Outrider
- Thread starter Sammy
- Start date
(IO cancelled shows last week Wednesday and last night because of the Cubs games--the Home Run Kids lost a show last night because of this. Three TVs with bunny ears were put on the stage and the theater became an impromptu sports bar for the evening. So the theater was full of Cubs fans who didn't get into Bar Louie or Sluggers or Barley Corn or Cubbie Bear or... Anyways, the shows tonight will probably be cancelled as well.)
Sitting in the IO cabaret Tuesday night, surrounded by Cubs fans watching TVs set up on the stage, it was hard not to think about the weird love/hate relationship improvisors have with Wrigleyville.
I've been told that not even ten years ago, the area around Wrigley Field was for shit--run down and kinda shady. Now, Wrigleyville is a destination for both recreation AND habitation. Lakeview, the greater neighborhood Wrigleyville is a part of, is a thriving, vibrant neighborhood that has something for everyone: Sports Bars for the drinkers, Ethnic Restaurants for the eaters, Cool Shops for the hipsters, Book Stores for the nerdsters and the Lake Front for everybody. Also, Lakeview has three CTA EL lines and numerous bus routes running through it, another huge plus for people to move into the neighborhood.
And ImprovOlympic, The Playground, WNEP, ComedySportz, Lake Shore Theater and Stage Left, as well as all the usual rehearsal spots, are all within walking distance for the Wrigleyville actor/improvisor.
While the Cubs are not totally responsible for the resurgence of the area, they are one of the driving forces behind it.
But with the Cubs come Cubs fans.
And the source of many of the downsides of living in Wrigleyville.
Drunk fratboys, drunk screaming girls, alley pissers, sidewalk puke pools, slow walking tourists, crowds everywhere you go, crap parking that only gets crappier...
The Cubs are only allowed so many night games a year (12? Soon to be 18?) and those nights always seem to try the nerves, because between fighting the crowd to get to IO for warm-ups and then fighting them to get home after the show can be a bit stressful. Day games can be just as bad because the game finishes about the time you're arriving at the theater, so you have packs of Cubs fans yelling and walking and pissing and puking all over the fucking place...but at least, if it's a weekday, you know things will be much quieter when you head home later that night (and hopefully, no drunk Cubs fans wander into the theater to see a show and yap the entire time).
Yes, I know that I'm the one that chose to move to Wrigleyville, but it was always the unspoken agreement that the Cubs would do fine in the beginning of the season, hit the June swoon and all is right with the world come October.
Obviously, that didn't happen this year.
The nice thing is that there is this energy, this nervousness in the air that perks you up as you walk down the street before a game. You see and then are caught up in a river of Cubbie blue jackets and hats and shirts streaming toward Wrigley. During the game, every bar, every car and every house seems to have the Cubbies on. You hear the hoots and hollers of people watching their TVs a second or two before the roar from Wrigley washes over you. Folks on the street scramble to the nearest open bar window and demand, "What happened!?" As you walk east on Addison and pass Racine, the trees lining the street thin, the neon glow grows stronger and the sound of the crowd grows louder.
You hit the corner.
Addison and Clark.
Wrigley Field.
People yell across the street, people yell at each other, people yell into their cell phones, people yell just to yell; your world is a jagged soundscape of shouts and car honks with the constant, almost soothing, white noise of the stadium crowd in the background.
Sometimes the street drummers with their big white buckets and machine gun rythms demand your attention. Othertimes, it's the calls of "Easy Out Parking!" All the while, canned announcements from Wrigley Field echo through the neighborhood.
When you make that turn south on Clark, you work against the crowd--you're the heathen with his back to Mecca. You smell the cigar smoke of the nasty looking parking lot attendant (the one you think is homeless), you catch snatches of conversation from the open Bar Louie windows, you step into the recessed IO entrance, see a teammate and all you can think is:
"I hate the fucking Cubs."
Sitting in the IO cabaret Tuesday night, surrounded by Cubs fans watching TVs set up on the stage, it was hard not to think about the weird love/hate relationship improvisors have with Wrigleyville.
I've been told that not even ten years ago, the area around Wrigley Field was for shit--run down and kinda shady. Now, Wrigleyville is a destination for both recreation AND habitation. Lakeview, the greater neighborhood Wrigleyville is a part of, is a thriving, vibrant neighborhood that has something for everyone: Sports Bars for the drinkers, Ethnic Restaurants for the eaters, Cool Shops for the hipsters, Book Stores for the nerdsters and the Lake Front for everybody. Also, Lakeview has three CTA EL lines and numerous bus routes running through it, another huge plus for people to move into the neighborhood.
And ImprovOlympic, The Playground, WNEP, ComedySportz, Lake Shore Theater and Stage Left, as well as all the usual rehearsal spots, are all within walking distance for the Wrigleyville actor/improvisor.
While the Cubs are not totally responsible for the resurgence of the area, they are one of the driving forces behind it.
But with the Cubs come Cubs fans.
And the source of many of the downsides of living in Wrigleyville.
Drunk fratboys, drunk screaming girls, alley pissers, sidewalk puke pools, slow walking tourists, crowds everywhere you go, crap parking that only gets crappier...
The Cubs are only allowed so many night games a year (12? Soon to be 18?) and those nights always seem to try the nerves, because between fighting the crowd to get to IO for warm-ups and then fighting them to get home after the show can be a bit stressful. Day games can be just as bad because the game finishes about the time you're arriving at the theater, so you have packs of Cubs fans yelling and walking and pissing and puking all over the fucking place...but at least, if it's a weekday, you know things will be much quieter when you head home later that night (and hopefully, no drunk Cubs fans wander into the theater to see a show and yap the entire time).
Yes, I know that I'm the one that chose to move to Wrigleyville, but it was always the unspoken agreement that the Cubs would do fine in the beginning of the season, hit the June swoon and all is right with the world come October.
Obviously, that didn't happen this year.
The nice thing is that there is this energy, this nervousness in the air that perks you up as you walk down the street before a game. You see and then are caught up in a river of Cubbie blue jackets and hats and shirts streaming toward Wrigley. During the game, every bar, every car and every house seems to have the Cubbies on. You hear the hoots and hollers of people watching their TVs a second or two before the roar from Wrigley washes over you. Folks on the street scramble to the nearest open bar window and demand, "What happened!?" As you walk east on Addison and pass Racine, the trees lining the street thin, the neon glow grows stronger and the sound of the crowd grows louder.
You hit the corner.
Addison and Clark.
Wrigley Field.
People yell across the street, people yell at each other, people yell into their cell phones, people yell just to yell; your world is a jagged soundscape of shouts and car honks with the constant, almost soothing, white noise of the stadium crowd in the background.
Sometimes the street drummers with their big white buckets and machine gun rythms demand your attention. Othertimes, it's the calls of "Easy Out Parking!" All the while, canned announcements from Wrigley Field echo through the neighborhood.
When you make that turn south on Clark, you work against the crowd--you're the heathen with his back to Mecca. You smell the cigar smoke of the nasty looking parking lot attendant (the one you think is homeless), you catch snatches of conversation from the open Bar Louie windows, you step into the recessed IO entrance, see a teammate and all you can think is:
"I hate the fucking Cubs."
The Second City Tour Co auditions begin today.
The IO Schedule comes out this week.
Change is in the air...
* * *
On Sunday, I took an audition workshop taught by Liz Cackowski. Not only did she give us great insight into the audition process, she also gave us tools and strategies to take into the audition itself. It was very enlightening--especially for someone like me who hasn't auditioned in two years because I cast and produce my own little improv projects. This is a good time to be auditioning because there are only two understudies right now, two Tour Co people are leaving soon and (unofficially) another two are planning to leave also. So, all three Second City Touring Companies will be looking for people.
One of the most surprising things was the caliber of performers who were taking the workshop. I was really surprised at who was in it. Performers who rock my world also were there to pick up tips and pointers along with the audition newbies. It definitely made me feel a bit better about being rusty at auditioning and having to take a workshop.
Tuesday morning I strut my stuff.
Cross those fingers folks.
* * *
Word has begun to trickle around IO. You trade info. You compare rumors. And slowly, you piece together the Schedule (maybe) before it actually comes out. It's a weird little conversational dance. So far, I know about some teams cut and some teams combined...
...but it all means nothing until you get a hard copy in your hands.
* * *
The Bruise played on opening night for Dirty South Improv's production of "And Guest..." Jeff Griggs sat in for Charlie McCrackin (who was out of town). True to form, we showed up at wildly different times, didn't warm up, took the stage and proceeded to have a silly and, for me, brutally physical show--I bruised up and cut my leg AND popped my thumb in-and-out of joint. I didn't realize I had hurt my thumb until the adrenaline from the show had worn off and my hand began to swell and hurt like a sonofabitch. An icepack and a couple of beers later at Joey's "Little House on the Party" pad and I was fine.
