The Value in "Corny" Humor

It is a common thing to believe only funny people should crack jokes. Only those extremely witty should engage in wordplay. At least that is what I always believed. For all the years prior to college, being corny meant being an outsider. Lacking the wit for jokes meant lacking the charisma to make friends. But college brought an entirely new perspective on the matter.

Picture this. A student on the cusp of graduation after six long years of halfhearted struggles. His passion left him years ago and the husk continued with classes as best as he could. "One class away. One exam away." His mind clinging to the number one. One barrier to go. One wall to tear down before he could declare himself a graduate in a field reminiscent of Mars to him.

The day of the final arrived. The student studied as best as he could for a subject he absolutely loathes. Professor placed the blue book before him and judgment hour has come. The student's heart stopped. A feeling of defeat came over him as the subject matter seemed distant from the focus of his studies. "No. No. No." His hands started to shake and the grinning specter within looked on with delight at the opportunity to feed on the student's spirit once more. The student pulled from the tiny bit he studied while cursing himself for not hitting the books a little harder for such a pivotal exam. The student wrote, turned in his then death certificate, and left with the specter's laughter in his ears.

The student walked home. His thoughts raced. "Damn it. I really messed up. This was my last class and my last chance. Perhaps I really am going to be worthless after all. If I'm lucky, I'll get a C and still be able to escape this prison. Anything but a D."

A voice belonging to a fellow student with pride in her corny jokes played in the student's head amidst all that chaos. No matter what the situation, she had the wit to create a sense of comedy of an acquired taste. Simplistic puns and goofy rhymes were specialties of hers. Even in the middle of class, if a pun came to mind she'd share it without fear. You can say her jokes were "too hot to Handel." She retold her joke from a couple of months ago, "Cs get degrees but D is the capital of degrees."

He chuckled as if she just cracked the joke right next to him. And his heart grew steady. The specter settled into a corner realizing a corny joke robbed him of his next meal. A D would also allow the student to escape his prison. No one should celebrate mediocrity. No one should take pride in lower expectations. But survival is another matter. Escaping from one's prison and defeating mental demons are things to celebrated. It is this spirit that surfaced in a simple corny joke. It is this bit of wisdom that gave value to the corny humor.

Roughly two weeks later, the student discovered a B for the class. Free from his shackles, he bounced in joy. His fears seemed irrational once his grade was discovered. Regardless of his result, it was a corny joke that gave him peace of mind during two weeks between the exam and his result. He could only think of wanting to say thank you.

What is corny humor then? Can it really be called corny if it got a chuckle or two? I've found the corniest humor to be the most delightful. For it is the corniest humor that tends to be the most organic and the most authentic. It is the corniest humor that might have the most surprising effect on a stranger. Something I know now and cherish greatly thanks to a fellow student I never really got to know too well.

Why Fallen Star?

Inconsistency.

 Feverish bursts often give way to long-winded lulls of apathy. A disciplined mind means nothing without a passionate heart. For it is the passionate heart that guides the disciplined mind through the bog of inevitable anxieties and hesitation. It is a passionate heart that builds a developed mind.

Flowery speech.

A rosy tint in bitter words much like a sip of rotten Tequila Rose. A fancy suit for a day of watching Netflix. A garment to add value to shallow words. Fragments of flowery speech have always been my thing. During moments of inconsistency, fragments of flowery speech soothe me.

Doodling with words.

A forgotten skill that I once thrived in. A skill I once unlocked a powerful heart with. A heart other than my own. But it was the once passionate heart of mine that fueled those doodles. The visions have gone quiet and what remains is what is before me.

Absence.

My passionate heart is absent. It's absence has covered rooms and streets in black suffocating fogs. The future has grown bleak for one who shone brightest against the darkness. Why Fallen Star? Why are you the only thing that I see in the mirrors? Why are you the one hiding my dreams? Why do you not rise?

Fallen Star

A moniker I adopted for my sketchbook persona. His past promised a bright future. His present promises nothing. His future taunts him with visions of anguish, trepidation, and death. The name is what I am.

From her eyes

A Fallen Star has come down to radiate the surrounding frigid wasteland with light and warmth. A Fallen Star is a granted wish promising hope.

