Frowned-Upon Gigglers Getting the Last Laugh

Over pizza and Coors, there’s a serious discussion going on at the Kalbreier house in Westminster--a serious discussion about laughing.

Cathi Kalbreier and Judy Carey are--or were--semi-celebrated because they laugh. Aloud and a lot. In public.

Imagine!

Fun and Frantic

Kalbreier and Carey have had their Warholian 15 minutes’ worth of fame. It was fun and frantic--at least for a couple of days after advice columnist Abigail Van Buren printed Kalbreier’s letter about laughing. Telephone calls and mail poured in from all over the country. (Two calls “from Abby herself! “)

One letter from 316419, Cell Block One, Huntsville, Tex., “looking for a pen pal . . . .”

Honorary lifetime membership in Laughmasters.

An invitation to appear on television in Long Beach.

An honest-to-goodness offer to give Kalbreier and Carey the thing, the “monstrosity” that set the whole thing off.

More letters, more calls. More yocks.

And then it was over. Just a comma in their lives. Actually, in retrospect, more like a question mark.

The event itself, one would think, was less than remarkable. A couple of married working women in their 30s, best friends, treating themselves to a day off, just the two of them.

A drive up the coast, lunch along the way, then inland to Solvang, a re-created Danish town northwest of Santa Barbara. A little rubbernecking, a browse through the tourist shops.

‘Unbelievably Ugly’

Just inside the entrance to the first shop was a lamp, on sale for $850.

“It was atrocious--unbelievably ugly,” Kalbreier says. “The base was pearlized in pink and white swirls over a bas-relief of little Mozart playing for Maria XIII in all her froufrou; then this huge beige shade with a million gawd-awful baubles dangling down.”

“Something my grandmother might have donated to a bingo game,” Carey says. “We wander off, our hands over our mouths, and Kalbreier whispers, ‘That is the ugliest thing I ever saw!’ It just set us off.”

“We went outside and just collapsed on a bench,” said Kalbreier. “We were clinging to each other; the tears were pouring down our cheeks. Then it started.”

“Even in the shop,” says Carey, “there were whispers, people staring, frowning. Making remarks: ‘I wonder how much they had to drink?’ ‘They’re stoned. They’ve got to be stoned . . . .’ ”

“We didn’t care, really,” says Kalbreier. “We weren’t going to let anybody spoil our day, and they didn’t. We had a great time, shopping, strolling, laughing the way we always do, all the way to Ventura, where we had dinner (and the waitress was reluctant to serve us).”

Back home, Kalbreier wrote to Dear Abby asking: “Why can’t I go out with my friend and laugh without social ostracism?

“Since then, I’ve had the time of my life,” she said.

Her letter appeared in papers throughout the country and then came the calls and letters . . . .

From Joan White of Syracuse: “There’s not enough sanctioned silliness.”

From Joan Cate of Rancho Santa Fe: “No smile is wasted, even on a stray dog.”

Letters from laugh lovers in Baltimore; Fort Myers, Fla.; Shirley, N.Y.; Winchester, Ky.; Snowflake, Ariz.; Caryville, Ind.; from old 316419 . . . .

And the calls, also from across the country, a lot of them just “wanting to laugh with the laughing lady,” Kalbreier says.

People don’t seem to laugh much any more. Not the way they used to. Laughing in public these days is . . . “suspect,” Kalbreier says.

“Maybe even in private,” Carey says with a giggle.

“Look at the driver next to you at a stop light. The sun’s out, the freeway flowers are in bloom, and you’d think he had 15 minutes to live.”

“Remember that marvelous old poem?” Kalbreier asks. “Maybe it ought to be revised: ‘Laugh and you laugh alone.’ ”

“Not alone,” corrects Carey, “not as long as you have a good friend and can recognize that life is . . . .”

“Ludicrous,” finishes Kalbreier.

They both break up.