But, damn, I earned our name that night.
The IO Schedule comes out this week.
Change is in the air...
* * *
On Sunday, I took an audition workshop taught by Liz Cackowski. Not only did she give us great insight into the audition process, she also gave us tools and strategies to take into the audition itself. It was very enlightening--especially for someone like me who hasn't auditioned in two years because I cast and produce my own little improv projects. This is a good time to be auditioning because there are only two understudies right now, two Tour Co people are leaving soon and (unofficially) another two are planning to leave also. So, all three Second City Touring Companies will be looking for people.
One of the most surprising things was the caliber of performers who were taking the workshop. I was really surprised at who was in it. Performers who rock my world also were there to pick up tips and pointers along with the audition newbies. It definitely made me feel a bit better about being rusty at auditioning and having to take a workshop.
Tuesday morning I strut my stuff.
Cross those fingers folks.
* * *
Word has begun to trickle around IO. You trade info. You compare rumors. And slowly, you piece together the Schedule (maybe) before it actually comes out. It's a weird little conversational dance. So far, I know about some teams cut and some teams combined...
...but it all means nothing until you get a hard copy in your hands.
* * *
The Bruise played on opening night for Dirty South Improv's production of "And Guest..." Jeff Griggs sat in for Charlie McCrackin (who was out of town). True to form, we showed up at wildly different times, didn't warm up, took the stage and proceeded to have a silly and, for me, brutally physical show--I bruised up and cut my leg AND popped my thumb in-and-out of joint. I didn't realize I had hurt my thumb until the adrenaline from the show had worn off and my hand began to swell and hurt like a sonofabitch. An icepack and a couple of beers later at Joey's "Little House on the Party" pad and I was fine.
But, damn, I earned our name that night.
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Magnificent Bastards. All of 'em.
* * *
I left work at 10 and made it over to Second City via the Brown Line around 10:30. On the way to Piper's Alley, where all the SC theaters are located, I ran into some people I knew (Rebecca Hanson, Chad Reinhart, Scott Goodman, Angela Faruggia) who had just auditioned. We chatted a bit and went our separate ways. I went to Starbucks, ran into another improvisor (Erin), grabbed the Trib's sports section and tried to forget why the hell I was there.
No dice.
Every time I looked out the window, it seemed like I saw an improvisor I knew. Every time I closed my eyes and tried to focus on something, anything (!), other than improv all I could do was think of initiations and characters and scenes and what ifs and what thens.
So I gave up.
I just sat there, nibbled on my Banana Nut Bread, slurped my Grande Soy Mocha (with whip) and let my mind wander. I knew there was no way to rein in my nervous A.D.D. brain, so I tried to enjoy anxiety-induced ride while the bank clock on the other side of Wells took forever to reach 11:15 a.m.
I knew how I wanted to attack this audition. I knew that I would be playing with people I was familiar with (but didn't know exactly who just yet). I knew who would be auditing us. I knew that I would be nervous no matter how cool and casual I wanted to be.
I finally left Starbucks and took the escalators up to the top floor of Piper's Alley. John Lutz's laughter echoed down from Donny's Skybox "lounge" area. (Lutz, a current Tour Co performer, would be our warm-up/advice guy for the auditions.)
After checking in, I finally found out who I would be auditioning with. Eric Rutherford. Marc Ovies. Shelly Gossman. Ryan Gowland. Katie Nahnsen. Cesar Jamie.
The last couple of weeks, I had made it a point not to find out who I would be playing with...it was a superstition thing. Now that I knew who I was with, I was totally blown away by who I would be doing scenes with--I knew everybody and everybody was a damn fine player! We chatted and yapped for a bit before Lutz took us next door to the Training Center and to warm us up. We did a simple name game / "yes" exercise. Lutz then gave us a little advice on the audition and told us that we were very lucky to be playing with such a talented group of people in our audition. He was about take us back out to the Skybox when a new person, that none of us knew, arrived.
Lutz had mentioned someone was running late earlier, but I forgot about it once warm-ups began. Well, here she was. I felt a bit awkward--everyone in the group had either played with each other in the past, currently performed in an ensemble with one another or at least hung out socially...and now this girl was stepping into this unknowingly. Not only that, she had missed the warm-ups and the banter of earlier. We did a quick round of introductions and then stepped out into the Skybox lounge.
Beth Klingerman popped out from the theater to grab our headshots and told us it'd be a few minutes.
Waiting for Beth to come out again felt like forever.
During that wait, that's when it hit; that's when it all felt real--that I was auditioning for Second City. After years of training and performing, I finally felt comfortable auditioning again at Second City and this was my moment to step out and serve notice that I was a solid player.
During the sleepness night before, I thought about some of my improv heroes who have never performed at Second City, like Joe Bill, Mark Sutton and Paul Gronde. You don't need SC to succeed, but it's definitely a rush to be a part of such a storied organization.
The other underlying motivation I had was to have a solid audition in front of Marc Warzecha (former SC Detroit Mainstage, current TourCo di) and Nancy Hayden (also former SC Detroit, current SC Detroit producer). None of the people who I really looked up to in Detroit who have moved to Chicago have seen me perform. I really wanted to do well just to show that, hey, I came out here, put in the time and I'm doing alright...and if I ever moved back to Detroit, maybe I could leverage a solid audition into a SC Detroit TourCo understudy gig.
Beth came back out and we headed into the Skybox.
Mick Napier was running the audition. Even though Mick's not a current SC director or performer, SC respects him enough to have Mick run things. We got on the stage, listened to Mick's quick audition advice spiel and began the standard SC audition--intros, quick scenes, slower two-person scenes, pick-up scenes.
To start an SC audition, the group lines up on the stage. One by one, the performers introduce themselves by saying their names and then revealing one non-theater related fact about themself. I ended up being the last one and went with, "My name is Sammy Tamimi. My mother is Filipino. My Father is Palestinian. And at least once a day, no matter where I am in Chicago, the Loop, in a restaurant, wherever, some one tries to speak Spanish to me. I'm trying to teach myself Italian, but I'm considering learning Spanish just to make my life easier."
Eric Rutherford, bless his heart, simply said, "I'm Eric Rutherford and I want a saxaphone."
Intros complete, Mick began the audition in earnest...
(to be finished tomorrow morning)
* * *
I left work at 10 and made it over to Second City via the Brown Line around 10:30. On the way to Piper's Alley, where all the SC theaters are located, I ran into some people I knew (Rebecca Hanson, Chad Reinhart, Scott Goodman, Angela Faruggia) who had just auditioned. We chatted a bit and went our separate ways. I went to Starbucks, ran into another improvisor (Erin), grabbed the Trib's sports section and tried to forget why the hell I was there.
No dice.
Every time I looked out the window, it seemed like I saw an improvisor I knew. Every time I closed my eyes and tried to focus on something, anything (!), other than improv all I could do was think of initiations and characters and scenes and what ifs and what thens.
So I gave up.
I just sat there, nibbled on my Banana Nut Bread, slurped my Grande Soy Mocha (with whip) and let my mind wander. I knew there was no way to rein in my nervous A.D.D. brain, so I tried to enjoy anxiety-induced ride while the bank clock on the other side of Wells took forever to reach 11:15 a.m.
I knew how I wanted to attack this audition. I knew that I would be playing with people I was familiar with (but didn't know exactly who just yet). I knew who would be auditing us. I knew that I would be nervous no matter how cool and casual I wanted to be.
I finally left Starbucks and took the escalators up to the top floor of Piper's Alley. John Lutz's laughter echoed down from Donny's Skybox "lounge" area. (Lutz, a current Tour Co performer, would be our warm-up/advice guy for the auditions.)
After checking in, I finally found out who I would be auditioning with. Eric Rutherford. Marc Ovies. Shelly Gossman. Ryan Gowland. Katie Nahnsen. Cesar Jamie.
The last couple of weeks, I had made it a point not to find out who I would be playing with...it was a superstition thing. Now that I knew who I was with, I was totally blown away by who I would be doing scenes with--I knew everybody and everybody was a damn fine player! We chatted and yapped for a bit before Lutz took us next door to the Training Center and to warm us up. We did a simple name game / "yes" exercise. Lutz then gave us a little advice on the audition and told us that we were very lucky to be playing with such a talented group of people in our audition. He was about take us back out to the Skybox when a new person, that none of us knew, arrived.
Lutz had mentioned someone was running late earlier, but I forgot about it once warm-ups began. Well, here she was. I felt a bit awkward--everyone in the group had either played with each other in the past, currently performed in an ensemble with one another or at least hung out socially...and now this girl was stepping into this unknowingly. Not only that, she had missed the warm-ups and the banter of earlier. We did a quick round of introductions and then stepped out into the Skybox lounge.
