Blake Schwendiman's Blog and Blook

There is a sweet spot in humor that occurs rarely when the facets of a good subject, good timing and good delivery all coincide. Finding a good subject is often not difficult, but delivering that subject very well at an appropriate time is often elusive to the human race. There are many good jokes (both physical and verbal) that fail for poor timing or poor execution. When either of the latter fails, the result can range from simply a joke that no one finds funny to the embarrassment of the joker. In my case, embarrassment has always been the typical result of my humor attempts.

At Madison Junior High school in the mid-1980’s, band and orchestra were the most commonly chosen elective classes in the school. The decision about which to take was made in sixth grade. Many students had been prepared by parents or older siblings and made an informed decision about which of the two electives they would choose. I had no older siblings and was therefore blindsided by the choice when presented to me. Doing what any uninformed sixth-grader would do, I chose an instrument at random from the very few instrument names that I recognized. The choices were French Horn (never heard of it), Percussion (if I had known then that this meant drums I would have chosen it), Saxophone (not interested), Tuba (nah), Sousaphone (what??), Trumpet (too common), Trombone. I chose trombone because I had both heard of it (humming seventy-six trombones in the big parade) and knew nothing about it. Perfect.

Teaching our junior high school band was likely the best band teacher ever in the history of band teachers (even better than Mr. Holland), Mr. Beck. Mr. Beck was the best band teacher because he could play any instrument in the band and he ruled the classroom in such a way that every student knew exactly who was in charge. When Mr. Beck lifted his baton, every eye in the band was on him. When he cut a song, it was cut – no straggling notes, no messing around. By ninth grade, Mr. Beck had produced a young band very capable of performing just about anything he chose.

Occasionally, just to mix things up, Mr. Beck let us have a little freedom in class. On some days we could sit anywhere in the classroom rather than with our instrument group. On one such day the band was practicing for an upcoming competition and I had chosen to sit in the trumpet section next to my best friend Soren. Being in such a mood, I decided that it was an appropriate time to exercise my humor.

First I sought a humorous subject. This was easy. Being fourteen years old, the obvious subject was flatulence. Not only was this a perfectly hilarious subject in itself, I had always been particularly adept in the area.

The next question to answer would be the question of delivery. Again, the band room provided all of the acoustical benefits to creating a superlative flatulent event. Not only were the overall acoustics of the room ideal, but we were also provided with molded plastic chairs which inherently amplify any embarrassing noises created when sitting. The subject and the delivery seemed ideal.

Next I had to focus on timing. It was imperative to deliver the event at a precise moment in the musical score such that it would be clearly heard by Soren, but muffled from the classroom at large. I was interested in humor, not embarrassment and considering that I was only a few years from the corn dog incident, I wasn’t completely comfortable with my social status at the time. There were some eighty students in the class, most of whom I was still trying to impress.

I waited and focused on my delivery. I had discontinued playing, but I was still carefully watching the music for my predetermined perfect moment. It approached. Three bars remaining. I focused. Two bars remaining. I lifted slightly. One bar remaining...

Fate has a phenomenal sense of humor. At the very instant that I began to bear down on the methane bubble in my lower intestine, Mr. Beck cut. He simply shot his baton downward in the well-known signal to stop playing and the band did exactly that.

One final personal note rang out against the new silence of the room. It clearly was not the sound of a trombone.

One hundred and sixty eyes fell on me immediately.

It took me about 0.0004 seconds to decide how to respond. I pointed at Soren and shot him a disgusted glance.