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Let’s go to the mailbag, shall we? Such an interesting question just arrived from Eric in San Mateo. He wants to know the difference between a “high-brow” and a “low-brow” joke. Ooh, interesting!

Well, at least as I’ve heard it used, this is a distinction that pretty much has to do with the set of cultural knowledge you need to have to get the joke. “High-brow” jokes presuppose a familiarity with high culture. “Low-brow” jokes assume you know your pro-wresters.

Frasier was the happy pasture of high-brow jokes. Remember how they used to use those title cards between scenes? In one episode one of the cards read “A Mall and the Night Visitors.” In order to get the joke, viewers had to have heard of the Menotti opera “Amahl and the Night Visitors.” That’s pretty high-brow.

A short-lived comedy that I loved as a child was called “Friends and Lovers,” about a concert bass player played by Paul Sand. He entered one scene while descending from the stage brushing at his sleeves. He explained that the last movement had been so passionately performed that he was “covered in conductor hair.” The fact that you need some familiarity with the head-shaking habits of orchestral conductors — well, that makes it high-brow. The same joke could be altered to be about a heavy-metal band (front row fan exclaims excitedly that he’s covered in lead guitarist hair) and now it’s low-brow. See the difference? Johann Sebastian Bach = high-brow. Sebastian Bach = low-brow.

I’m sure you’re seeing by now that this distinction doesn’t line up neatly with good jokes or bad jokes. It also doesn’t line up with smart jokes and dumb jokes. You can make smart jokes that require knowledge of low culture and dumb jokes that rely on knowing high culture.

And sometimes it gets really complicated. When Niles Crane pretends to be interested in a book called “The Legends of NASCAR,” and pronounces it Nazkhar, as if it were an Arabian citadel, is that high-brow or low? It requires that the audience know what NASCAR really is, and that they laugh at Niles for not knowing it… which seems low-brow. On the other hand, his apparent assumption that it’s some little-known exotic location — well, it’s a kind of high-brow assumption. A puzzler!

If you’ve got characters making any joke that reflects a cultural background that you’re not very familiar with — high, low or whatever, make an effort to get it right. If your character is supposed to know about opera, don’t make every one of their jokes refer to fat German women just because you’ve only heard of Wagner. Similarly, if your character is supposed to know about cock-fighting, don’t just make up a bunch of likely-sounding terminology. Do some research. Also, the jokes will get better. Specificity is one of the main ingredients in humor, so the more you know about a subject, the more likely you are to be able to be funny about it, whether your own brow is naturally low, high or uni.

(In other mailbag news — I’m very sorry Jackie in Australia, but I’m not allowed to read the writing you sent to me. Thank you though, for *wanting* to send it to me!)

Lunch: hot udon soup with mentaiko (spicy cod roe)

UPDATE: Menotti died the day after I posted this. How weird is that?

Remember when I told you that TV writers refer to exposition as “pipe”? Well, we do. Knowing that will help you understand this wonderful inside joke that I saw on an episode of Sci Fi Channel’s Eureka. (The first line is from memory, so it’s not exact.)

TAGGART
We’re in some kind of labyrinth under Eureka. This must be part of the original network of conduits that takes care of the town’s water and electricity and gas and sewage.

JO
That’s a lot of pipe.

Hee! I love that. It’s one of the first true inside jokes I’ve ever heard. No, wait. It’s one of the first true inside jokes I’ve ever *understood*. Yeah, that’s right.

As long as we’re here, it’s worth spending a moment to think about why exposition is called “pipe.” It’s actually a really apt analogy… exposition is there to supply information that you’re going to need later in the script. The trick with pipe is that savvy viewers/readers tend to be able to spot it, and then they can guess where the story is going.

“Why are they telling me all this stuff about how you need a retinal scan to get through that particular door?”, you think to yourself. “Hmm… that’s going to come around later.” “Why are they making a big point about how he never knew his father? Ohh… I bet that older dude’s going to turn out to be his father.” This is all probably stuff you don’t want your readers figuring out. So you have to hide the pipe.