Beth Klingerman popped out from the theater to grab our headshots and told us it'd be a few minutes.
Waiting for Beth to come out again felt like forever.
During that wait, that's when it hit; that's when it all felt real--that I was auditioning for Second City. After years of training and performing, I finally felt comfortable auditioning again at Second City and this was my moment to step out and serve notice that I was a solid player.
During the sleepness night before, I thought about some of my improv heroes who have never performed at Second City, like Joe Bill, Mark Sutton and Paul Gronde. You don't need SC to succeed, but it's definitely a rush to be a part of such a storied organization.
The other underlying motivation I had was to have a solid audition in front of Marc Warzecha (former SC Detroit Mainstage, current TourCo di) and Nancy Hayden (also former SC Detroit, current SC Detroit producer). None of the people who I really looked up to in Detroit who have moved to Chicago have seen me perform. I really wanted to do well just to show that, hey, I came out here, put in the time and I'm doing alright...and if I ever moved back to Detroit, maybe I could leverage a solid audition into a SC Detroit TourCo understudy gig.
Beth came back out and we headed into the Skybox.
Mick Napier was running the audition. Even though Mick's not a current SC director or performer, SC respects him enough to have Mick run things. We got on the stage, listened to Mick's quick audition advice spiel and began the standard SC audition--intros, quick scenes, slower two-person scenes, pick-up scenes.
To start an SC audition, the group lines up on the stage. One by one, the performers introduce themselves by saying their names and then revealing one non-theater related fact about themself. I ended up being the last one and went with, "My name is Sammy Tamimi. My mother is Filipino. My Father is Palestinian. And at least once a day, no matter where I am in Chicago, the Loop, in a restaurant, wherever, some one tries to speak Spanish to me. I'm trying to teach myself Italian, but I'm considering learning Spanish just to make my life easier."
Eric Rutherford, bless his heart, simply said, "I'm Eric Rutherford and I want a saxaphone."
Intros complete, Mick began the audition in earnest...
(to be finished tomorrow morning)
The first part of the audition is simple.
The 8 performers form a backline. Mick calls out a name. That person steps forward to do a scene. Anyone can join them. Mick will call scene and then name someone else to for the next scene. That's it.
These are quick scenes, not necessarily bitty but definitely gamey. Mick even told us that this would be the time to take chances and that we should show our range of characters--we would be doing slower scenes later.
Tips culled from the Audition Workshop and from veteran improvisors about this part of the audition:
*Your first line should be about you, your partner or the environment*
"I'm so in love with you!" "You don't look so good..." "Your yacht is magnificent!" etc. Establish the who, what and where --and the game-- early. The scene won't last that long but you need hit the basics hard and fast.
*Make strong choices*
Have an emotion. Have a physicality. Take a chance. Endow yourself and give your partner something to play off of. But remember...
*Keep it simple*
Simple ideas and simple initiations are best. You don't have time to puzzle out a complicated initiation or off-kilter response.
*Play a range of characters*
Be aware if you're playing the same type of character over and over. You'll get 3 or 4 chances to switch it up at the top of the audition so take advantage of that opportunity. (Some people have told me that this part of the audition is the place to showcase the types of characters you do well--it's not cheating by playing a character type you do well (dumb jock, midwest mom) because you're still improvising; you're just showing to the auditors your character range.)
So, Mick begins the round of short scenes...
...and I get a little rattled.
As I watch scenes fly by, I realize I'm not getting out there. Sometimes I start to step forward, see someone else also moving and I let 'em go on instead. When I get out there, the scene gets called pretty quick. I return to the backline not liking what I just put out there. I start to worry about how I'm standing on the backline. Is my posture defensive? Am I blocking anyone? Am I paying enough attention? These are among the things that battle with my stage focus. I watch my fellow auditioners rock out and attack the stage. I get out a couple of more times and feel good about one scene out of the bunch.
Mick ends the first part of the audition. He has us sit in the front row of the theater and introduces the next part of the audition, the two-person scene. He'll name two people. Those people will take the stage, get a suggestion and do a two person scene for a couple of minutes.
I sit down and manage to rally my focus while the first scene is going on. The first part of the audition is over and done with, I tell myself. Gotta just go out and do a good scene. That's all that matters.
I get called up second with Ryan Gowland. Candy Store owner and Candy Store customer scene with the simple game of he knows I'm filching candy and I try to distract him with flattery or whatnot. Fun scene that I take my hat off to Ryan for setting up and driving home. I came off the stage feeling good about that scene and knew, that if anything, at least I was in a good two-person scene.
While the two-person scenes are going on, I heard Mick moving around the room, checking in with (I assume) the TourCo directors. After all 8 people have cycled through, there's usually time for a couple more scenes and the people the TourCo directors or Mick want to see again go up for another two-person scene. Being called up is neither a good thing or a bad thing--for whatever reason, they want to see you improvise some more (which can be good, but if you tank it, that can be bad).
After a pair of extra scenes (I was in neither), Mick thanked us and let us know that the calls would go out Wednesday night and callbacks would be Friday.
With that, we left the theater and went back to the lobby.
We stood around chatting and talking about the audition--there were some hot, hot scenes cooked up by this crew. A couple of us went to the dive bar known as the Ale House and had a couple of beers, spending the first few minutes lost in that quiet and weird relief/contemplation limbo that follows an audition. Drinking a couple pints on a nearly empty stomach got me a bit buzzed.
After catching a train with Andrea Swanson (and comparing audition notes and discusing KOKO biz) , I finally made it back to work by 2 pm. I had been gone 4 hours. I hid in the back room and replayed and analyzed the audition in my head until 5 rolled around. Office productivity yesterday was near zero. I treated myself to Kill Bill after work and called it an early night when I got home--I was emotionally and physically drained.
And now, a day later, I still cringe a little bit when I think about my audition. I'm sure it was par for the course--nothing spectacular but nothing atrocious either. I feel like I could have done much better, but I'm glad I had a good scene with Ryan to remember this year's audition by.
Now, I'm not hopeful about getting a phone call from SC for callbacks...but I am hopeful for all my friends...
The 8 performers form a backline. Mick calls out a name. That person steps forward to do a scene. Anyone can join them. Mick will call scene and then name someone else to for the next scene. That's it.
These are quick scenes, not necessarily bitty but definitely gamey. Mick even told us that this would be the time to take chances and that we should show our range of characters--we would be doing slower scenes later.
Tips culled from the Audition Workshop and from veteran improvisors about this part of the audition:
*Your first line should be about you, your partner or the environment*
"I'm so in love with you!" "You don't look so good..." "Your yacht is magnificent!" etc. Establish the who, what and where --and the game-- early. The scene won't last that long but you need hit the basics hard and fast.
*Make strong choices*
Have an emotion. Have a physicality. Take a chance. Endow yourself and give your partner something to play off of. But remember...
*Keep it simple*
Simple ideas and simple initiations are best. You don't have time to puzzle out a complicated initiation or off-kilter response.
*Play a range of characters*
Be aware if you're playing the same type of character over and over. You'll get 3 or 4 chances to switch it up at the top of the audition so take advantage of that opportunity. (Some people have told me that this part of the audition is the place to showcase the types of characters you do well--it's not cheating by playing a character type you do well (dumb jock, midwest mom) because you're still improvising; you're just showing to the auditors your character range.)
So, Mick begins the round of short scenes...
...and I get a little rattled.
As I watch scenes fly by, I realize I'm not getting out there. Sometimes I start to step forward, see someone else also moving and I let 'em go on instead. When I get out there, the scene gets called pretty quick. I return to the backline not liking what I just put out there. I start to worry about how I'm standing on the backline. Is my posture defensive? Am I blocking anyone? Am I paying enough attention? These are among the things that battle with my stage focus. I watch my fellow auditioners rock out and attack the stage. I get out a couple of more times and feel good about one scene out of the bunch.
Mick ends the first part of the audition. He has us sit in the front row of the theater and introduces the next part of the audition, the two-person scene. He'll name two people. Those people will take the stage, get a suggestion and do a two person scene for a couple of minutes.
I sit down and manage to rally my focus while the first scene is going on. The first part of the audition is over and done with, I tell myself. Gotta just go out and do a good scene. That's all that matters.
I get called up second with Ryan Gowland. Candy Store owner and Candy Store customer scene with the simple game of he knows I'm filching candy and I try to distract him with flattery or whatnot. Fun scene that I take my hat off to Ryan for setting up and driving home. I came off the stage feeling good about that scene and knew, that if anything, at least I was in a good two-person scene.
