On Near-Death Humour

How long do you have to wait to make a joke?  There were a few events today that made quite a splash in the news puddle:

Michael Jackson

Michael Jackson died today.  Rumour has it that his funeral will involve a coffin being dangled and dropped from a high balcony.

Farrah Fawcett

Farrah Fawcett also died today.  Her long time partner, who kept a bedside vigil until she died, released this comment to the media: “I was with her the whole time, and just before she died, she turned to me, tears streaming down her face, and said ‘I love you’.  And as I brushed away her tears, I realised that this was one leaky Fawcett that wouldn’t be fixed.”

Jeff Goldblum

There were also unsubstantiated rumours of Jeff Goldblum’s death.  Interestingly, there wasn’t much of a public outpouring of grief towards him – perhaps it’s time for Jeff to get another PR manager?

Now, the question is, are these jokes acceptable?  I would expect that if I asked someone that question today, on the day of these people’s deaths, the answer would be no.  What about next week?  Maybe.  In a few months, in a few years?  A few years down the track, I can’t imagine these jokes being unacceptable at all.

This of course raises another question – what process is involved here, that makes a joke acceptable after a certain amount of time?  How long until we can laugh about more important issues?  Pick any event in distant history, and most people would have no problem with a joke about it, but make fun of the recent past, such as the Holocaust and, well…you can imagine what would happen.  (And trust me when I say I have a really good joke about it too, but won’t be posting it here anytime soon.)

There is an old adage, “time heals all wounds.”  Apart from the tautology of the term “old adage” (as it’s not an adage unless it’s been in use for some time), the sentiment seems to be relevant here.  And it is the sentiment we must examine, because as a form of medical advice it’s liable to bring many a malpractice suit.  (There was a movement in the 70’s of a new type of medicine in Australia, known as the “yeah mate, she’ll be right” school.  It didn’t last very long.)

But what healing is time accomplishing?  Grief, as most would agree, lessens with time.  It never goes away, but it does fade into the background.  Is it the grief that makes the humour offensive, the level of offence reducing in step with the grief?  Exactly who is offended?  Is it the recently widowed person, or their relatives?  Any joke made about the deceased to the widow would likely upset them I think, not necessarily because there was humour invovled, but because of the mention of the departed.  Or is it the relatives, hovering around, trying to protect the widow, discarding any remark that doesn’t fit in with the “you must be completely serious” attitude that western society has to death.  Or is it that you’re not allowed to disrespect the memory of the person who just died?

I don’t know where the problem lies – maybe it is a combination of all of the above – but this eradication of humour around death is not what I want when I finally pass on.  In the next few years I plan to write my funeral, or parts of it at least.  Example: as the coffin rolls behind those curtains to be cremated, I shall request to have “Oh my god, it burns, it burns!!” played over the speakers.  Grief is bad enough, let alone eliminating all the fun in it.

I just thought of another joke!  If you don’t like jokes of an offensive nature, best to stop reading now.

Rumour has it that Michael Jackson specifically requested for bubbles to be blown at his funeral, in much the same fashion that rice is thrown at a wedding.  A spokesman from Greenpeace released the following statement a few hours ago: “In light of these recent events, Greenpeace is doing everything it can to stop this horrid act from occurring – we will not rest until we have the full assurance of Jackson’s estate that no acts of bestiality will be performed on his pet chimpanzee during the funeral.”

On a side note, I see Ruben Guthrie tomorrow.

Fog of Life

I was struggling to find something to write about today.  A theme, a topic, an idea – I had none of these.  And then, Sunday night being the capitalised Garbage Night in my neighbourhood, I went to put the bins out on the street.  It’s usually cold in June, and this year was no exception.  As I walked out, with the bin trundling along behind me, the hypnotic thump-thump of the wheels over the stencilled driveway piercing through the silent night, I noticed my breath misting in the air, misting in whorls and swirls and twisting and turning until melding into the dark as quickly as it had come into existence.

I was addicted.

Out I breathed, exhaling again and again, my inhalations short and sharp, followed by a long outpouring of gas, the dotted rhythm like a grand waltz, the dancers microscopic particles that flew around me.  In then out, out some more, and pause, then in and out again, out once more…  And so it went on.

The Mist

I looked down the street, along the damp road, its surface glistening from the streetlamps above, their light restricted to tight spheres around the globes, the oppressive night surrendering no ground to these electrified upstarts.  The fog, the mist, the gloom – it was thick tonight – heavy, weighing on my soul like an elephant would weigh on a set of bathroom scales.  And the light seemed as out of place as an elephant in a bathroom, but not the sound.  The silence was overwhelming.  Not a real silence, not a complete lack of noise – there were sounds of the trucks, with their caffeinated drivers, barrelling down the main road less than a kilometre away – what is from a close location a loud and terrible noise becomes, from a more distant viewpoint, a soothing lullaby, the muffled pistons rocking you to rest.