An excellent way to do this is to make it look decorative. Pipe in a script is only obvious when it serves no obvious function. Make the exposition seem to *have* a function and it will go unnoticed. Make it into a joke, for example. Have someone mishear the word “retinal scan” and start to take their pants off… Ha! (psst… rectal, they thought it was a rectal scan) Now it seems like the bit was there to set up the joke, and no one realizes they’ve been piped. Or, for example, make who gets to deliver the exposition a matter of conflict between two characters. Now it seems like *that* was the function of the line, to further the conflict. Just give it some other reason for being there.

Paint the pipe bright red and tell people it’s art.

Lunch: Koo Koo Roo — chicken with yams and cucumber salad. Quite nice. The surface of a Koo Koo Roo chicken is so good, order enough so you don’t have to eat the insides. Mmm… surface.

Okay, I just had an interesting realization. I don’t know why this is only now occurring to me, but it’s huge, and I have to apologize. This whole thing about writing original pieces instead of specs for existing shows? This whole thing that turned our world upside down? Forget it. Forg. Et. It.

Know why? Because I’m an idiot, that’s why. Because I forgot that the ABC/Disney Writing Fellowship Program still only accepts specs for shows currently in production. And that’s one of the only open doors in town. It’s the BEST open door in town. It’s the door I want you, gentle readers, to storm en masse.

The advice about writing spec pilots, short plays and short film scripts is for those of you who either already have an agent, or those of you who are submitting material to prospective agents. Most of you, however, are not doing that yet. Most of you are trying to get that first foothold. And the name of that foothold is still, “Wanna read my Grey’s Anatomy?”

To you, gentle readers, I apologize. And to ABC, may I just say that you might want to consider changing your submission policy. If the pieces you’re asking to see no longer reflect the material that young writers will need in order to get work… well, then.

Lunch: scrambled eggs with hot sauce and tortillas

You know what gag I’ve seen far, far too often? Kicking or slamming the piece of finely-calibrated high-tech equipment to get it to work. I’ve seen it so often now that I’m surprised when it *doesn’t* happen. I want to put it into a script just so I can show the device shattering while everyone yells, “Why did you do that?! You *knew* it was delicate! That cost a thrillion dollars and now we have no way to prevent the killer avalanche!”

HOWEVER, there is a really great reason that this gag occurs so often. It’s kind of perfect because it’s totally designed to undercut a serious moment with lots of technical mumbo-jumbo in it by bringing in a real, human, recognizable instinct to just slam the thing. And then, when, against all reason, it *works*, it’s not just gratifying because the danger is averted, it’s also a symbolic victory for the human factor. It wasn’t the machine that solved the problem, it was the solid, practical human who smacked it. Yay, human!

In other words, it’s going to take all your strength to resist this. But I urge you to try. I just can’t take it any more.

Lunch: leftover pad thai. When it’s been in the fridge overnight, it sort of compresses and turns itself into kugel — a lovely crossing of ethno-religious boundaries that makes me happy.

Remember the Brady Bunch episode with the house of cards? No? Oh right. You’re young, aren’t you? Well, do you remember playing Jenga? Same thing, pretty much. When a structure is delicately balanced, making any addition, any subtraction, or any change at all, can bring the whole thing down.

I’m working with a script this evening in which I needed to remove a small plot element. A character can no longer raise a certain topic in a certain scene. But it had always been the raising of that topic that led to a certain disclosure by another character that is still crucial to the scene. House of cards! Jenga!

It’s so tempting, as the writer faced with this situation, to point out the impending collapse of your structure and make it an argument for not making the change. But… just maybe… there’s another way to get that second character to make that disclosure. In this case, there was. As soon as I calmed down and seriously considered other approaches to the scene, I discovered another way to prompt the disclosure that was, in fact, far *more* natural than the original configuration.

It’s important to notice that this is really about a mental adjustment. There is a moment in which you decide to embrace the change instead of examining it for pitfalls. Sometimes you still end up falling in the pit. Other times, you find serendipitous new options.

Lunch: “Enchiladas Verduras” at Mexicali on Ventura followed by a “doughnut muffin” from Big Sugar Bakeshop. Fantastic. Just like a doughnut but shaped like a muffin.

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