While the two-person scenes are going on, I heard Mick moving around the room, checking in with (I assume) the TourCo directors. After all 8 people have cycled through, there's usually time for a couple more scenes and the people the TourCo directors or Mick want to see again go up for another two-person scene. Being called up is neither a good thing or a bad thing--for whatever reason, they want to see you improvise some more (which can be good, but if you tank it, that can be bad).
After a pair of extra scenes (I was in neither), Mick thanked us and let us know that the calls would go out Wednesday night and callbacks would be Friday.
With that, we left the theater and went back to the lobby.
We stood around chatting and talking about the audition--there were some hot, hot scenes cooked up by this crew. A couple of us went to the dive bar known as the Ale House and had a couple of beers, spending the first few minutes lost in that quiet and weird relief/contemplation limbo that follows an audition. Drinking a couple pints on a nearly empty stomach got me a bit buzzed.
After catching a train with Andrea Swanson (and comparing audition notes and discusing KOKO biz) , I finally made it back to work by 2 pm. I had been gone 4 hours. I hid in the back room and replayed and analyzed the audition in my head until 5 rolled around. Office productivity yesterday was near zero. I treated myself to Kill Bill after work and called it an early night when I got home--I was emotionally and physically drained.
And now, a day later, I still cringe a little bit when I think about my audition. I'm sure it was par for the course--nothing spectacular but nothing atrocious either. I feel like I could have done much better, but I'm glad I had a good scene with Ryan to remember this year's audition by.
Now, I'm not hopeful about getting a phone call from SC for callbacks...but I am hopeful for all my friends...
On the Red Line home from work, I run into Tony Seales. We compare audition notes and chat. He hopes he gets called back but doesn't think he will. We part ways at Addison.
I head over to the Currency Exchange by Cornelia and Broadway because ComEd doesn't think I'm real. Well, they didn't put exactly that way, but that's how it came out. When I called ComEd to get the electric in my name, I was told I had to go to a Currency Exchange to fill out an application to prove I was who I said I was. Huh? Probably some roundabout way of saying, "You have shitty credit. We want your info on file."
For those of you who don't know what a Currency Exchange is, it's basically a run-down storefront financial institution that makes a profit from various transactions. They can cash checks, write money orders, directpay utility bills for you, make change, etc., but they tack on service charges that add up. They also sell CTA passes, parking stickers, license plate renewals, phone cards and other things a Chicago person might need.
The person who uses the Currency Exchange the most is the one who can least afford it--usually the poor, indigent or illegal who can't (or won't) have an account at a bank are the ones who most likely to use a local Currency Exchange for all their financial needs. And since the Currency Exchange makes money off every transaction...
After filling out the ComEd application and paying $2.50 to have it processed, I decided to hop on the old weighing scale that cost only a nickel.
280 lbs.
On the nose.
(C'mon body, let's find a new, lower setpoint for ourselves, ok?)
I waddled over to Salt & Pepper, running into and walking with a lady improvisor part of the way. I loved the fact that she had a 12-pack of beer and a grocery bag full of chips. I offered to carry the beer for her, but she declined
And, of course, we talked about SC auditions.
She had a great story--In Starbucks, right before she was to audition, her belt broke. Her pants were loose and would show her underwear if she bent over or moved too much and she was beginning to panic. Luckily, a male improvisor who she knew just happened to be in Starbucks--he had already auditioned earlier in the day! And like the true gentleman he was, he loaned her his belt for the audition.
Yes and... and support, people! Ain't it beautiful?
I rolled into S&P and stuffed myself into a booth. Tony Seales came in a little later and sat in the booth behind me. I read my Onion and had my coffee. He read his copy of Something Wonderful Right Away.
His cellphone rang. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but the way he answered and the manner in which he spoke really caught my ear. I turned around and looked at him. Through his replies I figured it out.
He was getting called back!
I was beyond psyched! Not even 2 hours ago he said he didn't think he'd get called back and that even if he was, he'd being onstage at ImprovOlympic and wouldn't know until way later. And, at random, here he was at Salt & Pepper reading his Second City history book, waiting for his IO team and he gets the call from Beth Klingerman. Rock!
After he hung up, I gave him a high five and congratulated him. I went back to my booth and when April, the S&P waitress, walked by I leaned over and whispered to her that I would be buying Tony's dinner that night--it was my way of saying congrats
After that, I tried to read my newspaper. I was way happy for Seales but I was also a little sad inside--I knew I wouldn't getting that call, not that I deserved it, but it still stung to know that.
Well...there's always next year.
I hope.
I head over to the Currency Exchange by Cornelia and Broadway because ComEd doesn't think I'm real. Well, they didn't put exactly that way, but that's how it came out. When I called ComEd to get the electric in my name, I was told I had to go to a Currency Exchange to fill out an application to prove I was who I said I was. Huh? Probably some roundabout way of saying, "You have shitty credit. We want your info on file."
For those of you who don't know what a Currency Exchange is, it's basically a run-down storefront financial institution that makes a profit from various transactions. They can cash checks, write money orders, directpay utility bills for you, make change, etc., but they tack on service charges that add up. They also sell CTA passes, parking stickers, license plate renewals, phone cards and other things a Chicago person might need.
The person who uses the Currency Exchange the most is the one who can least afford it--usually the poor, indigent or illegal who can't (or won't) have an account at a bank are the ones who most likely to use a local Currency Exchange for all their financial needs. And since the Currency Exchange makes money off every transaction...
After filling out the ComEd application and paying $2.50 to have it processed, I decided to hop on the old weighing scale that cost only a nickel.
280 lbs.
On the nose.
(C'mon body, let's find a new, lower setpoint for ourselves, ok?)
I waddled over to Salt & Pepper, running into and walking with a lady improvisor part of the way. I loved the fact that she had a 12-pack of beer and a grocery bag full of chips. I offered to carry the beer for her, but she declined
And, of course, we talked about SC auditions.
She had a great story--In Starbucks, right before she was to audition, her belt broke. Her pants were loose and would show her underwear if she bent over or moved too much and she was beginning to panic. Luckily, a male improvisor who she knew just happened to be in Starbucks--he had already auditioned earlier in the day! And like the true gentleman he was, he loaned her his belt for the audition.
Yes and... and support, people! Ain't it beautiful?
I rolled into S&P and stuffed myself into a booth. Tony Seales came in a little later and sat in the booth behind me. I read my Onion and had my coffee. He read his copy of Something Wonderful Right Away.
His cellphone rang. I didn't mean to eavesdrop, but the way he answered and the manner in which he spoke really caught my ear. I turned around and looked at him. Through his replies I figured it out.
He was getting called back!
I was beyond psyched! Not even 2 hours ago he said he didn't think he'd get called back and that even if he was, he'd being onstage at ImprovOlympic and wouldn't know until way later. And, at random, here he was at Salt & Pepper reading his Second City history book, waiting for his IO team and he gets the call from Beth Klingerman. Rock!
After he hung up, I gave him a high five and congratulated him. I went back to my booth and when April, the S&P waitress, walked by I leaned over and whispered to her that I would be buying Tony's dinner that night--it was my way of saying congrats
After that, I tried to read my newspaper. I was way happy for Seales but I was also a little sad inside--I knew I wouldn't getting that call, not that I deserved it, but it still stung to know that.
Well...there's always next year.
I hope.
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I started the week talking about the IO schedule, it is only fitting that I close with it too.
30 teams were on the last Schedule.
6 old teams were removed--4 were broken up and 2 were combined into a new group.
6 new teams were created--5 brand spankin' new ones and the aforementioned combo team.
Add to the mix the fact that People of Earth is "retiring" this Schedule.
So, in my opinion, this was the first round of a full-on house cleaning. The bulk of the work is done, but there is still some unfinished business. I think January will see a few more tweaks and then things will settle down for a while.
Right now, the pressure is on for the middle tier teams: it's time to step it up and fill the void left at the top. The lower tier teams have even more pressure on 'em: you gotta improve, you gotta produce and you gotta show The Harold Committee their faith in your team wasn't misplaced.
I don't feel that pressure. Or more exactly, I don't feel that EXTERNAL pressure weighing me down and driving me on as it does some others. I have my own INTERNAL drive for excellence that motivates me and that's where any expectations I hold comes from. Learning how to acknowledge and then dismiss the external pressures while recognizing and regulating the internal pressures took a long time for me wrap my head around. Sometimes I'm afraid I come off as uninvested and casual when actually I'm just focused on the long haul and don't let the little bumps along the way bother me...too much.
* * *
Right now across town, the Callbacks are going on. Sending you all my love guys. Good luck!
30 teams were on the last Schedule.
6 old teams were removed--4 were broken up and 2 were combined into a new group.
6 new teams were created--5 brand spankin' new ones and the aforementioned combo team.
Add to the mix the fact that People of Earth is "retiring" this Schedule.
