There is an old New York joke that goes like this: A tourist walks up to a New Yorker and asks “How do you get to Carnegie Hall?” The New Yorker answers “Practice, practice, practice.”
As it happens, this was one of the favorite jokes of a friend of mine back in college. Actually, he seemed to know every joke ever told or written. The man was a veritable encyclopedia of humor — the cornier the better.
So it seemed like karma itself one fine Spring afternoon as a group of us were walking around in midtown Manhattan, and a man in a very nice three piece suit walked up to us, and asked, in all seriousness and polite as could be, “Excuse me, can you please tell me how to get to Carnegie Hall?”
As if with one mind, we all turned to our friend. We understood, through some deeply shared tribal instinct, that the honor rightfully belonged to him. For this was truly his moment, the culmination of years of preparation, of careful study and devotion before the sacred alter of bad jokes.
He started to answer — you could tell he wanted to make it sound casual. And then, his mouth twisting into an odd shape, he began to giggle. The more he tried to control it, the worse the giggling became. He tried to talk through the giggling fit, but couldn’t quite get it under control. The helpless giggling evolved into a belly laugh, as the man in the suit looked on in complete incomprehension.
Finally, realizing that through sheer misfortune he had walked in on a group of madmen, the man in the suit turned on his heels and walked quickly away down the street.
As our friend’s giggles subsided, we all looked to him in sadness. It had been a once in a lifetime opportunity, and now it was gone.
Sometimes life can be so cruel.