February 8th, 1998
My first comedy writing class at The New School:
My teacher claims to be inventor of Woodstock and the toast of Poland, Belgium and France, a comic genius, the likes of which have not been seen since Jerry Lewis. Then he encourages the class to bullshit because most people don’t know any better and I have to wonder whether he really believes our class, his students, are just fifteen examples of those who don’t know any better.
Then the 18-year-old who deferred Yale for a year wanted Woodstock to define the outlawed “one-liner” so he could make sure he didn’t break that comic transgression. Even after citing the obvious, “Take my wife, please” example, Yalie proceded to ask, “Well, what if it comes at the end of a paragraph?” The idea being that the whole passage is a set-up for the ba-dum-bump punchine at the end. What if? Clearly Yalie was not getting the point.
Then the Quirky Wannabe Female Comic. Quirky in her quirky hat, quirky earrings, quirky glasses. “I’m quirky!”
Then the fat manatee-looking, mush-mouthed sad sack who is attending the New School for credit.
I was afraid my classmates would try too hard to be funny, perhaps pulling rubber chickens out of their pants, or spontaneously spritzing me with a bottle of seltzer.
Or, to my right, a clown—fully decked out in wacky clown regalia: red fright wig, painted face, honking nose, suspendered pants that drop on demand, clodhopper shoes, you get the idea. He’s taking the class because he’s a clown but he’s “just not funny.”