So, in my opinion, this was the first round of a full-on house cleaning. The bulk of the work is done, but there is still some unfinished business. I think January will see a few more tweaks and then things will settle down for a while.
Right now, the pressure is on for the middle tier teams: it's time to step it up and fill the void left at the top. The lower tier teams have even more pressure on 'em: you gotta improve, you gotta produce and you gotta show The Harold Committee their faith in your team wasn't misplaced.
I don't feel that pressure. Or more exactly, I don't feel that EXTERNAL pressure weighing me down and driving me on as it does some others. I have my own INTERNAL drive for excellence that motivates me and that's where any expectations I hold comes from. Learning how to acknowledge and then dismiss the external pressures while recognizing and regulating the internal pressures took a long time for me wrap my head around. Sometimes I'm afraid I come off as uninvested and casual when actually I'm just focused on the long haul and don't let the little bumps along the way bother me...too much.
* * *
Right now across town, the Callbacks are going on. Sending you all my love guys. Good luck!
It started Friday afternoon--word about who got picked up by Second City started getting around. They hired 9 people!
Big congrats to:
Dave Colan
Anthony LeBlanc
Niki Lindgren
Lori McClain
Beth Melewski
Tony Seales (who I will forever claim that Deuces Wild propelled to stardom)
Andy St. Clair (Uncle Joe)
Andel Sudik (The Bruise, former Home Run Kid)
I'm forgetting somebody, but congrats to all you mofos!
Big congrats to:
Dave Colan
Anthony LeBlanc
Niki Lindgren
Lori McClain
Beth Melewski
Tony Seales (who I will forever claim that Deuces Wild propelled to stardom)
Andy St. Clair (Uncle Joe)
Andel Sudik (The Bruise, former Home Run Kid)
I'm forgetting somebody, but congrats to all you mofos!
I don't get it.
In a mind-numbingly complex comptuer game game like Civilization III I can micromanage a workers by the dozen, I can wage multi-front wars against superior forces, I can make tiny moves that won't pay off until 20 hours later and I can squeeze every last gold piece out of my budget...
...but I can barely budget my real world money over the course of a month.
what the F?!
There's nothing like that slow, sad recognition when you look at your ATM receipt and realize, somehow, someway you've miscalculated and you've fucked yourself financially for a couple of weeks.
I'm 30. I should know better.
Bad, Sammy. Bad!
* * *
Last night was rough.
It was the first work day with the "fall back" Daylight Savings
Time in effect. To walk out of work at 5:30 p.m. and be drowned in darkness is just soul crushing. Your mind gets sluggish, your mood gets gloomy and hibernation is just an eye-blink away. The dim greenish glow from passing buses and the red tail lights retreating into the blackness only emphasize how black it really is.
I may bitch about the cold and whine about the ice, but what really kills me about winter is losing sunlight. I'm not an outdoorsy person, but I appreciate--and desperately need--sunlight during my daytime hours. No matter how tired and grumpy I am, having some sun always recharges me a bit. Sometimes when I'm making a bank run for the firm, I'll find a nice sunlit concrete bench to lay down on. Then, I'll soak up some sun while I catch a nap. When there's little or no sunlight, my dour moods last much, much longer and the daily slog seems a billion times worse in the enveloping gray of winter.
I may not take advantage of the sun during the summer, but I sorely miss it during the winter.
* * *
Sometimes I wish I could take pictures with my eyes. I could then share with people the absurd things I see. I could also share some the tragically ironic things too.
Last week, I filed a motion at the Daley Center and decided to kill some time in the plaza. Bundled up against the chill, I sat on a black metal table thingy next to fountain (which was gushing orange-dyed water). Set up in the plaza was the "Chicagoween" haunted house--a big X shaped, two-story building all decked out for Halloween. A line of city workers on break waited to have their Tarot read by a gypsy "fortune teller." Prop ghosts and spirits peeked out from the second floor windows. Above and the metal spires on top, loomed the blown out windows and smoke stained sides of 69 W. Washington just across the street. A fire had raged on a couple floors of the building and 6 people were killed when they were trapped in the stairwell and overcome by smoke. The windows still hadn't been boarded up and the building was being kept evacuated during the investigation.
I sat there and wished people could see through my eyes and take away the mental snapshot I just took: Halloween amusement and Halloween tragedy locked together; fake horror framed by real horror.
In a mind-numbingly complex comptuer game game like Civilization III I can micromanage a workers by the dozen, I can wage multi-front wars against superior forces, I can make tiny moves that won't pay off until 20 hours later and I can squeeze every last gold piece out of my budget...
...but I can barely budget my real world money over the course of a month.
what the F?!
There's nothing like that slow, sad recognition when you look at your ATM receipt and realize, somehow, someway you've miscalculated and you've fucked yourself financially for a couple of weeks.
I'm 30. I should know better.
Bad, Sammy. Bad!
* * *
Last night was rough.
It was the first work day with the "fall back" Daylight Savings
Time in effect. To walk out of work at 5:30 p.m. and be drowned in darkness is just soul crushing. Your mind gets sluggish, your mood gets gloomy and hibernation is just an eye-blink away. The dim greenish glow from passing buses and the red tail lights retreating into the blackness only emphasize how black it really is.
I may bitch about the cold and whine about the ice, but what really kills me about winter is losing sunlight. I'm not an outdoorsy person, but I appreciate--and desperately need--sunlight during my daytime hours. No matter how tired and grumpy I am, having some sun always recharges me a bit. Sometimes when I'm making a bank run for the firm, I'll find a nice sunlit concrete bench to lay down on. Then, I'll soak up some sun while I catch a nap. When there's little or no sunlight, my dour moods last much, much longer and the daily slog seems a billion times worse in the enveloping gray of winter.
I may not take advantage of the sun during the summer, but I sorely miss it during the winter.
* * *
Sometimes I wish I could take pictures with my eyes. I could then share with people the absurd things I see. I could also share some the tragically ironic things too.
Last week, I filed a motion at the Daley Center and decided to kill some time in the plaza. Bundled up against the chill, I sat on a black metal table thingy next to fountain (which was gushing orange-dyed water). Set up in the plaza was the "Chicagoween" haunted house--a big X shaped, two-story building all decked out for Halloween. A line of city workers on break waited to have their Tarot read by a gypsy "fortune teller." Prop ghosts and spirits peeked out from the second floor windows. Above and the metal spires on top, loomed the blown out windows and smoke stained sides of 69 W. Washington just across the street. A fire had raged on a couple floors of the building and 6 people were killed when they were trapped in the stairwell and overcome by smoke. The windows still hadn't been boarded up and the building was being kept evacuated during the investigation.
I sat there and wished people could see through my eyes and take away the mental snapshot I just took: Halloween amusement and Halloween tragedy locked together; fake horror framed by real horror.
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I don’t remember why my mom got it for me, but I remember how I found it.
I came home from school one afternoon and went up to my bedroom. I was lucky--I had my own bedroom. My sister had to share a bedroom with my mom. I noticed that my bed was made. Not only that, the pillow part was blocky. I pulled the sheets back and BAM!
There it was.
The GI Joe APC!
I was shocked. How did she know I wanted it? I was big into GI Joe, but I didn’t tell her that I wanted the APC. It wasn’t my birthday and Christmas was many months away, so this was totally unexpected.
Then came the awkward part.
How was I supposed to act? Calm, cool and collected? Wildly ecstatic? For most kids, they’d just react. For me, it was a genuine conundrum: we weren’t a demonstrative family when it came to affection. Quite the opposite. But I felt an obligation, even in elementary school, to make a show of my thanks for such a wondrous toy (It holds 28 GI Joes! It floats! It kicks Cobra's ass!).
After some consideration, I settled on energetic and thankful.
I made a show of rumbling down our carpeted stairs, two at a time, dashing into the kitchen, gave a loud “Thanks, Mom!” and then awkwardly kissed her on the cheek. I even made up a story about how I hit my head on the box when I went to lay down. I then rushed back upstairs to read the Blueprints and meticulously place the decals on my newest toy.
When I think this day, the calculation of my response and the awkwardness of that obligatory buss always embarrass me. I remember her smiling at my unexpected kiss on the cheek.
Intent aside, I guess that was my surprise gift to her.
I came home from school one afternoon and went up to my bedroom. I was lucky--I had my own bedroom. My sister had to share a bedroom with my mom. I noticed that my bed was made. Not only that, the pillow part was blocky. I pulled the sheets back and BAM!
There it was.
The GI Joe APC!
I was shocked. How did she know I wanted it? I was big into GI Joe, but I didn’t tell her that I wanted the APC. It wasn’t my birthday and Christmas was many months away, so this was totally unexpected.
Then came the awkward part.
