first joke.
    And it’s not so bad. I fear the others, but the first one is not so bad.
    And some people are laughing! One person even clapped in agreement.
    Plus, the lighting is so good that you can’t see my adult acne.
    Score.
    Here it is. One joke. Like my granny always said, a joke a day keeps the aliens at bay.

  • The Paradox of Books About Paradoxes


    I hate choosing shampoo. Or toilet paper or rice or jeans. I’ll even wear the same crusty boots into the ground because I can’t stand the idea of picking out new ones. The thought of making decisions truly immobilizes me. And with more and more to choose from every day, capitalism is causing me to panic at the grocery store.

    This Pantene says it’s for normal hair, but mine is not really that normal. It’s more dry, but Suave for dry hair is too cheap to actually work and the bottle is pink. I hate pink. The Aussie shampoo smells good, but I don’t want to buy it because they’ll think their advertising is working and then they’ll make more of those horrible commercials that make me want to kill every kangaroo and hate every Australian. I should actually just stick to natural formulas. I’m gonna go Burt’s Bees. No, wait. I’m not paying thirteen dollars for that tiny tube of shampoo. Actually, I don’t even need to wash my hair. Forget it.

    The same thing happens with cars and apartments and men. Sometimes I choose out of exhaustion, sometimes I talk myself into the wrong thing, and sometimes I just close my eyes and pick, which has gotten me into some really damaging relationships. There’s a constant pros/cons list writing itself in my head along with a looming fear that I’ll miss out if I make a bad choice. If I go with the veggie omelet, I’ll forgo the french toast and the french toast might be better. If I choose Luigi from Chicago, then I’ll miss out when Javier from Buenos Aires comes along, and everyone knows he‘ll be better.

    And then there’s that whole job dilemma. In the sixties, women’s career choices were limited: Teacher, Nurse, or Secretary. Now, I could give manicures to dead people or bathe apes or run for president (ok, vice). Is it really that great that we have so many choices? Everyone I know seems to be wondering what to do with their lives.

    This topic interested me so much that I bought a book on it: The Paradox of Choice.
    I couldn’t wait to read it, but I put it on my shelf while I finished another. And that was five books ago. I still haven’t read it. And that’s because every time I saddle up to my bookshelf to pick out my next read, there are so many books from which to choose.

    I bet there are some really good insights in that book about how certain things are overlooked when there are too many options.

  • Let’s lighten up the mood in this bitch.

    If you saw me in the street these past two weeks, you would never have guessed that I had just been reliving that whole father situation over here. Because, while it was emotional to write, I felt so relieved about getting it all out there. So, thanks for reading and commenting and emailing and supporting me even though I veered off the humorous observation path. I appreciate that I have this world of strangers encouraging me. Even if there are only five of you.

    The ironic part is that all this dad stuff emerged because of my stand-up comedy class. I am trying to learn how to be funnier (which is funny in itself), and the openness I’m learning there moved me to write about dead dads for two whole weeks! Hilarious. In an aside here, I’d like to tell America that this is irony. Taking a comedy class that makes you more depressing is ironic. T-shirts, however, are not ironic. Stop using that word wrong. A T-shirt is only ironic if you sell your hair to buy one for your husband who has sold his torso to buy you a comb for your hair.

    But something amazing happened as I left those dad articles up for a week each. They were like statements nailed to my door if I had a door and lived back in the day when people nailed stuff to doors. All of a sudden, everybody knew. And that felt fucking awesome. Because for my whole life I’ve been shoving this stuff deep inside me. I felt it was something I shouldn’t talk about, something that made me abnormal and scarred and not good enough. I didn’t come from a perfect family and my dad story was a big black stain on my memory. My therapist (what, are you surprised?) told me not to talk about such private history until date six. And usually when I did, there’d be a blank look and an oh-I-feel-so-bad-for-you conversation.

    Barf. It’s just life. Gimme a break.

    But now it’s out there! And all five of you know about it. And it’s no secret. And telling everybody is so freeing. I’m on the offense instead of the defense. Now it feels more ‘this is me, so suck it’ rather than ‘oh, well, I guess I should tell you this because it’s time for us to be closer. Hope you still accept me.’

    So, my point is: Let’s tell our secrets. Let’s make secrets obsolete. I fucking hate secrets. I am so racist against secrets, it’s disgusting. I want to throw all secrets into a gas chamber. I’ve always loved Post Secret, and now I finally understand why all those crazy people send in their secrets. Because it feels fucking good. To let it out and let it go.

    So, you know, feel free to share some secrets here. Or not. You can always email them to me (salasala@gmail.com), and I will write about them.

    In turn, I will tell you a secret. Another one. A less depressing one. Ready? Here goes:

    I religiously read ‘Missed Connections’ on Craigslist. I do! I’m embarrassed each time I click on the link, but just what if? What if the guy I’m sitting next to at this here coffee shop with the scarf on is really not gay but European and happens to have made eye contact with me purposely instead of just because his friend was standing behind me? And maybe he would have totally asked for my number but looked at the clock and realized he was late to pick his grandmother up for their weekly tea. Oh, and I guess my other secret is that I am a hopeless romantic and am positive my movie ending will happen (much like it did in my friend’s book, which you should most definitely read. Uh, I spent Fourth of July in bed reading. Another secret: I’m lame.).