Which eyes are correct? Only time will tell.

Appreciating June Tenth

On June 10th of 2013, a former love shattered me. She delivered a logical and illogical reasoning for shattering me that lived with me for the entirety of two years. I made mistakes in my pursuit of her and it led to her disappearing from my life. The shock of it drove me to tears and a sensation I had never felt before. Emotional pain settled in. Unhindered emotional pain massive enough to drive me to obsession. I bored my friends with the story of the shattering, what followed the shattering, and the dramatics behind it. I had a chance for what could have been a lovely relationship and sabotaged it to cling to my former love. Fragmented I was.

On June 10th of 2014 I have no notes on. I have no recollection of it. It was a regular day full of anguish and video games. Or maybe there wasn't anguish. I knew I wasn't happy but I didn't feel depressed. It's just forgotten. A nice sign of recovery I believe since the anniversary of my shattering was forgotten just like that. Apathetic I was.

On June 10th of 2015, I wrote a set of paragraphs on the person I crushed on for a semester or so. The paragraphs closed what was my mini log on having a crush on her after being broken for so long. 

Now on April 8th of 2016, I decided I wanted to share my old log on my little crush. Then I got lazy because copying and pasting to the blog does not keep the document in its original arrangement. As such, the bit of poetry in there loses its value and the paragraphs become difficult to read. While rereading my little last paragraph, I noticed the funny coincidence that I would write of moving on on the same day I was shattered two years prior. Whether I did it consciously or not, I cannot figure now but if I did it as a joke for current me, well played past me. The last paragraphs to my log on a short crush are as follows....

  "Months have passed since I opened this particular log. Love lived not in quirky Roxanne. It lives elsewhere. What was in Roxanne was the beginning of true recovery. I never confessed to her in the entire year that has passed. We seldom speak nowadays due to some awkwardness. It seems like this was inevitable when she found herself a boyfriend and lost need of my tutoring. I would be sad to revisit my memories of Roxanne if they were all that significant. But infatuation dies quickly. That is where she differed from the past. I took a liking to her that faded quite quickly. While I still find her cute, her personality at times is a repellent to me. Infatuation dies quickly and so does the romanticized lens I saw her through. 

  I credit most of my recovery from the past to her. Meeting her seemed uncanny when my hormones and emotions were out of control. She brightened up my morning and days while helping me regain self-control. She did all of this without knowing exactly how much I liked her but suspecting that I did. I never confirmed whether she knew or not but I am an obvious fellow. And perhaps her experiences have sharpened her senses and allowed her to distinguish those smitten with her more easily. Writing now without my smitten eyes, I see the time we had as a necessary experience.

  With only five entries prior, I remember why so little was written. Some crushes are meant to be enjoyed as just crushes. This was one such crush where I felt deep down that things would not work. I longed day after day to bring myself to confess. Instincts and defense mechanisms kept me from doing so. I knew that if I allowed myself to write about her with the rose-colored lenses I had, I would have suffered a similarly shattering experience in a short amount of time. Now all that remains are the sweet memories with a bland aftertaste of my time as Roxanne's tutor, friend, and admirer,"

Some people remember dates for the joy it brought. Some remember it for anguish. I remember it because of the perfect balance the day has had so far. One year, it was the bane of my existence. It was the day I was shattered. Two years later, it was the day of my reassembly. June 10th is a day of joy and anguish. Whether I saw them with lens of despair or hope, June 10th served as pivotal day in my quest for wisdom. Here's to June 10th, a random day of the year made significant by random failures in love.

A First World Problem: A Static Gamer

A young gamer once said, "I'll never get bored of games. I love them all and will play for the rest of my life. There is a special kind of enjoyment found only in video gaming. The feeling of triumph over difficult levels, the compelling stories, the wacky characters, the various abilities, and a plethora of catchy tunes and jingles drives me to buy game after game and beat the ones I won dozens of times."

 As a guy in my early twenties, I've been a young gamer for as long as I can remember. At times, an old man would creep up from inside and ask me why I play so often. I could never answer directly as games lured me out of my thoughts. Tonight, the old man has not said a word and I played games for hours to compensate for a burdensome week. I finished with one game and started searching for something else to play.

