canned laughter

After the last post about the lonely sound of canned laughter, let's try to restore some emotional balance with a recycled piece from November, 30, 2007. (Note: I don't get the reference to "The War at Home," nor do I recall ever watching it.)

This morning, I was draining the office kitchen's coffeemaker of all its precious hot water to make my oatmeal, as I do every morning. I usually allocate a broad range of time to do this, which is directly related to the fact that I usually allocate a broad range of time to get to work, which is somewhat related to the fact that I usually allocate a broad range of time to get out of bed. Let's just end the causal chain there.

Regardless of when I'm depleting the coffee water for my own oatey needs, there's pretty much the same cast of characters coming through the kitchen. They're friendly, but it is odd that most of them only know me in relation to instant oatmeal, resulting in exchanges like this:

"Hey, oatmeal eater."

"Hey, fascist roundeye lawyer whore."

Now, unfortunately, of course, I did not call this woman a fascist roundeye lawyer whore. For one thing, I think she's actually a paralegal, and for another, I have no idea what her political leanings are. I am also not certain whether she will exchange money for sex as a going business concern, and I have no interest in finding out, especially if she's a fascist.

More importantly, she's actually a very nice person, at least in the context of sub-two-minute kitchen conversation. But, the response flashed in my head only as a bleed-through from some alternate universe where my life is, indeed, a sitcom, though hopefully a better one, i.e., with no laugh track, featuring a racially diverse cast, and not airing on CBS.

Maybe it's from a childhood of talking to the television more than people, but the most innocent or banal comment can trigger a scene, with dialogue, that will just run concurrent with the one actually playing out. For example, this morning, after I was called an "oatmeal eater", which I know only sounds like some sort of bizarre racial epithet, my actual response was:

"Yeah, heh, heh. Oatmeal. Hot. Uhh... Yum."

I could have at least come back with my impressive Wilford Brimley imitation, but I didn't, because I was too busy watching the other scene, which clearly tested better, unfold in my head.

It's not simply a matter of trying to be funny. I really think things should play out differently. Oftentimes, I'm so disappointed by the lack of comedy or set-up in someone's response that I want to go back and reshoot... err... replay, the whole scene, with me rewriting the whole thing, kind of like watching "The War at Home", except you don't want all the characters to die excruciatingly lengthy and painful deaths.

In most cases, I would prefer to read the other person's lines, too, because I know how they should be delivered. But then, I believe this is how people get labeled "socially incompetent" and/or "batshit crazy." I also fear that it would show a lack of solidarity with striking screenwriters. So, I just keep my mouth shut, hope she can't hear the audience in my head, and eat my oatmeal.

Mmm... oatmeal. It's good, and good for ya.