Up Your Consciousness! …by Greg Tamblyn

Every once in awhile. calling Customer Service is actually fun, but maybe not for the reason you hoped.

For accepting Visa and Mastercard to sell my CDs, I’m charged a percentage of sales, plus authorization fees, transaction fees, statement fees, batch fees, and some other fees I think they copied from the electric bill. Once a month I get a statement in the mail (from some place called First Data, on behalf of Citibank) which was obviously designed by evil trolls in Albania, who have at best a passing acquaintance with math and English. To say it’s complicated and confusing is like saying a Great White Shark bite is inconvenient. Multiply your phone bill by two or three times, and you get the idea.

For example, it says “Grand Total” in three places, and they’re all different numbers. Additionally, all the above mentioned fees vary, depending on the credit card’s type, its status, and the cardholder’s opinion of the current soybean crop.

One day, having had a good night’s sleep and feeling especially buoyant, I decided to call merchant services for a statement decipherization. The first person I talked to, Emmanuel, tried for 20 minutes, bless his foreign soul, but couldn’t explain it. I asked for his supervisor and Claudia got on the phone. After several attempts she was able to make it make sense to me, in the way that String Theory makes sense to a Tibetan weaver.

Feeling proud of myself for maintaining my composure and reasonably good mood, I generously suggested that it might be helpful and considerate to make the statements more easily understandable to us average college graduates who are not CPAs. Her response, and I swear this is true, was: “Well, if we made it easier to understand, they might not need us in customer service and some people would lose their jobs.”

That was the best laugh I had all day. I told her not to worry about losing her job. There will always be a place for her in the federal government.

Postscript:
(In all fairness, I need to add that a few hours later Claudia’s supervisor called me and apologized, letting me know that they’d had many complaints about the statements and were planning to simplify them. Unfortunately she had no idea when that might actually happen. I could tell from her tone that she was genuinely sorry, and it was obvious she was truly tired of having to deal with these calls about their Rubik’s Cube-esque statements.)

© 2008 Greg Tamblyn, Motivational Humorist and occasionally satisfied customer

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It’s Thanksgiving morning. I’m dog-sitting and reminded of a funny/weird/favorite pet experience.

Near the end of my junior year in college I got a wild idea. (This is not unusual. I get my share.) I decided I needed an exotic pet. This is what happens when you spend all your warm, sunny college afternoons in dank, dark geology labs memorizing rocks, minerals, and microscopic fossils with names like homotrema rubrum, thinking if only I’d majored in English I could be outside under a tree reading a book and looking at girls.

So I called around to the local pet stores looking for……a skunk. Somehow I’d got it into my head that skunks (the odor-free variety) make good pets. They could evidently be trained to use a litter box, with the added bonus of being small enough to hide in your book bag. Plus a loose skunk running around the undergrad geology dungeons would definitely freak the hell out of the other prisoners. And if I ever did get outside on campus, maybe even help me meet (adventurous) girls.

Unfortunately, the pet stores did not have any skunks. I was running out of hope, my disappointment mounting, when, at the very last store in the yellow pages, a woman told me they were fresh out of skunks, but they did have a baby fox.

A fox? A baby fox! As a pet? How cool! Cooler even than a skunk, maybe.

It was love at first sight. He was 5 weeks old, barely weaned, and a little bundle of fuzzy energy. Very high on the cuteness scale. I happily forked over the 25 or 30 bucks and took him back to the apartment I shared with my two bewildered roommates. For some reason I can’t remember, I named him Mort.

Mort soon won over my pals and we were a happy little family. He learned to pee and poop outdoors and in a litter box. He liked to play with a ball and even fetch it. He was fun and curious and affectionate. We had a great time with him.

Except when he viciously mangled me. I learned quickly that he didn’t like to be messed with when he was eating. If anybody got too close while he was wolfing down puppy chow, he’d growl threateningly. I thought it was pretty funny for a tiny fox to growl like he could actually cause bodily harm, and in my superior human wisdom decided this was bad manners he needed to be trained out of. So the next time he ate, growling by my feet, I reached down and nudged him with a firm “No!” As fast as you can blink, he turned and chomped cleanly through my thumbnail. Blood! (My blood!) Pain! Sharp little fangs. Very sharp.

After that I let him eat however he wanted to.

