In the Footsteps of Calvin Trillin
Ah, that delicious tang of transgression, the forbidden fruit dripping with the nectar of rebellion. Taboo, that siren song whispered on the edges of propriety, has always drawn us in, moths to a scandalous flame. For in the crucible of defiance, where norms are gleefully tossed on the bonfire of audacity, creativity roars to life, a phoenix rising from the ashes of the mundane.
Imagine, if you will, a world scrubbed clean of its rough edges, its corners rounded in the name of polite society. No sharp wit to prickle pomposity, no subversive chuckle to undermine the self-important. Art devoid of bite, music shorn of its discordant magic, words chained to the tyranny of the dictionary. A pallid wasteland, wouldn’t you say?
But no, thank heavens, for the human spirit is a restless beast, forever pawing at the bars of convention. We are storytellers by nature, and the most delectable tales are spun from the threads of what’s not quite proper, the whispers that dance just beyond the polite ear. Think of the audacious brushstrokes of a Manet, the bawdy ballads of a Bukowski, the electrifying dissonance of a Stravinsky — each a thumb in the eye of the expected, a middle finger to the humdrum.
Little Annie Fanny
Back in the days when dinosaurs roamed the Earth, or at least the halls of my college, in Central Park West in Manhattan, I spent a fair amount of time playing hooky. One such afternoon, I found myself ensconced in my TA office, suddenly, the door creaked open and in poked Michael, a fellow student with a grin like a Cheshire cat who’d just discovered a particularly juicy mouse.
“‘Got a message for you from the one and only McNulty,’ he announced, pronouncing the professor’s name with just the right blend of awe and amusement. ‘Says to get your fanny back in class.’”
Now, I was all for good literature, but my grasp of New York City slang still clung precariously to the “bodega” stage. “Fanny?” I echoed, feeling my cheeks get a shade of scarlet. “As in, a, uh, handheld fan? Because it’s a bit on the muggy side in here, wouldn’t you say?”
Michael’s grin broadened, threatening to consume his entire face. “Nah, not that kind of fanny,” he purred. “He wants your, well, let’s just say your posterior planted back in a chair in his classroom.”
“But I haven’t done the project!” I spluttered, mortified. “Surely he wouldn’t want me to have nothing to contribute to the design critique.”
“‘Hey, I’m just the messenger’ Michael shrugged. “Well, suit yourself, but trust me, missing class for a bit of light procrastination is like skipping dessert because you haven’t eaten your vegetables.’”
Generative Ai Hangups
On the topic of “fanny”, I have been having a bit of fun with Adobe Generative Ai. Giving birth to animals in their natural habitat. Some of them, endangered. While rendering these creatures. In my attempt to simulate their postures, I had to prompt placements of each individual animal.
“Spotted seal with ass up.”
Yielded an error message with inability to follow prompt. Makes me wonder if anything related to the body is now taboo in the world of AI?
Yet the paradox of an AI influencer is realistic in appearance and can be designed to look like anyone. And they can be programmed to say and do anything. Sex bots already in use, these influencers have the potential to fulfil the visual aspect of it in many flavors and real people simulations. The online sex exchange platforms that are innumerous:
OnlyFans, Fansly, Fanhouse, Fantime, JustForFans, influenswer, Spore, Textme, TipSnaps, Vanywhere, Ask.fm, Streambee.buzz is the sex industry today. It keeps men and women away from the dangers of walking the streets to an extent. Although it is unlikely that the most ancient profession will gain legitimacy any time soon!
Society has forever evolved with industrial and technological advancements. With each advancement, we have let go of elements of our tribal past. Yet a significant part of it persisted. Offering continuity and comfort. Also stifling freedom and expression in some cases.
“Just kidding” - the emotional fig leaf of the humorously challenged
In the pungent perfume of pipe tobacco and existential dread that was 1970s London, nestled within the beige-tiled bosom of an adult education college, bloomed a sitcom unlike any other. It was a petri dish of cultural petrifiers, a smorgasbord of accents thicker than pea soup and grammar mangled with the affectionate savagery of a toddler wielding a pair of safety scissors. This, my friends, was the breeding ground of “Mind Your Language.”
But the humor, like a well-aged Stilton, wasn’t just about the mangled syntax and misplaced modifiers. It was about the audacity, the sheer, unadulterated gall of saying the unsayable. A world before the porcelain sensibilities of Twitter and the pearl-clutching indignation of Facebook, “Mind Your Language” reveled in the deliciously inappropriate. Jokes about bodily functions as bold as a brass band at a funeral. Innuendo so subtle it needed a bloodhound and a magnifying glass.
Ah, yes, the good old days, before “Just kidding” became the emotional fig leaf of the humorously challenged. Back then, a barb was a barb, and laughter, like a well-placed pratfall, could send you sprawling onto the floor in a fit of snorting glee.
But alas, the winds of change have blown, carrying with them the pollen of political correctness and the miasma of cancel culture. Words once as common as pigeons in Trafalgar Square are now banished to the Gulag of the Unspeakable. “Ass” and “butt” have become Voldemort, their mere utterance triggering the fainting couch brigade and the Twitterati’s fainting goats.
So, can humor survive in this new, sanitized world? Can we laugh without fear of triggering a snowflake avalanche or inciting the wrath of the perpetually offended?
I say, nay! Humor, like a phoenix, thrives on the ashes of propriety. It’s the hiccup in the eulogy, the banana peel under the CEO’s shoes, the unexpected fart during the national anthem. It’s the audacity to point out the emperor’s new underwear, even if it’s made of the finest organic, ethically sourced silk.
So, let the Luigi’s of the world mangle their verbs, let the Deana’s deadpan their way through awkward silences, and let the Pakistani gentlemen pirouette their way to medical attention. For in the glorious cacophony of misinterpretations and mispronunciations, in the belly laughs that erupt despite, or perhaps because of, the social faux pas, lies the true spirit of humor. It’s the reminder that we’re all just bumbling idiots on this cosmic comedy stage, and sometimes, the only way to cope is to laugh, long and loud, at the absurdity of it all.
For in the end, that’s what humor is all about: leaving the audience gasping for air, not from outrage, but from the sheer, unadulterated joy of a good laugh. And in that laughter, perhaps, we find the courage to face the absurdities of life, the wrinkles on our souls smoothed out by a smile.
AI, please dont eat my punchline?!
Now, I’m no Luddite. I get that AI can do some pretty amazing things. It can write your emails, predict the stock market, and even tell you the best way to fold a fitted sheet (although, let’s be honest, that last one is still a mystery). But when it comes to humor, there’s just no substitute for the human touch.
The beauty of a good joke is that it’s a tightrope walk between the familiar and the unexpected. It’s about taking a shared experience and twisting it just enough to make us laugh at ourselves, at the world, at the absurdity of it all. But an AI, with its rigid algorithms and its zero tolerance for ambiguity, can’t understand that. It can only see ones and zeros, black and white, knock-knock jokes and rimshots.
So, here’s my plea to the silicon overlords: leave the punchlines to the humans. We may be a little messier, a little more unpredictable, but we’re the ones who can truly make you laugh until you snort your kombucha. And let’s be honest, a world without laughter is a world no one wants to live in, not even a robot with a bad case of existential dread.
My thoughts and images, Bard, the stylistic kleptomaniac
