Perhaps my sense of inadequacy is merely the result of location, of living in an area so densely populated by intelligent, well-educated people with sharp tongues and incisive wits.

It could have something to do with the fact that, as a victim of occasional childhood malice, I at some point decided to stop reproducing and wielding the kinds of barbs still festering in my own flesh. So much of humor has an element of pain or cruelty at its heart . . .

Maybe it’s that I’m just not the quickest thinker in casual, informal situations. The words that come easily when I’m discussing Victorian fiction with students too often abandon me when surrounded by the quick repartee and chaotic laughter of a social gathering.

And then there’s the undeniable fact that I lack a lot of the know-how to create the kind of jokes bursting all around me. (I’m one of the few who didn’t really appreciate Shrek II (2004), in part because a good number of the nods and winks at pop culture flew right by me.)

Or, it could be that I’m a very, very dull guy.

Nope . . . that’s not quite it. I can be pretty funny at times, but in a way most of my adult acquaintances are unlikely to witness.

My humor emerges most often around kids, and relies less on articulation than on sound manipulation. You see, I grew up with a dad whose brand of humor involved a mix of facial plasticity, physical caprice, aural wizardry, and a good measure of thoroughgoing silliness. When my sister and I were little kids, we loved it when he turned his prone body into a big bear trap and captured our chubby limbs in his vice-like grip. During my Star Wars phase (did I ever come out of that?), he regularly called home from work to address his son in the voice of Darth Vader or some other sci-fi character. And throughout my adulthood, he’s continued to surprise me with odd faces and other feats of tomfoolery.

And, as my daughters, my piano students, and some UNC underclassmen could tell you, I’ve become just like him.

Which may be why I enjoyed Nacho Libre (2006) so much, despite the criticism of some good friends. This movie is not really about its rags-to-riches (and frock-to-spandex) storyline, nor its questionable depiction of a popular Mexican entertainment industry. This Jack Black vehicle is about pure, unadulterated foolishness.

The movie trailer outlines the story, so I won’t repeat that. I’ll just toss you a few (to me) hilarious snapshots:

--a large and skinny man fighting desperately over a bag of stale nachos
--a couple munchkin wrestlers in bestial garb baying like hyenas as they pounce on our hero
--a sweetly spun love song rendered off-key in a half-whisper
--a man flapping around in a cape and tights who thinks he has absorbed the power and strength of an eagle

Thanks, Dad, for shaping my sense of humor. My appreciation of this movie owes you.

I owe you.