I couldn’t see all the way down the street – the fog was too thick.  But I knew there were other lights down that way, other lights behind me as well.  Walking out into the middle of the road provided no help.  As the mist emerged from my mouth once more, I wondered about life, and how it was similar to what I was experiencing at this very moment.  Just like the mist from my lungs was a microcosm of a great ball, so was this street a metaphor for life.  We all find ourselves in a fog, some thicker than others, but all of us not being able to see the whole distance down the road.  Some of us can’t even see the footpath – only the lights, the lights that struggle valiantly against the void, the nothingness that the darkness grows.  To move further down the street is risky, but staying has its own risks.

What if the light you were huddled under was extinguished?  What if you didn’t want to spend the rest of your life under that particular light?  How can you know when to move from one light to another?  What about those areas of fog that are so thick that it is impossible for you to walk from one glowing beacon to another without stepping, even momentarily, into the void?  That leap of faith, the leap to not just the unknown but also the unknowable.  Will you be swallowed up by the darkness, or will you emerge on the other side into the welcoming light of the next beacon?

Perhaps that is why we die – we no longer have the physical strength or the mental will to take on these light-gaps, these constant challenges, these evergreen leaps.  Either we stay where we know it is safe for the moment, and slowly perish, or we venture out to the next stop on our journey but never quite reach it.  One wonders whether the interesting parts of life happen at the lights, or whether they happen at the parts in between.

A question I don’t know the answer to, and that I have no more time to ponder – it’s bloody freezing out here!

Sydney Under Attack

Brian Eno is trying to kill a large majority of Sydney’s population.

Brian Peter George St. John le Baptiste de la Salle Eno - it is rumoured that 10% of his will is set aside to cover the cost of his tombstone.

This is ridiculous, you say.  But it is not!  Currently in Sydney is an event called Luminous, curated by Brian Eno, and one of his major contributions to the event is an installation entitled 77 Million Paintings.  I went there this afternoon, and what I found…you’ll have to excuse me – the memories of it are so painful that it is hard to relive them.  I’ll be okay in a moment.

I shall start at the two-thirds point.  Only joking – I’ll start at the beginning (usually the best course of action unless you’re at a busy putt-putt golf course).  The scene?  Sydney Opera House:

The observant reader will notice that the Opera House's sails have been lit up by a projector - either that or God is bleeding.

For the duration of Luminous, the Opera House sails will be lit up every night – possibly for artistic purposes, possibly to cover up the fact that the sails are long due for a coat of paint (or a good clean).  Inside the Opera House, in The Studio, 77 Million Paintings lies in wait for unsuspecting members of the general public to make their way into the darkened room – completely silent except for the ambient noise that the installation generates.  Like an angry bear in a pitch-black cavern (but with usher-bears as well).  This is what was inside:

Are you as terrified as I am?  As I was?  You should be.  “Oh, it’s harmless,” you may say.  Do not be fooled!  The greatest of evils will often be disguised as the greatest beauty.  There is only one word to describe this monstrosity – hypnotic.  Hypnotic.

HYPNOTIC.

Can you see yet?  Can you see how evil this installation is?  Can you deduce Eno’s evil plot?  No?  Never mind, that is what I’m here for – to teach those of you who aren’t blessed with my conspiratorial abilities what the truth is in this world.  I can see cleary what Eno intends to do – kill everyone who visits 77 Million Paintings.  I sat in front of that monstrosity for an hour.  One entire hour.  It was only through my supreme willpower that I was able to tear myself away from it, to flee from the room, to escape the fate that Eno intended.  I left many others behind.  Let us not let their deaths be in vain.

Those poor fools were glued to their seats, watching the ever changing artwork – their bodies perfectly still, their eyes unblinking, their minds switched off.  Blinking became a conscious action for me, an action I had to struggle to perform.  And what do many hours of no movement in a seated position produce?  Deep Vein Thrombosis – DVT.  A blood clot in a vein, that can and most likely will travel to your heart, thus causing a heart attack, thus ending a person’s life.

Thus exposing Brian Eno’s malevolent mechanism for murdering the masses.  (And my abundant alliteration.)

I do not know if I have the strength of character to endure going back into that den of deceit, that cave of cardiac arrest, that studio of sin.  But I’m sure that some of you do.  I plead with you to visit this horror, to try and save others who are stuck there, doomed to watch the ever-changing, never-repeating (within 450 years), paintings in front of them.  The strong must help the weak.  But be careful – this work has power beyond your expectations, so go in prepared.  Perhaps with some type of very strong sunglasses or other protective eye equipment.  And hurry before it is too late, before the DVT eliminates everyone, before Brian Eno, artistic anarchist, completes his plan.

It is very pretty, though.  If it wasn’t so dangerous, I’d be recommending it to everyone.