"The chief value of money lies in the fact that one lives in a world in which it is overestimated."

H.L. Mencken

In another one of those grand ironies that recall the immortal and unforgettable words of C+C Music Factory, to wit: "Things That Make You Go, Hmmm", I marked the passage of George Carlin from this Earthly Plain with a keen sense of loss. I had just spent the entree segment of a dinner discussion discussing his brand of humor (I like to call it "observational comedy") with a friend the weekend just preceding Carlin’s death. Everyone agreed that his comedic genius (shared by Bill Cosby and few others) was funny for the simple reason that he observed commonplace human behavior and, with a twist and a turn and a sprinkling of logic (which never should be applied to human behavior without the expectation of a belly laugh) made them seem so irredeemably idiotic, ludicrous and silly. As I recall, my most original contribution to the conversation was that Carlin was a prime example of why I didn’t drink alcohol, much less do drugs.

Allow me to elaborate: I have been convinced for quite a few years that life, in general, and people, in particular, are entirely too amusing to experience while wasted, tipsy or canoodled - whatever you choose to call it, even a little. Why sit through this magnificent farce the least bit loopy when you just might miss some of the show? Would you get tipsy before an opera or, at the other end of the cultural spectrum, a Michael Bay movie? I understand that some - using any excuse at all to chug down a few beers or smoke a joint (or three) - would chose to watch Phantom of the Opera or Transformers wasted. To each his own, surely, though, personally, I wouldn’t enjoy it nearly as much as when sober. In my opinion (and that’s worth about a nickle, before taxes, on the open market), you miss much of the nuance, the details and the subtlety. That’s just me, teetotaler to the end.

And life is no different from any other form of entertainment. You just can’t get the full flavor and depth of the insanity and inanity (I meant to use both words as they both apply) of normal human life with a haze before your eyes and a cloud over your brain. It’s decidedly more entertaining when you are a Born-Again, totally dunked, evangelical and, thus, clear-eyed in search of sin and stone-cold sober and everyone else is, well, not. My most recent confirmation of that little bit of wisdom was a wedding reception I attended a couple of weekends back. The parents of the bride made the unfortunate choice of having an open bar with the live entertainment and, as anyone might guess, the mix made for a thoroughly amusing event for that small fraction of attendees that stayed true to their inhibitions. Both of us, at least, where able to describe the carnival the next day.

I know you may well ask: "If that is true, why are comedians notoriously drug addicts?" After all, Carlin’s idol, Lenny Bruce, died of a drug overdose, Richard Pryor damned near had a bar-b-q with himself as the entree and John Belushi and John Candy had appetites for food and drugs that matched their physiques. Even further back, Artemus Ward - the comedian who first inspired Mark Twain, himself - as a notorious imbiber of spirits (and, possibly, much else) and died at the ripe old age of 34. Many lesser names have met their end at the end of a needle the bottom of a bottle or at business end of crack pipe. My rebuttal would be that I do not believe that comedy comes from drug use any more than any other artistic gift, such as acting, composing, singing or painting. I do believe that comedic genius is more common in people with a distinct depressive personality and, because of that, are more prone to drug addiction than the general population. If there is a connection between comedians and addictive behavior it is that comedians are, often, some of the most depressed people on the planet. It is often their ability to find the humor in their world that prevents comics from blowing their brains out in adolescence.

I will end the necessary digression at that. The original point remains: life and the people in it are just too inherently amusing to be adequately appreciated through chemical enhancement. And, further, people who are chemically "enhanced" are even funnier. Thus, when I go to the zoo, the one populated by humans or lower beast, I do not feel the need to alter my senses. The show is just too comical to take the chance of missing anything. And if the animals at either of the zoos are, perchance, drunk, then the amusement is even better.

If you haven’t really appreciated the show, you simply haven’t been watching. Next time you go to a party or, really, any social gathering, make a point of talking as little as possible and simply concentrate on watching and listening. Instead of trying to be at the center of attention, take the night off and be a wallflower. Which is to say, pretend you are taking in a play or the theater. I make you this guarantee: the panorama of human idiosyncrasies, buncombe, self-delusions, shallowness and insincerities is way better than anything ever seen on stage or screen. And, as an added bonus, you can’t beat the price!