But the best part was when friends came over. I purposely didn’t tell anybody about him, because baby foxes don’t really look like foxes. Their snouts haven’t grown out so they have little short noses. Their tails haven’t gotten all bushy and glorious like they do later. Their pointed ears are still small and stand straight up. And even a baby red fox, like Mort, is dull gray as a pup.

So what they look like, more than anything, is a kitten.

People would come by and see Mort scampering around the house, exploring new corners, conquering various dangerous prey (his tail for example), and they’d exclaim, “You got a new kitten!” I would just smile. Because within a few minutes, Mort would sit up and start barking like a puppy.

The looks on their faces were hilarious. Nobody got it. Nobody thought “fox!” Universally the reaction was amazement, dumbfoundedness. The next question was always, “What is that?”

Then it got even more fun. I’m not making this up. Almost everybody believed me when I told them something impossible: that Mort was a cross between a cat and a dog.

And yes, these were college students. Man, that was funny.

_______

I ended up moving to Taos, New Mexico for the summer to oversee some property for my dad. He’d opened a swimming pool, restaurant, bar, and driving range on some land outside of town. Since we were the only public pool in Taos, everybody and their kids came to swim. Mort grew bigger and redder and was a big hit with the customers. Kids loved to play with him. Mostly I kept him on a 30 foot chain during the day, and at night he’d sleep in the house with me.

Finally when he was about 4 months old he looked beautiful. Very fox-like. Auburn red, and with a big bushy tail. I started to feel guilty about keeping him on a chain. Our property was way out of town and there was a lot of open land. No neighbors close by. I decided it was time to turn him loose and see what happened.

For a couple of weeks it was great. I let him sleep outside wherever he wanted. Every morning he’d show his love, gratitude, and devotion by leaving a dead prairie dog on my doorstep. He’d come when I called and we’d play with a ball. I fed him every evening.

But after two weeks he stopped coming. I don’t know what happened. It’s possible he was shot by a farmer or killed by dogs. But I prefer to imagine he found a foxy girlfriend and had a long, happy life raising pups, exploring the countryside, and dining on prairie dogs. Or maybe wild turkeys.

Happy Thanksgiving, Mort.

© 2008 Greg Tamblyn, Motivational Humorist and fox afficionado.

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We’re invited to a swank hotel lobby, given beverages, finger food, and aprons. An excellent musician plays piano in the background. Lots of upscale people are milling around, waiting, like us. Finally, a chef from California instructs us to line up according to table numbers, and to put our hand on the shoulder of the person in front of us, like in kindergarten.

When our table number is called, our 10-person conga line approaches the ballroom door. We meet a blind man whose job is to take us to our table. He leads us into a ballroom that’s been transformed into a cave. Absolutely no light of any kind. Totally, completely, pitch dark. Impossible to see the person one foot in front of you, let alone where we’re going.

We snake around the ballroom, taking baby steps, until our blind leader tells us we’ve arrived at our round table. One by one he introduces each of us to our chairs. I sit down. It’s impossible to see anything. No light of any kind, anywhere.

I put my hands on the edge of the table, move my fingers around. I find some forks, a knife, a spoon. In front of me I feel the edge of a small plate. What’s on it? Salad. I lick the dressing off my fingers.

To the right and left I feel two more plates, smaller. Something soft and greasy on them. Butter! My butter? Or did I just stick my fingers in someone else’s butter? Well, it was the plate on the left, so according to my mom (the queen of table manners) it should have been my butter. But it could have been the butter of the former Wall Street banker on my left. Maybe she won’t notice.

Gently moving my right hand forward, I find a glass, with some cold liquid in it. Water? Better taste it and see. Yep. Hope it’s my water. I wonder if I can put it back in the same place and not spill it.

Forks on the left, where they should be. I’m hungry. Time to find out what’s in this salad. Not bad. Some kind of fruity dressing. But half that bite just fell into my lap. Might as well pick it up and put it where it belongs, in my gaping mouth. Nobody can see me.

Now that I think about it, why not just eat the whole darn salad with my fingers? Easier this way. Kinda messy, but efficient. I must look like a caveman, cramming wads of dripping lettuce into my food hole.

What if somebody is filming this with an infrared camera? Will I see myself on youtube tomorrow?

People are laughing, chatting, confessing to eating with their fingers. Good, I’m not the only one. My friend Heidi on my right, who invited me to this, asks me if the butter between us is mine or hers. I tell her I threw mine across the room. That gets a laugh.

