As part of my ongoing effort to remain a quasi-informed citizen, I was browsing The New York Times' e-mail edition the other day when I noticed an odd headline: \At the Gift Shop: Souvenirs of Buchenwald.""
Apparently, in a move to connect younger visitors several generations removed from Holocaust history, the Buchenwald camp in Germany has enlisted university design students to come up with tasteful versions of the hitherto beyond-taboo concentration camp souvenir.
The article was rather thought-provoking, but of course, per my reflex response when confronted with such material, I immediately imagined several counterexamples of the tasteless trinkets they were out to avoid.
But the difference was, this time, like an actual, decent human being with a functional set of scruples, I felt horrible about it.
Could I, a woman who regularly makes light of all manner of death and suffering with downright abandon (for honestly, when you're mindful of your company, it harms none), have found an instance that did not elicit instantaneous laughter?
The subject matter was not to blame, I concluded, as I often express my confident body image by declaring my pale, bony physique as definitively ""rockin' the Auschwitz Chic."" So I had to wonder, could I be losing my passion for dark humor spectrum-wide?
It was just too big a shock to my established affective order to have to experience at 8:30 a.m. I was tossed into a momentary tailspin of self-doubt, which fortunately did not end embarrassingly in a marsh, but still constituted no small disruption considering my history.
You see, I relish dead baby jokes. My own mother bought me ""The Book of Bunny Suicides"" as an Easter gift. The highlight of my summer quite possibly was witnessing a giant fish surface to devour in one bite the caboose of a line of ducklings swimming in Lake Mendota. (Well, it was definitely in the top three.)
My refrigerator is adorned with ""Goodbye, Kitty"" magnets, parodies of an innocent little cartoon kitten meeting its end at the blades, waves and exposed heating elements of assorted kitchen appliances.
I also collect markedly morbid Strange News stories: of Texas cross-country runners getting run down while praying by the roadside; of an Italian retiree sweeping unwanted hamsters off his balcony onto passing traffic; of a Romanian man complaining to Consumer Protection that the rope he tried to hang himself with was defective because it was too easily cut by meddling relatives.
But then, recalling such tales reminded me that though there are some things like cancer, (certain) mental illness and, you know, horrific acts of state-sanctioned mass murder, that some of the time just aren't funny, this does not make a love for gallows humor any less true.
Indeed, the important thing is having the emotional response, the simple act of reveling in a snatch of humanity the world has yet to deaden, not the particular form it takes.
So, in that spirit, on your next visit to a concentration camp, be sure to stop by the revamped, utterly void-of-shame gift shop and get yourself a cool wind-up death-march figurine, a fun and educational Young Dr. Mengele Science Kit and the latest must-have desk accessory, a crematory-ash snow globe.
Holly Noe's column runs each Friday. Share your favorite unseemly joke at flamingpurvis@yahoo.com.