The human panorama is truly a spectacle that rivals any of nature’s attractions in the wild. A night at the aforementioned wedding reception provided more lasting memories than a trip to the Serengeti or any fishing or hunting venture you might care to undertake. Take me at my word on this. The wildebeests and zebras crossing the Mara River, imperiled by sudden death at the teeth of the giant crocodiles or the claws of waiting prides of lion, cannot carry a candle to a 18 year old female, seductively dressed, leaving the dance floor seat unattended at besotted wedding reception to resume her repose. The unattached males, lying in wait not unlike the lions of the Mara, jockey for position and, without warning, attack. Claws, teeth and cunning replaced by slurred speech, a total disregard for gentility and, compounding their adolescent clumsiness with a staggering approach, they attempt to lure the young maiden back onto the dance floor for what they hope will be a pre-mating tribal-esque dance. If turned aside for halitosis, bad skin, poor personal hygiene or simply being recognized as the predator they are, the beast simply returns to his pride mates and, regrouping, begins to re-ascend the order to attack again, anon.

Now hurrying into traditional defensive mode, the maiden, alert to danger (or at least the smell of it), starts surrounding herself with her "posse" - typically homely (the attractive maidens have their own predator problems and do not wish to be caught in someone else’s crossfire) but stouthearted ladies - who proceed to provide a buffer around the endangered fawn. The next time she soirees across the kill zone of the beast in waiting, she can more easily elude their attacks as her ladies-in-waiting deflect the most inept of the beasts. If the young prey does, perchance, see a worthy suitor in the pride, now in disarray, she can discretely signal to her ladies to disperse and she allows the favored attacker to entire her circle. After the young male and female sniff, exchange a few primal grunts (barely heard over the din of the band) and check each others teeth, approval is granted. The courting rituals may commence.

The ladies-in-waiting, convinced that their charge has voluntarily acceded to the predator’s advances, take their leave. A few of the previously shunned lions, both their eye sight and cerebrums sufficiently impaired to accept the sage wisdom that "any port in the storm" might suffice, tarry after the entourage as they disperse. Hoping against hope that amongst the humble, equally forlorn and irremediably plain females they might find solace, they furtively linger on the darkened fringes of the floor, wishing not to be seen enacting their clumsy, desperate efforts. It is in this way that the young, inexperienced predators may hone their techniques for future, more desirable quarry. Cruel to our eyes, yes, but it is the way of the savage beasts.

Such is life in the wild. It doesn’t matter if it is the struggle for life and death on the plains of Africa or the equally treacherous, in its own fashion, hunt in the human zoo. Both are entertaining, instructive, detestable and, for the intrepid anthropologist, quite suitable for gawking. Personally, being the thoroughly curious George that I am, I can’t get enough of the games people play. How anyone can actually admit that they "are bored with life", I will never understand. When the whole range of human folly, decadence, tomfoolery, insanity and lunacy is on display everywhere one might care to glance, how can one be weary of this carnival?

When you think you are bored or, Heaven Forbid It!, feel a tad depressed, try this little game: make it a point to immediately seek out a gathering of your fellow Boobus americanus and do this: pretend you are Margaret Mead or Jacques Cousteau and you have been dropped into a new "civilization" (loosely applied) for the purpose of reporting back on its activities and patterns of behavior. Leave all your preconceptions (which is to say, what you think you know but actually don’t) behind. Just watch and listen. Cultivate this habit by repeating the exercise over and over. In a short period of time you will have cast boredom forever from your mind, alleviated depression faster than a speeding Prozac and stored enough belly laughs to last you the rest of your life.

Who needs George Carlin? In truth, why listen to a radio broadcast of the goings-on at the zoo? Buy a ticket and take a front row set! Ringling Brothers got it wrong: Life is the greatest show on earth, bar none.