Really hungry now. Why’s the main course taking so long? I guess it could take a while to serve 200 people when you can’t see anything. The blind waiter comes around asking if we want wine. Not for me, thanks. But the former Wall Street banker on my left does, and after the waiter leaves she swears he groped her breast.

Heidi’s kind of freaking out a little. She’s holding my hand a lot. It’s so dark. You can hear all these voices, but can’t see anything. Strange how it feels claustrophobic in this big room. The darkness is smothering. But it’s mostly fun. Because I know it will end.

Finally Heidi decides she has to “go to the bathroom.” A blind guide leads her back to the door and out. In reality, she could have gone anywhere. All I know for sure is her voice disappeared. Eventually she comes back, seeming slightly more relaxed.

Finally, the main course! I let my fingers do the walking. Something soft and warm and gooey. Mashed potatoes. This other soft thing feels like…green beans. Ah, here’s something substantial. Some kind of meat, probably. I pick up the knife on the right and start cutting.

Cutting what I can’t see is tricky. How much am I cutting? How hard should I press? When I finally get it cut, I lift it up to the general area of my mouth and can tell it’s a huge bite. Somehow I stuff it all in. Chicken! But something else too. Some kind of filling. Creamy and sweet. Somebody says pistachio. Could be. Whatever, it’s good and I’m starving.

The former Wall Street banker announces the waiter has groped her breast for the 4th time. I ask her out loud if she’s sure it’s him. That gets a laugh and she asks for my phone number. Love surfaces in the most unexpected places.

Now I’m back to using fingers. This knife and fork stuff just takes too long. And besides, nobody can see me, right? (Unless there really is an infrared camera.) I think my apron is gonna be a dead giveaway, though. Like a paintball uniform at the end of a battle. This is a messy meal and a lot of it is winding up many places besides my mouth. But it’s tasty. Even when it’s been in my lap first.

Dessert is some kind of cheesecake. I don’t want it so they bring me the largest fruit plate in history. I’m sure there’s no fruit left in the San Fernando Valley because it’s all on my plate. Enough to feed a colony of Malayan Flying Fruit Bats for a year. Nice variety. Pineapple, grapes, melons, but I’m too full now to eat much of it.

After two and a half hours it’s time for coffee. They wisely choose not to pour hot coffee in the dark, so the dimmest of lights comes on at one end of the room. But it’s enough! We can see! Audible sighs of relief. Ah, so that’s what everybody looks like! Wow. A lot more people in here than I realized.

A man gets up at a podium and tells us about the organization we’re raising money and awareness for. They assist the blind with all kinds of cool services. Then he announces we’re honoring a blind businessman, a man sitting at our table.

This person, a very successful corporate consultant who became blind as a teenager, gives the best ten minute talk I’ve heard in my whole life. He says it’s written that in the beginning God said “Let there be light.” But he doesn’t think that’s quite right. Because the dark is nothing to be afraid of. It’s the cold that’s really terrifying. What we really crave, he said, is warmth.

The warmth of each others’ hearts.

I think I begin to understand.

© 2008 Greg Tamblyn, Motivational Humorist and occasionally messy eater.

You can google “Dining in the Dark” for more info…

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My friend Harold’s two cats have the run of his place, and like many cats, they tend to get into mischief whenever they feel like it. The younger black one is especially curious, and is mesmerized by the refrigerator. Whenever Harold opens it, the black cat will weave his way through Harold’s legs, stick his head and front paws into the bottom of the open fridge and start snooping around.

One day Harold was in a hurry, and didn’t notice that his cat, in that slinky, quiet way cats do, had actually sneaked all the way in, on top of the veggie compartment. When Harold hastily closed the door, his kitty was imprisoned in the cooler.

Now this could easily have been a tragedy, with Harold returning hours (or days) later to find his cat on ice in the kitty morgue. Fortunately for his feline, however, Harold felt a need for the fridge a few minutes later.

He tells it this way.

“Nothing,” Harold says, “absolutely nothing that has ever happened in your life, prepares you for opening the refrigerator and seeing something move.”

Boo!

© 2008 Greg Tamblyn, Motivational Humorist and pet lover.

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Sometimes I’m an idiot
Many of you know that by now
Sometimes I am not
But that is not as clear somehow
– (John Gorka, “Shape of the World”)

Whenever I come across some fact it seems like I should have filed away in my cranium, but for some reason isn’t there, I get reminded how incredibly much I don’t know. This is frequently followed by the above tune, which IS filed away in my head, amusing me on a mental replay loop. It’s a good reminder to stay humble. (Great Gorka song too, by the way…)

And so it was recently at the fabulous new Hall of Human Origins at the American Museum in New York.

