Politics, jokes and ideas, oh my! (Cries from the Peanut Gallery DTH opinion column)

What's in a joke? An obligatory Shakespeare reference with any other noun would be just as cliche, overused and meaningless.

Dead linguistic tropes aside, it's still a good question. Humor is ubiquitous, and what with identity politics, bigotry and whatnot, it can get heated. We use "joke" to refer to anything and everything that might produce laughter or polite chuckles, so contents may vary -- but we can pick out the basics.

1. The punch line is where the funny is, whether it's intentional, bloody, accidental or just really not that funny when you finally say it aloud.

2. The setup creates the proper conditions for the funny, but -- and this is key -- the setup is not funny. The "funny," as such, is entirely exterior to the setup.

3. The last major feature of a joke is what we call "the butt." Not every joke has a butt, not all butts are created equal and it's not always clear what is or isn't actually a butt in particular circumstances, but let's put that on the back burner for a moment.

Bigger question: What do jokes do? Are they just meaningless, self-gratifying ends unto themselves, like masturbation or poetry? Self-deployed instruments of ideology for expressing and enforcing cultural mores? Crude interpersonal devices for forming self-contained social groups, marking boundaries of inclusion and exclusion with odd sociological phenomena we might call "inside jokes"?

Or maybe they're just defense mechanisms for coping with the low-budget Adam Sandler film we call human existence -- what's the point? They're all of these things at one point or another, but there's more.

Jokes are made up of information -- messages of a sort, made graspable by the easy, silly format that tells you how to deliver and receive the information. We laugh if the info meets expectations (Ralphie in second period is a sissy), and we laugh if it's new to us (a truck driver in Utah ate a badger).

If you can avoid being creepy, try watching elementary school kids at play -- human interaction rarely gets more elemental and uninhibited (even keggers have more normative social constraints).

Let's face it: Kids aren't given much help in the way of understanding the world. Parents help and kids ask questions, but there's only so much time in the day -- and the world is a fairly complex place (I'm still getting the hang of herbology myself). Jokes are the tools through which kids, (and everybody else), build an understanding of the world. It lets us play with the signifiers that make up our society, throwing them around and trying them on, breaking them down from every angle.

This can go wrong, of course, and in any given humor-producing social bubble, the lack of certain key concepts can skew or stunt the growth of the whole. Case in point: sheltered bigotry, etc.

But the solution here, then, is not to limit or censor humor. What you do -- the only practical, effective thing you *can* do -- is write some jokes and add to the discussion.


http://www.dailytarheel.com/article/2013/11/politics-jokes-and-ideas-oh-my

Violence: how does it work? Also cats (Cries from the Peanut Gallery DTH Opinion column)

I used to live with a cat.

His name is Simba, but I called him Cat for simplicity's sake. That was the role he played in my life, so it seemed silly to call him anything else.

Our relationship was mostly a healthy one. I'd pet him, he'd paw me in the face -- it wasn't my job to feed him or clean his poop-box, so to me he was just a furry, naked roommate who rubbed his butt on the couch and wasn't allowed to leave the house.

But life gets crazy and tense, and cats get annoying.

Sometimes it'd start with biting or clawing me as I waved colorful things in his face -- he was just playing, and I knew that -- but before I knew what was happening, I'd smacked him upside the head.

And sometimes I didn't even need that much provocation. Sleep deprivation and high levels of stress mean low pain tolerance and jumpy as hell. There were mornings when all it would take for me to fly off the handle was the slightest interruption.

He'd jump and tap me on the back like a toddler starting a game of tag and I'd hurl the closest notebook at him. He'd approach me, all of a sudden asking for attention, and instantly I'd retaliate -- pushing him away or gesturing violently until he'd leave me alone.

It's easy to dismiss -- he was never visibly injured or obviously afraid of me, but I knew I was doing something both wrong and irrational. And after hitting him, I'd immediately regret it.

Of course honest remorse doesn't excuse abusing another living, feeling animal. And earnestly repenting didn't stop me from doing it again.

But why? In no other situation am I anything that could be considered an angry or aggressive person. With Cat, however, I'd lash out without provocation or restraint.

Why? Because I can. I'm allowed to. Because my brain must know without my conscious go-ahead that there is nothing and no one to stop me.

I respect Cat as a fellow creature, equal to me in abstract terms; I even feel love for him; but I know he is weak, wholly in my power, a cuddly whipping boy on which to take out my momentary rage. I like play time with Cat, but this is not play time. Like the domineering older brother, I alone decide when it's play time.

That is a problem. I'm working through it, but let's leave my personal character out of the question for now. I might just be deflecting, but what's more concerning to me is what this implies about violence in general.

I can't help but wonder how this particular power dynamic must be replicated elsewhere. How much violence between siblings, spouses and nations must arise simply from this sense of control, this sense that one can act without fear of retribution?



http://www.dailytarheel.com/article/2013/10/violence-how-does-it-work-also-cats