The Expectation of Humor

This is something that I’ve thought about in the past, and something brought it up again for me today. I’ve been on a number of panels at comic conventions, and occasionally it will be at a smaller con with a “fan favorite” cartoonist sitting in.

At these panels, I’m nobody, brought on board for regional flavor. Most of the audience hasn’t heard of my work or my partnership with Scott, and they may only be vaguely aware of PvP. However, they’re completely head-over-heels for one of the other artists on the panel, whom they’re here to see.

We say funny things on panels. This is typical. But it’s in these scenarios where I will say something that gets a laugh with my readers, and it barely gets a pfft from that audience. Meanwhile, anything said by the other artist is guffawed at, declared a gem and hoisted onto the crowd’s shoulders.

I’m not talking about making a reference to something in Starslip — of course no one would get that. I mean a broad-spectrum gag, something you might hear on a podcast or Affirmation. You don’t have to know my work to laugh at that stuff. You just have to know I’m kidding.

There is something beyond just being funny that is required to actually be funny, and that’s familiarity, acceptance. Just like you can’t run up and tell dirty jokes to the boss on your first day of work, there is a handshake process that has to take place. What kind of person is the person trying to make you laugh right now? Would I like their work? Do they seem like they’re trying too hard to get a laugh or applause? (That is an instant mood-killer on a panel, one of those “Is everybody happy?!” kind of lines.)

I also think this enforcement of expectation is the reason why, largely, women comedians aren’t viewed as funny as men. I’m talking about stand-up in particular — accepting stand-up comedy, or any comedy, from someone you may have pigeonholed socially or culturally is tough.

Provided that I haven’t just offended you, consider the following: a guy walks into a room and his pants drop. Funny. (Not really, but kind of.) A woman walks into a room and her pants drop. There is an instant undercurrent of sexuality that has to be hurdled to accept this event as only funny — it doesn’t exist nearly as strongly in the scenario with the man. It’s kind of the way male newscasters can look like anything — from leading-man types to those with “interesting” faces to downright unattractive — while the women newscasters, young or old, have this standard of appearance they have to adhere to to get hired in the first place. We expect that, as a society. (Sadly.)

Granted I’m writing from a male viewpoint, and maybe, since our hypothetical pants-drop scene was probably filmed by a man, it was shot in service to that viewpoint (Google “the male gaze” in cinematography), but I think there’s a similar process of acceptance there for everyone. I had a friend in high school who would alienate new people he met very quickly because he poured on the jokes from the first second he met them. He would always tell me, “oh, they know I was kidding.” But they didn’t, and they avoided him, so the jokes were off-putting rather than familiarity-building. We end up questioning why the joke is being made. Am I supposed to think it’s funny the girl’s skirt ripped off, or am I supposed to ogle her legs? Am I supposed to laugh at this new guy’s jokes, or am I interpreting it as desperation for acceptance?

Keep that in mind for when I drop my pants at San Diego Comic-Con.

See ya later.

Halfpixel Babies 1

Happy Thanksgiving from the Halfpixel Babies

What shifted in society so much…

… that we’re supposed to be rooting for the guy on the right? I’m a Mac convert, but that guy looks like he lives on a stained mattress in the alley behind Circuit City. “I like your daughter a lot, Mr. Straub. We’re going to Arby’s for the five-for-$5 Beef ‘N Cheddar deal, then we’ll try to smoke banana peels in my ‘74 Astrovan with the tinted star window above the right rear wheel.”

It’s not so much that he’s not wearing a suit, because that changed a while back. He’s just kind of inexplicably milquetoast in the commercials. He’s a little street to appeal to youth markets, but not street enough to tell PC to get lost and quit coming around. He needs to be asking, “Why am I not working at a record store or hip design firm? All I do is hang out with some old guy in a featureless white room. What’s wrong with me?”

I appreciate what Apple is doing. They’re being coy about the fact that Vista is a steaming load that faked some of the gloss of OS X, but didn’t do anything beyond clog up MS-DOS, their crowning achievement, with more nonsense. But having seen both Leopard and Vista, I think Apple needs to get a little dirtier about it.

There is, at this point, no reason to buy a PC anymore, and that includes gaming. You can boot to XP native on your Mac with Boot Camp with no slowdown. (Granted, the iMac wasn’t made for gaming, but you can put whatever card you want in a tower.)

He has a girlfriend you see

Indier

Techdragon War, Chapter 15: Torture of the Dark Wandering Heartspirit

Zillian Matrude studied the stars carefully, her eyes full of tears and wonderment, trembling beneath the inverted globe of the galaxy’s mane, passion and fire still sparking as vibrant embers within a dark and sheltered soul. Her soul was a castle, her heart the empty throne, her flesh a moat filled with sorrow and pain. “Tyrgon,” she whispered delicately into the wind, as if uttering his name would return him from the Psycho-Wars on Chivanon VI to these blossom-dotted shores.

It never did.

Zillian poured another flagon of Quellious Flame Stout and turned once more to the stars above. She began to pray in the tradition of the Zeldbar Cavernwatchers. “Goddessmoon, Keeper of the Dusky Spiritsoul, Secret of the Last Petal, darkness and shadow, moonlily, Birthmage of the Faerie Ghost, hear my prayer. Shantanna bonzanna, chocassa mobassa, cordonza labonza. Enchant my heart’s wings in spirit’s fire until dark moon brings flame into my star’s mystic eye! Borzigjones!!”

The incantation complete, she drank deeply of the night air before retiring to her bedchamber. What a long day, she thought to herself, undoing the cinches on her techcorset. And she still had to worry about the Horkovo Tower-Blessing Ceremony tomorrow. Oh, what to do, what to do? she wondered. There was too much to worry about as she slinked out of her Caprizian Stardress, allowing her bosom to fall gently out of her techbrassiere.

Suddenly the space door flew open. She gasped and clasped her private areas, only to see it was… Tyrgon. “Oh, my one love,” she cried with the intensity of the Astra Pixies’ mating song of Cartellus III.

“I’ve returned for you, my love,” Tyrgon said in a rich, sonorous voice, deeper than Zillian remembered.

“But… at a price.”

He opened his shirt slowly to reveal The Zandoran Mark Of The Fleshcurse Of The Sintamarriamium Ancient Soul. Zillian’s scream was eternal.

Heroes Season 3, Episode 1

Warning: The following contains spoilers for Seasons 1 and 2.

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Daily Vidfirmation 4…

Techdragonwar, Chapter 12: A Magic Teardrop Where Souls Dare to Cry

Starlode’s wings kissed the star-dappled heavens as twilight shuttered its auburn beams and made way for dark. “Slow down, Varkonia!” she cried, casting a quickness spell on herself. Varkonia’s latest acquisition, a full new suit of Fenoran armor, was about to receive a proper shakedown. “Just putting this thing through its paces,” replied Varkonia via telethought crystal.

“Let’s see what this baby can do.”

Space and color exploded into a marvel of sensation, and Varkonia felt as though she were lovers with time itself. “This armor is incredible,” cried Varkonia, alive with adrenaline and a fiery passion and zest for life. “With all this power, I feel as though I’m straddling a star.”

Starlode gasped. Was she always this candid? “There’s a lot I don’t know about you, Varkonia Iceblade, Heart of the Moonqueen,” said Starlode wryly.
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