I wandered around enthralled by all the lifelike reproductions of extinct human and primate species, so many more than I knew about. (One of them looked a lot like the older kid who used to sit on my chest and thump it when I was seven. I admit for a split second I hoped it WAS him, stuffed.) Anyway, it was fascinating to actually see all the different species of “humans” who existed at the same time.

And we’re the only ones who made it out alive. So far.

But back to my point. Scoping out the DNA exhibit, I learned that the living apes most closely related to us include not only chimps, but also bonobos. What? Okay, I did actually know we share 99% of our DNA with chimps, but bonobos? I confess my ignorance. I was clueless.

If somebody’d asked me, like on Jeopardy, I would have guessed they were some kind of food. Maybe a tropical fruit. Or a pastry.

But nope, they’re apes. They’re also known as Pygmy Chimps, are endangered, and found only in the Congo. They even look a bit more like us than chimps do, because their legs are proportionately longer.

But here’s the interesting difference. Chimp society is dominated by the males, and their overwhelming urge is to be top banana. This gets established in the usual way of course: by fighting. And occasionally by killing each other.

Bonobos, on the other hand, are more laid back. Status is much less of a big deal. The females keep things organized and peaceful. Food tends to be shared, and if conflicts arise, they’re usually settled by (and I happily quote the museum here) “play and sex.”

This strikes me as way more civilized, and a LOT more fun

(And something we should insist on using in Congress, don’t you think? C-Span would be infinitely more interesting. It could probably even become a premium channel, like Showtime.)

So in your life, which are you? Chimp or Bonobo?

If you (or people you love) have been exhibiting some Type A-ness lately, you might want to contact your inner bonobo and try a more “evolved” form of conflict management.

Here’s the link to the exhibit at the American Museum.

© 2008 Greg Tamblyn, Motivational Humorist and Bonobo Cousin

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Recently I received a cryptic email letting me know that someone had made a video of my song, “One Day On The Fields Of France.” I clicked the link, watched the video, got a little teary (it’s that kind of song), and wondered who made this video and why?

So I sent an email reply with those very questions, and eventually was connected by phone to an amazing woman named Debbie Martin. Debbie owns an internet radio station, SeeQ Radio (Pronounced “seek”). She’d heard the song, was moved by it, and simply felt compelled to make a video of it. Wow, I thought.

This, despite the fact that she’s visually handicapped, and has more on her plate in terms of challenges than most 10 other people. I encourage you to check out SeeQ Radio for some inspiring, motivating, healing, and empowering music.

Here’s the video. Let me know what you think in the comments section, and feel free to let others know about it. (You might want to have some kleenex handy….)

Here’s the link for SeeQ Radio and Quantum Quest

~ Greg Tamblyn, Motivational Humorist and occasionally emotional songwriter

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I like Sarah Palin. She’s not hard to like. She’s attractive, funny, and has serious charisma. She’s also kinda hot. She’d probably be fun to hang out with.

But haven’t we made this mistake before?

Sarah Palin already has the best job for her. She’s wildly popular as Governor of Alaska because she clobbered the oil companies to get $1200 a year for Alaska residents. (Sure, she sucks up a huge trough of federal money for things like roads and bridges, and she never bothered to give back the “Bridge To Nowhere” millions. But you know what, we can’t really send her to her room for that until all the other gravy-trainers get off the federal chow line. We could, however, ask her to be honest about it.)

She has no experience in foreign policy. Siberians and Yukon Eskimos are too busy sinking in melting tundra to invade Alaska. She has little experience in domestic policy. Alaskans don’t want anybody telling them how to live. That’s why they’re in Alaska. They know how to live. They hunt, fish, dogsled, ride snowmobiles, and play golf at midnight. They’re a breed and a continent apart. Colorful, freedom-loving people. Like Chris and Maggie on Northern Exposure. They also drink a lot. Sarah’s one of them and they love her. (Although I have no idea if she drinks a lot.)

Alaska’s where she belongs.

It’s the political “Peter Principle.” Successful people, great at their jobs, keep getting promoted, eventually beyond their level of expertise, in over their heads, then things go to hell.

Like I said, we’ve tried that once already this millennium. It hasn’t worked out so well.

