Funny

I'm funny. Just now, I said something, and my boyfriend totally laughed. I don't say this to be arrogant, or to, as the kids say, throw down so that now those of you out there who disagree can bring it. In fact, I don't really like people to tell me that they're funny at all. The new gal at work said to me, after pronouncing the word situation as sitchyation, "You know, I have a pretty dark and dry sense of humor." But the thing is, if you really do have that kind of humor, I'm pretty sure you lose all dry and dark street cred by drawing attention to it.

Last week, I received an email from a guy in my writing group. "Your writing is quite entertaining," he said, "and I'm looking forwarded to meeting with you." I joined this group back a couple weeks ago because I feel I'm at a place with two of the projects that I'm working on where it wouldn't hurt to have a little structure and critiquing. This group I found was just starting out, and I figured it would be best to get in on the ground floor, you know?

You totally didn't know, did you. And those of you who did know, knew better and didn't bother to tell me. Anyway, the first meeting of this group was long on introductions and short on any real talk of writing -- unless you count the one old guy who went through the entire list of publications who rejected him. "Then, back in 19-and-25 I received a very pleasant rejection notice from a little magazine just starting up called The New Yorker..." There were over 15 of us cramped into a corner of Panera on a Saturday, and there was already one South American gentleman who had issues with the personal boundaries. While standing in line to get tea, I was tempted just to embrace him and get it over with. "Are you happy now, Descamisado?"

I figured I would give the group one more chance. See if things settled down now that we had finally agreed on a schedule of meeting (the first Wednesday and the third third Saturday) and a venue (not Panera) and we'd all already introduced ourselves. "Finally, we'll get down to writing," I thought.

Wrong.

We met for the second time last Wednesday. This time there were around 12 of us in the back room of a coffee shop and while the venue was a little better, hi: we still introduced ourselves. Again. And here's the thing about introductions: they don't need to be any longer than 2 minutes top. And even two minutes is pushing it. You give your name, maybe where you live (though not really necessary), and in the case of this writing group, maybe a couple words about what you're working on and what you hope to accomplish. I don't want to hear about what your wife thinks about your writing. I don't want to hear about all the places that have rejected you ("And then, in 19-aught-12, I was rejected a third time...") and I especially don't want to hear another joke about the "Great American Novel." You're not going to write it. I'm not going to write it. Novels don't work that way. One of the great things about novels is that they appeal to different people differently. Anyway, Tom Wolfe already wrote it. Back to the point: nothing in your introduction to the group should take more than 5 minutes. I mean, what is it about old people, huh? I didn't realize how little patience I had for long-assed stories about the good old days -- and don't get me wrong: I love grandparents as much as the next youngster. But still: you're near death -- let's keep this brief.

So, the guy who wrote me an email? Works for a "prestigious" television crime show. I knew this, because the email I received from him was from his work. But even if he hadn't sent me a work email, I would have learned soon enough about which "prestigious" television crime show he worked for because he repeated that particular bit of personal information again. And again. And hey, whaddaya know: again.

I'm totally being a little hypocritical here. I mean, if I had a chance to work as a writer for a show or a magazine I truly loved, I'd drop it into as many conversations as possible. "Oh, this? It's a shirt I purchased for my little writing job at this out-of-the-way magazine. I doubt you've heard of it. The New Yorker?" Or, "You know, at The New Yorker, we have a little saying. And I know this because I work there." Or, "Ugh, if I've told Roz once, I've told her a thousand times..." That doesn't mean that I wouldn't be a full-on asshat, though, for doing it. Which I would be. Because that shit's whack. I'm glad you have a job. I'm glad you love your job. I don't need to hear you name-drop every five minutes about how great it is, because (a) it's on Fox; and (b) you're show is peripherally responsible for the existence of C.O.P.S.. That's not really something to be proud of, no matter how many criminals you've helped put away.

Anyway, Prestigious Television Crime Show guy's sitting to my right at the table. And even though he sent me an email, I don't introduce myself to him as, "Hey, remember me? I'm the guy you thought was funny after reading my blog." I don't like to draw attention to myself like that. Another reason, though, is that PTCS guy is totally working the room like he's the last comic standing in the Catskills. He's the kind of guy who feels like every sentence needs a punchline, and it doesn't matter if that punchline is funny or not. He's the kind of guy who makes it impossible for anyone else in the room to be funny, because this guy's totally aggressively funny. Only he forgot the funny part; he's aggressively unfunny.

So, the meeting's going on, everyone is re-introducing themselves, and PTCS guy can't quit it with the Shakespearean asides and the drum-roll-cymbal-crash punchlines. After one guy shared that he'd received more than his fair share of rejection notices, PTCS guy pops in with, "I hear with 6 you get egg roll!" Another time, he complimented himself by throwing in his own, "Thanks, ladies and germs: I'm here all week!" And it was then that I realized what hell would be like. Hell would be this guy, a microphone, a 5 drink minimum and no restroom in sight.

Oh, but it gets better.

There's this other guy, some government bureaucrat or something, sitting across the way who decides that somewhere in his head the synth solo from "The Final Countdown" has started playing, and he and PTCS guy are totally going to have a Funny Bone Smack Down. Whatever minute traces of funny that might have been left in the room are totally sucked up by this guy and then squandered. I realize at this point that my carefully chosen seat in the corner is a liability. I can't escape without drawing attention to myself. I beging to chew furiously on the inside of my cheek, cursing God and wishing for death. Not mine. PTCS guy's and the other guy's.

A nebbishy guy at the other end of the table mentions that he'd like some feedback on his online blog. "No one really reads it," he says. "I'd like to know if it's worth reading or not." PTCS guy asks, "Hey, are you that British Adventuress guy?" And, as you all know, no: he wasn't that British Adventuress guy. I'm that British Adventuress guy. I raise my hand and cop to the fact, and PTCS guy says, "Really? You?" And before I can work up a proper outrage, he goes on to say to the group, "If you guys read his site, you'd never believe that this guy here writes that stuff."

Yeah. I was dissed as suspectly funny. By a guy who was a seltzer bottle and a "Take my wife. Please!" away from a boot up the ass.

Here's the thing about funny: it's not a competition. It's not a full-contact sport. Funny is just a nice way to hang out with other people. I like it when everyone gets to contribute, and no one is grandstanding, and everyone gets a chance at a zinger or a punchline. I love it when funny builds on itself until what started as a simple crack about Gnostics in the 1st century becomes instead this epic story about a quest for conditioner because fine, whatever, you're the Messiah but dude, have you seen your hair lately? It's awesome.

PTCS guy couldn't allow that. Someone somewhere told him once that he was pretty funny, and PTCS figured he'd better milk that cow for all she's worth. He strikes me as the kind of guy who's worried people will forget that he's funny unless he cracks wise something like twice in any given 30-second period. "I have nothing else, really, to offer except for these awful puns and 'wry' observations," I think he's thinking. And sadly: he's right. Only, he's not even getting the funny part right.

I haven't even gotten around to the guy who shared this painful anecdote about his cousin who wrote a book. He's all, "So I said to him, 'At least you've written one more book than I have.'" And no one laughed, so he added, "Because I haven't written one yet." And still no one laughed. "And he's written, you know, one."

And still. No one. Laughed.

And don't even get me started about how he was outraged about Tupperwear.

I wanted to like this writing group. Really. However, I don't know that I can bear another meeting. I can't introduce myself again. I simply can't. And I can't vote any more on days to meet and times, and in what order we should submit stuff, and who should read it when. I just want to write stuff and read other people's stuff. But if I have to deal with PTCS guy again, it might kill me.