How was I supposed to act? Calm, cool and collected? Wildly ecstatic? For most kids, they’d just react. For me, it was a genuine conundrum: we weren’t a demonstrative family when it came to affection. Quite the opposite. But I felt an obligation, even in elementary school, to make a show of my thanks for such a wondrous toy (It holds 28 GI Joes! It floats! It kicks Cobra's ass!).
After some consideration, I settled on energetic and thankful.
I made a show of rumbling down our carpeted stairs, two at a time, dashing into the kitchen, gave a loud “Thanks, Mom!” and then awkwardly kissed her on the cheek. I even made up a story about how I hit my head on the box when I went to lay down. I then rushed back upstairs to read the Blueprints and meticulously place the decals on my newest toy.
When I think this day, the calculation of my response and the awkwardness of that obligatory buss always embarrass me. I remember her smiling at my unexpected kiss on the cheek.
Intent aside, I guess that was my surprise gift to her.
When I hear the words "cocoa butter" I immediately think of Spring Break in '98. I wasn't even in college--it was Spring Break for my friends at Grand Valley State University. Scott, Andy, Kurt, Chris and Jason were headed to Panama City Beach, Florida for a week and invited me along.
So, of course, I kidnapped Santa Clause from Brandy Sotke's basement and took him with us.
Santa was a handmade 5' tall wooden standee of Santa that Brandy's mother, Caroline, owned and treasured. I had kidnapped him twice before.
The first time I kidnapped Santa, I took him it all the way up to the Mackinac Bridge and back down again, stopping at various colleges along the way and taking snapshots wherever and whenever I could. Caroline, Brandy's mom was both angry and amused when I turned back up with Santa 24 hours later, pictures in hand.
The second time, Santa and I travelled to Chicago and hit all the tourist spots. Planet Hollywood, the Sears Tower, the Mag Mile... Santa had a ball that year. While the trip was chock full of hightlights, the definitive lowlight was sleeping in my Ford Escort on the Notre Dame campus, shivering under a too-thin blanket during the frigid winter night.
This time, Santa had it good. It was his first warm weather trip and we made it a great one. We snapped pix of Santa at the Florida state border, with bikini clad ladies on the beach, out in the surf with boys, playing volleyball and, this being Spring Break, passed out in bed surrounded by crushed Bud Light cans.
A nice bonus of dragging a wooden Santa around the beach was that it was a guaranteed conversation starter
Many months later, I gave Caroline the pictures. Once again she was both upset and amused. In the following years, the story of how I had kidnapped Santa became one of her staple stories she'd tell to guests if I were around and being a trouble maker. Sometimes, she'd even break out the pictures to show my Santa shenanigans.
Even though I haven't kidnapped him in many years, I wonder if Santa misses our little trips around the nation.
I know I do.
So, of course, I kidnapped Santa Clause from Brandy Sotke's basement and took him with us.
Santa was a handmade 5' tall wooden standee of Santa that Brandy's mother, Caroline, owned and treasured. I had kidnapped him twice before.
The first time I kidnapped Santa, I took him it all the way up to the Mackinac Bridge and back down again, stopping at various colleges along the way and taking snapshots wherever and whenever I could. Caroline, Brandy's mom was both angry and amused when I turned back up with Santa 24 hours later, pictures in hand.
The second time, Santa and I travelled to Chicago and hit all the tourist spots. Planet Hollywood, the Sears Tower, the Mag Mile... Santa had a ball that year. While the trip was chock full of hightlights, the definitive lowlight was sleeping in my Ford Escort on the Notre Dame campus, shivering under a too-thin blanket during the frigid winter night.
This time, Santa had it good. It was his first warm weather trip and we made it a great one. We snapped pix of Santa at the Florida state border, with bikini clad ladies on the beach, out in the surf with boys, playing volleyball and, this being Spring Break, passed out in bed surrounded by crushed Bud Light cans.
A nice bonus of dragging a wooden Santa around the beach was that it was a guaranteed conversation starter
Many months later, I gave Caroline the pictures. Once again she was both upset and amused. In the following years, the story of how I had kidnapped Santa became one of her staple stories she'd tell to guests if I were around and being a trouble maker. Sometimes, she'd even break out the pictures to show my Santa shenanigans.
Even though I haven't kidnapped him in many years, I wonder if Santa misses our little trips around the nation.
I know I do.
A no decision with Shaun. A win over Troy. A loss to the bully. A TKO by Stacey Boatwright.
My fight with Shaun, if you could call it that, was pathetic. Me flailing away, him simply backing off and laughing. I never connected but he never got a shot in at me either. We made up right after. Shaun said he would have never started shit with me if he knew I was only in fourth grade.
I don't know what started the fight with Troy. I remember us jawing back and forth and then him deciding it was go time. He jumped off his dirt bike and came at me. He leaped into the air and did a flying kick! (No shit. It was magnificent.) I simply stepped aside and then wrapped him up. I landed a couple of solid blows before we ended up rolling on the ground. The neighborhood kids declared me the winner afterwards.
That felt good.
Later that night, Troy would stop by my apartment with Virgil--an older kid everyone said was a drug dealer. They stood outside on the lawn. I looked out my bedroom window. Virgil said he wanted to come in and play Atari. He heard I had the Bruce Lee game and wanted to check it out. I lied and told him I loaned it out. Virgil still wanted to come up and play Atari because he heard I was a good player. I told him I had stuff to do. I remember Virgil in the porchlight, glaring and demanding to be let in. I remember Troy, silent, hands in pocket, looking anywhere but at me. After some more back and forth, Virgil and Troy finally left.
That felt scary.
I don't remember the next kid's name, but he was one of the neighborhood bullies. My sister, her friend and I were sledding on the one hill you could sled on in our ghetto subdivision. The bully came out, started shit and the next thing you knew we were locked up like hockey players.
He got to be Bob Probert.
The next day, my mom would file a police report. Hello. Embarassing.
The last fight I ever got into was with Stacey Boatwright in junior high. #1 - That's a guy's name. #2 - He kicked my ass. #3 - Severely. We got into it in the snackline in the lunchroom. I was right behind Jonnie Logan (that's a girl's name) and, for whatever reason, he said something and, totally out of character for me, I turned around and popped him in the mouth. His return punch was off target and his forearm slammed into the side of my head. Knocked off balance, I took a tumble. Jonnie broke it up and that was that.
Or so I thought.
At the end of lunch, I visited some friends in the school office. After chatting them up, I stepped out the office door and -BAM- I was bushwhacked and beatdown like no one's business by Stacey. It felt like forever. A teacher had to wade in and pull him off me (saving my ass but savaging my dignity). That was beyond embarrassing.
It all seemed so terribly important long ago to know who you had beaten and who had beaten you; you knew where you stood socially by your circle of friends and you knew where you stood physically by who you fought. Now that I'm grown, all that doesn't matter to me and, instead, I'm filled with a sense of intense curiousity about where all these ghetto kids I traded punches with ended up.
My fight with Shaun, if you could call it that, was pathetic. Me flailing away, him simply backing off and laughing. I never connected but he never got a shot in at me either. We made up right after. Shaun said he would have never started shit with me if he knew I was only in fourth grade.
I don't know what started the fight with Troy. I remember us jawing back and forth and then him deciding it was go time. He jumped off his dirt bike and came at me. He leaped into the air and did a flying kick! (No shit. It was magnificent.) I simply stepped aside and then wrapped him up. I landed a couple of solid blows before we ended up rolling on the ground. The neighborhood kids declared me the winner afterwards.
That felt good.
Later that night, Troy would stop by my apartment with Virgil--an older kid everyone said was a drug dealer. They stood outside on the lawn. I looked out my bedroom window. Virgil said he wanted to come in and play Atari. He heard I had the Bruce Lee game and wanted to check it out. I lied and told him I loaned it out. Virgil still wanted to come up and play Atari because he heard I was a good player. I told him I had stuff to do. I remember Virgil in the porchlight, glaring and demanding to be let in. I remember Troy, silent, hands in pocket, looking anywhere but at me. After some more back and forth, Virgil and Troy finally left.
That felt scary.
I don't remember the next kid's name, but he was one of the neighborhood bullies. My sister, her friend and I were sledding on the one hill you could sled on in our ghetto subdivision. The bully came out, started shit and the next thing you knew we were locked up like hockey players.
He got to be Bob Probert.
The next day, my mom would file a police report. Hello. Embarassing.
The last fight I ever got into was with Stacey Boatwright in junior high. #1 - That's a guy's name. #2 - He kicked my ass. #3 - Severely. We got into it in the snackline in the lunchroom. I was right behind Jonnie Logan (that's a girl's name) and, for whatever reason, he said something and, totally out of character for me, I turned around and popped him in the mouth. His return punch was off target and his forearm slammed into the side of my head. Knocked off balance, I took a tumble. Jonnie broke it up and that was that.