What also sets off the “oh-oh” meter is that Sarah seems to have a lot of the same characteristics of the Current Disappointment. She’s rigid in her thinking, tends to see things in terms of absolute right and wrong, black and white, good vs evil. She likes to use the phrase “It’s God’s will” when talking about the Iraq war or her 30 billion pipeline.

According to German Theologian Karl Rahner, “There are two kinds of people in the world: people who need certainty, and people who seek understanding.”

We’ve already seen what it’s like to have a leader who thinks he’s right about everything, and when he’s not right, gets the evidence changed.

It’s like my friend Dr. Bowen White says, “When you’re sure you’re right, you’re stuck with what you already know.”

How about we choose a veep who’s willing to seek understanding. Someone who makes intelligent, considered decisions based on the advice of knowledgeable people who may differ in their views. Someone who wants to aim a little higher than shooting wolves on the ground from helicopters.

(Here’s a video about Sarah’s wolf-hunting philosophy.)

© 2008 Greg Tamblyn, Motivational Humorist and Registered American Voter

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This is going to stretch your mind a little.

Reuben is exactly the same age as both his son-in-law and his father-in-law.

I can hear the wheels turning in your head: How is that possible? Wait, let me think about it a second….

(I’m going to explain it in the next paragraph, in case you’re a puzzle lover and want to figure it out first.)

Here’s how. Reuben’s daughter from his first wife married an older man, the same age as Reuben. Reuben’s second wife is a younger woman whose father is also the same age as Reuben.

That’s definitely one for Guinness.

Reuben retired from college teaching but didn’t like being retired. He bought a fast food franchise so he could get up at 4:00 every morning and bake muffins for his customers. He loves waking them up with coffee, chatting them up, and seeing their smiles as they chow down on fresh muffins.

Reuben and his wife were on one of our group trips to China. One night on the tour we learned that Reuben was 80 years old. Nobody could believe it. I would have guessed him at about 65 or even 60.

The next morning breakfast was served in the hotel lobby at some tables set up around reflecting pools. Reuben was a bit late and some of us were wondering where he was, when he and his big grin came striding across the lobby.

Some of the tables were placed close to the reflecting pools, and as Reuben crossed the corner of one pool, he missed his step. As we watched in horror, he fell backward like a big tall tree, hit the water spread-eagled in a reverse belly-flop, and made an enormous, raucous splash in the middle of the lobby.

In memory it seems like slow motion. We watched him teeter backwards, unable to right himself, and we all had the realization in the same split second that this 80 year old man was falling backwards into a shallow pool and there was nothing we could do about it! He’s older than we thought! Is this going to be a tragedy? What’s in the pool? Will he hit his head?

A second later, as we were scrambling out of our chairs, Reuben popped up in the knee-deep water, dripping wet. He gave us that big grin and said, “Anybody get that on film?”

Talk about comic relief. The Russian judge gave him a 9.0. Except for missing breakfast to change clothes, he was fine.

When I grow up I wanna be like Reuben.

© 2008 Greg Tamblyn, Motivational humorist and occasionally nervous tour guide

* Photos of one of our tours to China and Tibet.

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Some people have asked me lately how to be funny, and my first response used to be, “How the heck should I know — I’m not funny.” But on the other hand, people have been laughing at me a lot lately. So maybe I can offer some clues.

Great starting points are surprise and absurdity. Like seeing two things together that don’t belong together. In a little town north of Sacramento there’s a building by the highway with two businesses in it: a mortuary and an espresso shop. Think of the marketing possibilities: “Coffee to die for.” Or “Our coffee can wake the dead!”

Speaking of food and things that don’t go together, I’m more than a little queasy about this new trend of putting fast food joints inside filling stations. Like a Taco Bell inside a Texaco, for example. I keep having this vision of some mechanic with 30-weight oil on his hands making my tostada. Talk about stopping for gas! (Ba da bump.)

Exaggeration can be very effective. My writing partner Richard Helm and I started getting together in Nashville for the sole purpose of writing weird songs, just to entertain ourselves and take a break from trying to write formula hits. Sometimes we laugh all through a session just from taking an idea to extremes.

In our song, “Self-Employment Made Harder By Difficult Boss,” (inspired by an article by my brother Jeff), the singer applies all the usual complaints about bosses to himself. He doesn’t pay himself enough, he doesn’t give himself enough time off, he makes fun of himself behind his own back, and he sends himself too many interoffice memos. He even sues himself for sexual harassment. Finally he works it all out and feels he has a good chance for “employee of the year.” It’s pretty silly, but an audience favorite because there’s some truth in there. It’s just taken to extremes. That’s another aspect of humor: some of it works precisely because it really sets off your truth meter.