Without a word I searched. I scanned and scanned only to judge everything as uninteresting. It seems that the amount of unique games is finite. I just don't know what to play anymore. I can only imagine what the young gamer I was back then would say to me now. He'd go, "what happened? why do you own so little games?"

An old man once said, "I don't know how you can play these games all day. There is so much more to life that young gamers lose out on. The feeling of emptiness as hours fly on by, the predictable stories, the pointless characters, the repetitive abilities, and a barrage of repetitive jingles and tunes looping indefinitely."

As a guy in my early twenties, I've been a gamer for as long as I can remember. With my current skill level, games seem to have become entirely too accessible for me. It does not take long for me to grasp a game, understand the concept, and entertain myself. It does not take long for my mind to drift off into another land assessing the game I am playing and saying things like, "this game is just not like the older ones." Dissatisfied  I am with modern gaming, the lonely modern gaming world I live in.

To leave the modern gaming world, I often seek the past gems. I download emulators, and play games from the 90s and 2000s. In the older games, I find a fragment of the gaming happiness I carried for the past two decades. It seems sticking to the realm of retro gaming would be enough for the first few hours. But the entertainment granted by a retro gaming is a fleeting thing. And to this guy, it has already disappeared. The challenges of old seem pathetic and for the new challenges in old gems, I have virtually no patience.

What am I to do? For now complain a little until I can either, transition fully out of being a gamer or reacquire the joy in gaming I once had. As a guy in my early twenties, I feel it is too soon for me to be having this feeling of emptiness in the gaming I loved so dearly. On the other hand, this could be the perfect time to transition out of consistent gaming at home and launch into a frenzy of productivity.

This right here is the definition of a first world problem. A first world problem for a guy in his early twenties finally feeling how static video gaming is and is unable to drop video gaming completely for reasons more complex than he understands. This first world problem would be a perfect start if I were writing a book on developing escapism in children. After all, as an escapist, I understand what it is to use a playful medium to cope with the overly bitter taste of life.

Venting on March Madness

Blocked. Clutter formed a dam. Nothing flowed. Everyday life blocked out the creative desire. Everyday life coupled with several troubling events.

It started with death. Death of someone who once loved my mother. A man of olden days back when my siblings all lived together. This man died without warning. The news of his death were sudden. His death was irrelevant for the most part.

It continued with death. The death of another who once loved my mother. A man of olden days troubled by alcoholism. This man died and everyone knew. His last moments were drawn out. He fell ill, went to the hospital, entered a coma, and woke back up to say his goodbyes. His death troubled me more than I expected even though I did not witness it.
What I did witness was the state of weakness he was in.

My last sight of him remained for days. In order to see him, I had to don protective gear to avoid bacterial infection. In a protective cloak, gloves, and mask, I approached his bed. I said nothing. I couldn't say anything. The sight of his fading eyes and the tube down his throat stunned me. I could only stare in silence. I could only think of how he gave me Donkey Kong Country for Super Nintendo so many years ago. I could only think of how he inadvertently bestowed upon me my love for jazzy music. A man I remember being healthy was by death's door. The sight stunned me and drew sorrow from an emotional well I ignore on a daily basis.

Our eyes were locked. He moved his eyebrows as my mom continued her prayer. I wonder if he recognized me beyond the mask. I wonder if his raising of the eyebrows were a whimsical kind of thing as if he was saying, "look who's gone and grown up now." Perhaps it was a sorrowful move as if saying, "look at how pathetic I am now." Perhaps those eyebrows were just curiosity as to who was the man in the mask tearing up while staring at him. I never knew an action as simple as raising one's eyebrows could be so confusing. For days I obsessed about those eyebrows and refused to draw for fear of his image resurfacing.

Flowing. For a couple of days, creativity flowed. Doodles were made and techniques were learned. It felt as if I was free from emotional complications. It seems there was more in store for me throughout the month of March.

It continued with grim news.

One Friday evening after taking my beloved home, I ran into an old classmate. His words to me ruined my recovering positive energy.

"Remember Ariel. He has brain cancer. Stage 4."

