A Merry Heart Doeth Good Like a Medicine...

You know I couldn't read a serious article without wanting to inject some humor into it. So here goes ...

I finished reading an article titled "Is Laughter the Best Medicine or Any Medicine at All?" that was presented to the annual meeting of the Western Psychological Association. You can read it for yourself if you want at http://www.psichi.org/pubs/articles/article_81.asp

The author attempts to clarify the relationship between health and laughter, if there is one, particularly in response to a mythology that has evolved based on the 1960's experiences of Norman Cousins. Cousins had a serious illness and he found some relief in a wide range of positive emotions, including laughter. Apparently, some of what Cousin said about the therapeutic effect of humor, creativity, confidence, etc. has been distorted, giving some people the idea that Cousins laughed his way to a cure of a serious illness which was not the case.

What was most interesting to me in this article were the various attempts to operationally define terms such as humor trait vs. humor state, laughter, mirth, etc. Also, there was a mention in the article of several "humor tests" used to measure whatever it is that humor actually is. The tests included the Sense of Humor Questionnaire that includes subscales such as Habitual Sensitivity to Humorous Messages and Habitual Tendency to Permit or Suppress Emotional Impulses of Joy. Then, there is the Trait Cheerfulness Inventory and the Coping Humor Scale.

Amazingly ...

the author didn't find it necessary to define laughter as she felt that one either laughs or doesn't laugh. However, I disagree. So, of course, I decided to operationally define laughter for myself.

Disconcerting Lines of Development resulting in Lactose Expulsion via the Olfactory Orifice:

blowing milk out of your nose caused by an unanticipated burst of laughter.

Post-Learned-Autonomic-Response Spasms of the Diaphragm: hiccups after an intense bout of laughter.

Short-term Stoppage of Spasms due to Asphyxiation: laughing so hard you can't breathe.

Spastic Disposition Resulting in Descent of Fleshy Protuberance: laughing my ass off.

I will continue my own less-than-serious empirical investigations and hope to share a few more definitions. I'm also hopeful of designing a test or two to measure laughter. It should be the equivalent of a sobriety test except that you are forbidden to leave your house if you don't fail the test.

In the interest of furthering research, I hope you will share as well.

A Bailout, Charlie-Style

Speaking of bailouts, such a conversation was taking place in Twisted Roots between a local boy and Ted who owned Terry's Trading Corner.



“Well, no, it’s not that I mind paying," the young man said as he adjusted his John Deere cap. "But, damn it Ted, I think you should have told me how much these repairs was going to cost me before you went and fixed my car without an okay or something.”

Charlie had been taking in this conversation while he filled the tank of his cream-colored Cadillac. Charlie screwed the gas cap back on and, with his monogrammed hankerchief, he wiped a drop of gas from the chrome strip. As he walked toward Ted and the young man, he took out his comb and ran it through his jet black hair.

“I'm not a lawyer, but I think you could get arrested for that." Charlie's words startled Ted who hadn't heard Charlie's footsteps. "You didn’t even give this man an estimate?”

“I don’t mind really," said the young man. "But I ain’t got enough money. I’m coming up short. Ted won’t give me my car keys ‘til I pay the whole bill.”

“Well, you should mind, son, cause this man has taken advantage of you being young and all.” Charlie continued, “How many mechanics have you had to deal with in your lifetime?”

“Just Ted. My daddy did business with Ted. So I started coming here. Been coming here ever since. My daddy said Ted is the kind of mechanic you can trust. Ain’t many of them. My daddy said most these mechanical types might would tell you all kinds of lies. But not Ted.”

Charlie turned and looked down at Ted. He stared Ted right in the eyes while he slowly shook his head from side to side. Ted looked away, then looked back a couple times as if he was about to say something but had changed his mind. He was a scrawny, dirty man, and he was feeling might scrawny right about now. Charlie was rocking back and forth in his Wingtips still staring at Ted.

Ted looked down at the ground where his foot was grinding a cigarette butt to smitherines. “Well, in memory of your daddy and all, if you could just give me what you got today, we will just call it even.”

Charlie raised his head back with even more indignation, looking even taller. “Ted, you know damn well when the meat processing plant pays out. You do work there, don't you boy? Figured you did. So, this boy is going to need a little money left to tide him over ‘til then.”

By the time Charlie had finished with Ted, the bill had been cut by about a third and the boy paid half of that today with the promise of paying the rest next week. Then they all left Terry’s Trading Corner...Ted's tow truck, Charlie's Cadillac, and a quieter 1983 Grand Prix that had finally got a new muffler.

I Need a Bailout

I need a bailout. I have been neglectful of my responsibilities to my fictional characters, greedy in the use of my time, wasteful in my keystrokes, and just another typical lazy American thinking I can get by on my arrogant attitude and pollyanna optimism.

It is so much harder not to write than to write. It is so much more effort to flog myself for not writing than it is just to sit down and write. I need a bailout. I need someone to pick up my lazy wrists, flop them on a keyboard, and bring my neglected characters back to life.

I took a look at Charlie today. I realize you don't know him, but you could when his story is published, assuming I ever finish it.

Charlie has dark, oily hair and very long legs and arms. When he sits in one of the barber chairs and stretches his legs, his feet are clear over on the other side of his shop. He puts his hands behind his head to take a little snooze and his elbows nearly graze the yellow ceiling tiles that are stained by years of his ever-present cigar.

Charlie learned his trade at Bethel Estate, otherwise known as State Prison in Bethel. He secretly enjoyed sculpturing stubborn nappy hair into billboards for gang signs and coaxing thin strands of blonde static electricity to lie down with their brethren. The aroma of hair and shaving products and the glistening shine of scissors and razors tickled his delicate senses. Cutting hair was a reprieve (we dare not say “escape”); it was a time-out from the smell of urine-stained beige and starched blues. It was a place where men could laugh and joke with each other, sometimes even directing their jokes at the ever-present eyes standing a few feet away. But Charlie’s pleasures were hidden, restrained behind the boyish face, and masked by his best attempt to look stern and worldly in order to survive in a stern and other-worldly environment.

By the time, Charlie arrived at Twisted Roots, many years after learning his trade, the stern and worldly countenance would be a constant veneer. Deprivation of love would starve his full face, smiles would be rationed to only a few, and his olive skin would yellow and sag from the weight of sins unforgiving and nearly as many unpunished.

It was from his careful observations of people that Charlie learned to fit into the town’s population as if he had been there all his life. For some of the younger folk, it seemed as if Charlie had always been there, perhaps conceived from some anonymous donor and immediately full-grown.

Charlie has an important role to play in the strange town of Twisted Roots. Regrettably, no one may ever know about his contributions and retributions if his story is never finished.

Please support my cause. Please, please support the Filed and Forgotten Universal Character Keeper (FFUCK) Act and give me the bailout, however undeserved. Thank you, and once again, God Bless America!