The title of that song is a good example of wordplay. Words are a great source of fun, like “The Shootout at the I’m OK, You’re OK Corral.” (Again, two things that don’t belong together.) That song title alone has snared me lots of bookings. Other famous song title examples are “I’d Rather Have a Bottle in Front of Me Than a Frontal Lobotomy,” “I’m So Miserable Without You, It’s Like You Were Here,” and “She Was Pure As The New Fallen Snow, But She Drifted.” (Nobody is better at wordplay than country songwriters.) If you’re a word person, try putting together words in new ways, or making up your own.

It helps to decide to adopt a humor mindset. Look for oddities. Decide to keep your mind tuned to the humor wavelength. Walk around smiling like you’ve just heard or seen something funny, and people will think you’re funny. Or at least fun. As Bernie Siegel suggests, look at the world through the eyes of a child, see the absurdities, then comment on them. Read the comics. Collect jokes. Save funny thoughts and ideas. Share them with people. Get used to doing it. Find stuff that makes you laugh and wallow in it. Movies, books, cartoons, writers. Keep a humor journal.

Think of your most embarrassing moments. Keep a mental file so you can bring them up at appropriate times. Ditto with other weird stories from your life. Self-effacing humor is the most connecting.

One of my friends always has some embarrassing story about herself. She told me about getting served a meal on a plane (two things that certainly don’t go together any more), and because she was sitting between two huge people there was no room for her arms. She couldn’t cut her food because her elbows kept banging into her breasts. That’s a great visual. And she’s got big, beautiful….laughter. (You thought I was going to say “breasts,” didn’t you! See, you were surprised.) A great laugh is a great asset. People like to be around good laughers, because it makes us laugh. It’s contagious. So don’t hold back. Laugh big.

You don’t have to always come up with the perfect line or just the right funny idea to say in every situation. But if you stay relaxed and don’t try too hard, you’ll come up with your share. You can be “sneaky” funny. When you unexpectedly blow one in there every so often, people will think you’re even funnier than you are, because they don’t expect it. (This pretty much sums up my whole career.)

I grew up with lots of friends who are much funnier and quicker than I am, including both of my brothers. Once or twice at a show I was introduced as a comedian, and I had to put a screeching halt to that, because it changes expectations. Real, professional comedians have brains from another planet. They’re wired differently, like they’re on permanent speed. So I use the word “humorist.” A humorist is a person who thinks slower than a comedian.

However, I have noticed that for some reason my ability to be funny increases when I’m on stage. I once heard George Carlin say that his comedy shows are like a stage play, he does them the exact same way every time. One thing this does is relax you, because you know what you’re going to say. Then some other, unused part of your brain is free to be playful and spontaneous, occasionally surprising you with a good line.

Knowing what you’re going to say on stage also helps you become good at repeatedly telling the same story in a way that’s funny. Sort of like an actor. It’s a skill you can develop, even if you’re not a performer.

A doctor friend of mine is a very funny guy to be around, and also a hilarious speaker and performer. He’s quick, good with words, has wild ideas, and loves to instantly change your state of mind by saying what you least expect at any moment. Sometimes you can see a little Cosby or Groucho in his delivery, so you know he’s paid attention to funny people. He’s also good at telling and retelling stories. But for all his funniness, he cannot tell, or even remember jokes. It’s amazing. He has what I call “joke disability.” It’s really bad. He just can’t remember them. And if he does try to retell one that I’ve just told him, it bombs. It’s not funny, except that it’s funny that he can’t do it. So we laugh about that. But he doesn’t need jokes. He’s great at spontaneous humor, and telling stories from his own life. So he plays to his strengths.

Another author and speaker friend who loves humor incorporates it into his shows in different kinds of ways: slides of cartoons, puns, and funny stories. Plus he’s great at telling jokes. It’s very effective. You play to your strengths.

So decide to have the humor mindset. Start slow, and build a little every week. Just figure out what entertains you, and share that with people. Remember to relax–let it come. Trying too hard to be funny will blow it every time. I’ve gotten some great laughs by just smiling when people were expecting a line. It’s better sometimes to just be silent and let them think you’re brilliant.

© 2008 Greg Tamblyn, Motivational Humorist and occasional funny person.

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