Or so I thought.
At the end of lunch, I visited some friends in the school office. After chatting them up, I stepped out the office door and -BAM- I was bushwhacked and beatdown like no one's business by Stacey. It felt like forever. A teacher had to wade in and pull him off me (saving my ass but savaging my dignity). That was beyond embarrassing.
It all seemed so terribly important long ago to know who you had beaten and who had beaten you; you knew where you stood socially by your circle of friends and you knew where you stood physically by who you fought. Now that I'm grown, all that doesn't matter to me and, instead, I'm filled with a sense of intense curiousity about where all these ghetto kids I traded punches with ended up.
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Totally stupid but true.
I work in a building that has the whole certain-elevators-go-to-certain-floors thing going on. Only three passenger elevators service my floor. Every single time after I press the up button in the lobby, I try to "sense" which elevator will arrive. Sometimes I close my eyes, but mostly I just slow my breathing and try to "feel" which elevator is on the way down. Usually, my head will turn one way and my body will pull me another.
I always side with my body.
And my body, my gut feeling, is almost always right.
At one point, I had a streak of like 20-something correct elevator guesses. Not that impressive when you remember that there are only three elevators, but still, it's not that bad either.
The unusual thing--I don't do this anywhere else...not on my office floor going back down, not in other building lobbies and not any other place with elevators. Just the lobby of my building. So it's like I have this useless superpower that's doubly useless because I don't (or can't) use it anywhere else.
Telekinesis = Cool
ESP (Elevator Sensory Perception) = Lame
I just tried figuring out a way to make my ESP cool and I couldn't. I don't make elevators run express. I don't make them move faster. I don't even keep them from getting stuck between floors. I just know which elevator is coming.
Blechh.
Totally lame.
I work in a building that has the whole certain-elevators-go-to-certain-floors thing going on. Only three passenger elevators service my floor. Every single time after I press the up button in the lobby, I try to "sense" which elevator will arrive. Sometimes I close my eyes, but mostly I just slow my breathing and try to "feel" which elevator is on the way down. Usually, my head will turn one way and my body will pull me another.
I always side with my body.
And my body, my gut feeling, is almost always right.
At one point, I had a streak of like 20-something correct elevator guesses. Not that impressive when you remember that there are only three elevators, but still, it's not that bad either.
The unusual thing--I don't do this anywhere else...not on my office floor going back down, not in other building lobbies and not any other place with elevators. Just the lobby of my building. So it's like I have this useless superpower that's doubly useless because I don't (or can't) use it anywhere else.
Telekinesis = Cool
ESP (Elevator Sensory Perception) = Lame
I just tried figuring out a way to make my ESP cool and I couldn't. I don't make elevators run express. I don't make them move faster. I don't even keep them from getting stuck between floors. I just know which elevator is coming.
Blechh.
Totally lame.
I mopped the ceiling.
(It's much easier than you think.)
I also mopped the walls.
(Also much easier than you think.)
And, of course, I mopped the floor.
(That's the international gold standard of multi-planar mopping.)
Why was I mopping the ceiling and wall?
Because of the Orange Stuff.
The Orange Stuff might be mold...but it might NOT be mold. I'm not sure. The bathroom is not well ventilated and I take long, steamy showers. The steam condenses on the walls and ceiling when I'm done. After several months, I noticed ghostly orange drip stains on the wall and a couple of spots on the ceiling. After a while, I just couldn't take it anymore--sitting on the can and staring at what could be mold or just a weird paint/water reaction in an old building. There was just enough doubt in my brain that I had do something about it.
So I mopped the ceiling...and the walls...and, of course, the floor.
And a week later...
...I'm seeing faint hints, just hints mind you, of Orange Stuff...
...on the ceiling...
...and on the wall...
(It's much easier than you think.)
I also mopped the walls.
(Also much easier than you think.)
And, of course, I mopped the floor.
(That's the international gold standard of multi-planar mopping.)
Why was I mopping the ceiling and wall?
Because of the Orange Stuff.
The Orange Stuff might be mold...but it might NOT be mold. I'm not sure. The bathroom is not well ventilated and I take long, steamy showers. The steam condenses on the walls and ceiling when I'm done. After several months, I noticed ghostly orange drip stains on the wall and a couple of spots on the ceiling. After a while, I just couldn't take it anymore--sitting on the can and staring at what could be mold or just a weird paint/water reaction in an old building. There was just enough doubt in my brain that I had do something about it.
So I mopped the ceiling...and the walls...and, of course, the floor.
And a week later...
...I'm seeing faint hints, just hints mind you, of Orange Stuff...
...on the ceiling...
...and on the wall...
How great would it be to be an Old Timey Knight, spouting out imperious "thee"s and "thou"s and the occasional incensed "knave!" You'd get to clomp around on your Old Timey Horse with lance in hand and Squire in tow...
Besides the whole notion of men who were men and acted like it (unless you were a fop), the appealing thing to me is that everyone had a code of honor they adhered to. You either followed the code or you didn't. Knight or knave. End of story.
Too bad there isn't a modern day one-size-fits-all ethical and moral code; it'd be flexible enough to deal with real life situations but strong enough to withstand life-altering moral quandries.
And if you got to say "thee" and "thou" and the occasional "knave!" that would be a total bonus in my book.
* * *
Ronnie Simms.
Totally a cool cat that everyone loved in Junior High and High School and missed when he moved away to East Detroit (now East Pointe). I knew Ronnie from back when we lived in Woodbrook Townhomes and went to Eurekadale Elementary school. He was back in town one snowy weekend and we decided to head over to Kennedy High School--there was a volleyball tournament going on and he wanted to see some of the girls while he had the chance.
Kennedy sits off the main street a little bit, so we had to take the icy access drive. As we left the drive and hit the large parking lot next to Kennedy, I said to Ronnie, "Hang on."
I yanked to the left.
I stomped on the brake.
We began a long, lazy spin across the parking lot.
You could feel the the car sliding your seat--the crunching rumble of snow that tickled your butt was replaced by a smooth, almost relaxing glide.
That lasted 2 seconds.
We both realized my Toyota Tercel was spinning directly at a huge parking lot lightpole. We started shouting and screaming at the top of our lungs.
That lasted forever.
The Toyota kept spinning.
We kept screaming.
The lightpole kept menacing.
And like a miracle, the front end of the Toyota spun past the lightpole, missing it by a few scant feet.
The Toyota's lazy spin came to a stop, facing the direction of the gymnasium.
Ronnie and I looked at each other.
And we laughed.
Besides the whole notion of men who were men and acted like it (unless you were a fop), the appealing thing to me is that everyone had a code of honor they adhered to. You either followed the code or you didn't. Knight or knave. End of story.
Too bad there isn't a modern day one-size-fits-all ethical and moral code; it'd be flexible enough to deal with real life situations but strong enough to withstand life-altering moral quandries.
And if you got to say "thee" and "thou" and the occasional "knave!" that would be a total bonus in my book.
* * *
Ronnie Simms.
Totally a cool cat that everyone loved in Junior High and High School and missed when he moved away to East Detroit (now East Pointe). I knew Ronnie from back when we lived in Woodbrook Townhomes and went to Eurekadale Elementary school. He was back in town one snowy weekend and we decided to head over to Kennedy High School--there was a volleyball tournament going on and he wanted to see some of the girls while he had the chance.
Kennedy sits off the main street a little bit, so we had to take the icy access drive. As we left the drive and hit the large parking lot next to Kennedy, I said to Ronnie, "Hang on."
I yanked to the left.
I stomped on the brake.
We began a long, lazy spin across the parking lot.
You could feel the the car sliding your seat--the crunching rumble of snow that tickled your butt was replaced by a smooth, almost relaxing glide.
That lasted 2 seconds.
We both realized my Toyota Tercel was spinning directly at a huge parking lot lightpole. We started shouting and screaming at the top of our lungs.
That lasted forever.
The Toyota kept spinning.
We kept screaming.
The lightpole kept menacing.
And like a miracle, the front end of the Toyota spun past the lightpole, missing it by a few scant feet.
The Toyota's lazy spin came to a stop, facing the direction of the gymnasium.
Ronnie and I looked at each other.
And we laughed.
Letting my mind wander.
* * *
It's November.
When did that happen?
* * *
I enjoy the surprise in people's voices.
"You sleep on the floor?!"
"Yeah. Of my walk-in closet."
Of course, Gilley zinged me when I told Jamie the bartender. It went something like this:
Me: Yeah, Jamie, I sleep on the floor.
Jamie: But what do you lay [the ladies] down on?
Gilley: Sam's like one of those guys--If it never rains, you don't worry about having an umbrella.
* * *
Erica Reid's parents drove up from Mississippi this past weekend and held a "Southern Thanksgiving" for Erica and her friends. I forgot how good home-cooked food tasted.