    Wait, maybe this is a depressing secret. Sigh.

    At least it’s all out there. I’m so in control now. I feel like a little bird.

    Now… let’s have some fun in this bitch.

  • Dead Dad Part 2: acceptance, leftovers, and magic wands


    This week was shocking. So many friends and strangers and bloggers and dads reached out to me to let me know how much they related to my Fathers Day tribute. Or how much they cried. Or how much it made them feel (It’s here if you haven’t seen it).
    And hearing all this is really the most wonderful thing to hear. Knowing that my words have moved someone to tears is astounding. And unreal. And feels so fucking good. That’s really my life’s goal– to make people feel something.

    But I have a confession to make. I feel an obligation to tell you that that post took me 14 years to write. Not literally. I wasn’t sitting at a desk for fourteen years with a pen poised over paper. Then you would have probably never met me, and I would either be really fat or malnourished. But writing that piece required that I accept everything about my dad, which took a while. Accepting everything about someone is like inviting everyone on the entire street to your party. And being okay with the homeless people who show up and raid your vegetable crisper. You have to truly accept things that you may not like. Or things that scare you. And the hardest part is that you have to admit to yourself that your way is not the only way. TOUGH stuff. For me, it’s easier with dead people. I have yet to accept any boyfriend without requesting minor changes in personality and character. Yes, honey, I swear I love you but really you should be more motivated and also like the things I like.

    Parents are even harder to accept. You have an idea of who you want them to be, and when they don’t turn out like that, you have to just swallow it. I didn’t imagine my dad would be gay. But I accepted it. And just when things were cool, he up and committed suicide. Great. Hadn’t imagined that either.
    I gotta hand it to him– the man was an ace at surprises.

    When someone commits suicide, your entire perception of him is stained. Every good memory is accompanied by flashes of death or guilt or panic. For a long time, I would see a size 15 New Balance sneaker, and I would remember my father. And I would smile. And then immediately my brain’s channel would flip to him dead on his bed waiting for someone to find him. And then I’d undoubtedly remember his neighbor saying that he only knew my father was upstairs decomposing after he’d cleaned out his refrigerator and realized that the horrible odor was indeed not Korean leftovers. Yep, my decomposing father smelled like old kimchi.
    It’s gross. And perhaps horrifying. So I was positive those good memories were stained forever.
    I thought his goodness was gone. I thought I could never get the good back without a slap in the face with the bad.

    And then 14 years went by.
    And it’s finally happened. I’m at the point where I can imagine his brown slippers and see only 3-year-old me pretending they were boats. And then smile. And then move on.
    Only now can I listen to tapes of him playing the piano and simply remember his long fingers and how they swept across the keys like magic wands.

    14 years is so long. So so long. It could have been sooner. All I had to do was make the choice.
    But it’s hard to make that choice when you don’t understand there’s a choice to be made.
    My dad had a choice. He had life right there asking him to decide. He could have said ‘This is hard, but I’m learning how to get through it.’ Instead he said, ‘This sucks. I’m outtee.’

    Life’s all about those decisions. I have been choosing for years to say, ‘I grew up with a dead dad. That sucks. Whatever. I’m not going to think about it.’ And now I’m finally choosing to say, ‘This gives me a different perspective, and I’m going to learn what I can.’

    Once I made that decision, things became clearer. I figured out that my pops was just a man. Like any other man. He had problems and fears and traumas and delights. And he spent his life winging it. Just like all of us do. We’re guessing right now. And that’s all we can do. In 1996, he felt hopeless and helpless. And he guessed wrong. He made the only kind of mistake from which he couldn’t learn. Before, I used to wonder what he was thinking in those minutes before death, completely conscious about his decision and his imminent demise. Did he think about me? Did it take long? Was he gasping for air? Was he thrashing around? Did he change his mind? Did he regret it? Did he regret anything? Did he wonder if he’d left the iron on? Did he know he’d end up smelling like Korean leftovers?

    I’ll never know. But I have finally decided that I don’t need to know. I know that he was great when he was great. And I don’t need to spend any more time asking questions I can’t answer. Questions nobody can answer.
    I have chosen to finally move on. To finally forgive this man and see him as just that: A man. A man who made a mistake. A man who would undoubtedly take back that mistake. A man who would be here with me right now if he could.

    That’s why that tribute was so important to me. And that it means so much that other people got something from my years of work. 14 years in the making. 14 years to this moment where I can finally see our picture together and remember only the man whose feet I climbed onto. The guy who would dance me around the living room. That was my dad. That guy. That’s the guy I miss. That’s the guy who made everyone feel. Thanks again, Pops. You’re still teaching me lessons every day.

    Now… on to the difficult task of accepting the people who are alive.

    Me: Dad, I can’t believe you let Mom cut my hair this short. It’s hideous.
    Dad: You look fine. I’m the one with this horrible beard. It really itches.
    Me: Your beard is great. And those glasses. Just wait til 2010, and you’ll fit in with the hipsters in LA.
    Dad: Nah, I think I’ll head out in 1996 instead.
    Me: All righty then. It’s been fun. I shall remember this time we had together. Peace out.