In disbelief I could only respond with, "No way." I continued on home in disbelief. I hopped on Facebook, the social site I loath most, to confirm what I just heard. One of my oldest friends, my best friend during middle school, told me himself that it was true. We arranged to hang out and have managed to keep in better contact.

Anguish settled in. I could not and still not decide which feeling is worse: finding out he had has cancer or the guilt that I had to find out through someone else. Cursing my distant nature and lamenting his condition, I have been away from internal peace for a couple of weeks. "A horrible friend I am. Why him? Will he live? I wish the next time I saw him would be better than this. Something like my wedding. "

Flowing. The anguish starts flowing when I start speaking. When I try to remember days with my friend and fail to do so, anguish increases. Venting works only for the moment. Every word here does nothing for those that need it. Two of my mom's exes are dead and my oldest friend has cancer. Thoughts leap from subject to subject revolving around the frailty of life. And pessimism takes the wheel as life's pointlessness becomes my answer to each internal question.

Blocked. To prevent any irrational actions, I blocked my thoughts. I avoided writing anything and dove into my everyday responsibilities.

Flowing. To recover, one needs to move forward. Lamenting the days of old proves pointless. The days are flowing and to swim with it, I move forward. Repairing my old bond so that if this or next year is his last, I at least have that much.

A Snowy Night

A small zappai set based on a simple dog walk on tonight's snowy evening.
-----------------
Bit by bit, snow falls
greeting my lovely city
smiling at us two.

Breath is visible.
Painful cold is minimal.
I'm irritable.

Playing in the snow
is a faint memory. Now,
an outing is work.

A dog owner's task.
Walking in the snow is both
a gift and a curse.

Nearby piles of snow
marked now with streaks of yellow
signal- deed is done.

On snow-filled sidewalks,
my dog walked around and limped
from the man-made salt.

I called out, "Yusep!"
On one knee, I grabbed his paw
and wiped the salt off.

With a sudden spring,
my furry dog dashed away
like childlike I would.

I chased my grey dog
around a deserted block.
Man and best friend's race.

We dashed home for warmth
and dryness carrying a
faint scent of wet dog.

We panted. I laughed.
Falling snow continued to smile
proud of her magic.

Snow now takes pride in
snapshots of joy she made for
the once bitter I.
-----------------

Blogging at Night

Nights of silence compose the majority of winter. The snow outside dances with gentle breezes. The salt decorates the snowy sidewalks like cinnamon in oatmeal. So many people sit in their rooms facing the cold of winter alone. Many face them with family, friends, and lovers. Tonight, I've done a bit of all.

While I cannot be next to a loved one physically, technology allowed us to recreate a living room. Our united imagination took us to the fireplace of a vacation cabin where we downed cup after cup of hot cocoa and marshmallows. Technology recreated our living room television and the blanket we  huddled under. It recreated the various actions that could take place during our binge session of DC animated movies and cartoons from the 90s. We spent the snowy day together and alone at the same time.

Now while a loved one sleeps, I roam the web. I'm searching for the perfect item to snag my attention and complement my cooled ginger tea. Somewhere on the web lies the key to passing time until exhaustion settles in and I can join my loved one in sleep.

A blog is perfect. Removing everything in this realm and leaping into a world of words is perfect to pass the time. A little bit of writing, a little bit of honest thought is perfect. It all seems perfect until the thought settles in. This mass of words will pile onto each other like the snow. And just as quickly as they come, the words will fade. That is the truth of the web. Time flows into the web and never returns.

A blog seems perfect until analysis settles in. The voice of a paranoid craftsmen whispering, "posting this is a mistake. This is nonsense." The voice of a sappy craftsmen whispers, "think of your beloved's joy when she reads and see you thinking of her while she sleeps." The voice of a neurotic craftsmen whispers, "fault here, fault there. Construction lacks continuity. Product beyond salvation." The voice of a curious craftsmen whispers, "I wonder if true writers struggle this much." A blog seemed perfect until the desire for harmony between technicality and creativity settled in.

A blog regains its perfection as a pastime when I whisper, "at least there is no audience at the moment." Perhaps that is the key to becoming an artist of sorts. Maybe the harmony for technicality and creativity can be found when one creates for an audience as if there is none. When the absence of an audience removes the need to perfect every single portion is when the harmony begins to arise.