* * *
Scott and his wife Leigh are visiting Chicago this weekend. As always, we'll rendezvous on the third floor of the Mag Mile Borders. After dinner, I'll take 'em over to IO to catch Otis and Baby Wants Candy for beer and bits.
It made me think, if Baby wasn't playing, would I have taken them to see improv?
I still don't have an answer.
* * *
The attorney, the one I call "Smoker," surprised me a couple weeks back.
Smoker is the most sardonic attorney at the firm. She always has a cutting remark or sarcastic comment at the ready no matter what the topic. And while she's not neurotic, she's definitely persnickety. She loves her mail order shopping. Absolutely LOVES it.
And she's my favorite attorney at the firm because she brooks no bullshit.
It took a while for me to warm to Smoker, but now I can't imagine working here without her around.
When I first started in July, she once asked what me what I did.
I told her I was an improvisor, like Charlie, the office assistant before me.
Smoker solemnly looked at me and said, "One day, you and me, we're gonna have a long talk about that."
I always figured, her being a lawyer, she was going to take me out to lunch and then lecture me on having a career and being a responsible, productive person and all that.
Then, one day when we were both in the hallway, I mentioned I had a show the night before and that I was feeling a bit rundown. She said, "Sam, what are doing with your life?" I laughed and told her I couldn't imagine doing anything else. She replied, "Trust me. I know." Really? "Honey, I went to [college] for undergrad in Directing & Acting and grad in Lighting & Design." Then, again, she told me we'd talk one day about my future.
Weeks later, I'm still agog--the person I thought had been a jaded, materialistic attorney all her life was a former actor/techie in their youth. When I talked to Charlie about it, he said that Smoker was probably like a "reformed hippie" that became a banker or an accountant later in life.
I wonder how many improvisors I know will become reformed hippies.
* * *
It's November.
When did that happen?
* * *
I enjoy the surprise in people's voices.
"You sleep on the floor?!"
"Yeah. Of my walk-in closet."
Of course, Gilley zinged me when I told Jamie the bartender. It went something like this:
Me: Yeah, Jamie, I sleep on the floor.
Jamie: But what do you lay [the ladies] down on?
Gilley: Sam's like one of those guys--If it never rains, you don't worry about having an umbrella.
* * *
Erica Reid's parents drove up from Mississippi this past weekend and held a "Southern Thanksgiving" for Erica and her friends. I forgot how good home-cooked food tasted.
* * *
Scott and his wife Leigh are visiting Chicago this weekend. As always, we'll rendezvous on the third floor of the Mag Mile Borders. After dinner, I'll take 'em over to IO to catch Otis and Baby Wants Candy for beer and bits.
It made me think, if Baby wasn't playing, would I have taken them to see improv?
I still don't have an answer.
* * *
The attorney, the one I call "Smoker," surprised me a couple weeks back.
Smoker is the most sardonic attorney at the firm. She always has a cutting remark or sarcastic comment at the ready no matter what the topic. And while she's not neurotic, she's definitely persnickety. She loves her mail order shopping. Absolutely LOVES it.
And she's my favorite attorney at the firm because she brooks no bullshit.
It took a while for me to warm to Smoker, but now I can't imagine working here without her around.
When I first started in July, she once asked what me what I did.
I told her I was an improvisor, like Charlie, the office assistant before me.
Smoker solemnly looked at me and said, "One day, you and me, we're gonna have a long talk about that."
I always figured, her being a lawyer, she was going to take me out to lunch and then lecture me on having a career and being a responsible, productive person and all that.
Then, one day when we were both in the hallway, I mentioned I had a show the night before and that I was feeling a bit rundown. She said, "Sam, what are doing with your life?" I laughed and told her I couldn't imagine doing anything else. She replied, "Trust me. I know." Really? "Honey, I went to [college] for undergrad in Directing & Acting and grad in Lighting & Design." Then, again, she told me we'd talk one day about my future.
Weeks later, I'm still agog--the person I thought had been a jaded, materialistic attorney all her life was a former actor/techie in their youth. When I talked to Charlie about it, he said that Smoker was probably like a "reformed hippie" that became a banker or an accountant later in life.
I wonder how many improvisors I know will become reformed hippies.
The Home Run Kids have a workshop with Liz Allen. It'll be rough--HRK has a show at midnight Friday night and then has the workshop Saturday morning at 10 a.m. Ugh.
I wish I had a word that encompassed not only how awesome Liz is but what she means to a lot of us around here; she is someone who can alter your improv forever. "Guru" isn't the right word because to me that implies a cult of personality. "Improv Goddess" isn't the right word either because in my mind an Improv Goddess is both a performer and a teacher/director.
Liz is Liz.
And she rocks.
* * *
The Bruise just booked a run at Donny's Skybox in February.
Strange to think that we've been together almost a year. We've done shows at Frankie J's, The Playground, ImprovOlympic and, soon, Skybox. This is one of the groups that if we never rehearsed again, met 2 minutes before a show and went up there with nothing, it'd be full throttle fun from start to finish. The Bruise is truly a pleasure to play with and I can't wait for this run to begin.
* * *
KOKO is getting ready for 2004.
On the business side of things, we're submitting to festivals and looking to do one-off shows in the area.
On the creative side of things, we're working on a new form, beginning the writing process for a sketch show and scoping out sub-directors for when Abby is gone in L.A. during January and February.
It's a weird dynamic having a rehearsals that's just messing around with possible improv concepts and then snapping over to do written monologues. I'm not sure if I dig having a split focus like that but I definitely learned two things during this initial improvising/writing process: some of these girls are flat out funny improvisors AND writers and that you can get a feel for someone's sense of humor in how they perform but it's a total revelation as you get insight about them through what they choose to write about and the voice they write with.
* * *
Laika (Andrea, Abby, Charlie and me) is temporarily-to-permanently shelved. However, I'm hoping to jumpstart things after the turn of the year. I like this combination of energies and styles, so I hope to make things happen in January or February.
* * *
I have another project (!) that's in the initial stages--it's getting close to the time where I have start asking people if they're still interested, get their schedules, find a new director (our potential director, Ryan Archibald, got picked up by Boom Chicago) and set the table for things to take off in January.
* * *
So with all these things going on or in the pipeline, I'm really enjoying this weird downtime I'm having right now--HRK and KOKO are the only groups that are rehearsing and HRK is the only one with shows in the next couple of months (The Bruise probably won't have brush up rehearsals until January). I have Annoyance class on Monday nights, but that's almost a release valve in a way; I go to class, I take some weird chances, then go home and chill. The Annoyance class with Sutton doesn't even feel like part of my improv commitments, they're just something enjoyable I get to do once a week.
Other than the Annoyance class, for the last couple of weeks, I've pretty much come home from work and played CIV III or Diablo II while watching TV. Then I'll read a book before going to sleep. Sometimes, if I'm feeling frisky, I'll grab a coffee from across the street and come right back home. To be honest, I'm loving every minute of my recent weeknight hermit lifestyle. I know it's not socially or psychologically healthy if I did this for a prolonged period of time, but I think it was something I needed these last couple of weeks; sometimes it's just preferable not deal with people at all.
I wish I had a word that encompassed not only how awesome Liz is but what she means to a lot of us around here; she is someone who can alter your improv forever. "Guru" isn't the right word because to me that implies a cult of personality. "Improv Goddess" isn't the right word either because in my mind an Improv Goddess is both a performer and a teacher/director.
Liz is Liz.
And she rocks.
* * *
The Bruise just booked a run at Donny's Skybox in February.
Strange to think that we've been together almost a year. We've done shows at Frankie J's, The Playground, ImprovOlympic and, soon, Skybox. This is one of the groups that if we never rehearsed again, met 2 minutes before a show and went up there with nothing, it'd be full throttle fun from start to finish. The Bruise is truly a pleasure to play with and I can't wait for this run to begin.
* * *
KOKO is getting ready for 2004.
On the business side of things, we're submitting to festivals and looking to do one-off shows in the area.
On the creative side of things, we're working on a new form, beginning the writing process for a sketch show and scoping out sub-directors for when Abby is gone in L.A. during January and February.
It's a weird dynamic having a rehearsals that's just messing around with possible improv concepts and then snapping over to do written monologues. I'm not sure if I dig having a split focus like that but I definitely learned two things during this initial improvising/writing process: some of these girls are flat out funny improvisors AND writers and that you can get a feel for someone's sense of humor in how they perform but it's a total revelation as you get insight about them through what they choose to write about and the voice they write with.
* * *
Laika (Andrea, Abby, Charlie and me) is temporarily-to-permanently shelved. However, I'm hoping to jumpstart things after the turn of the year. I like this combination of energies and styles, so I hope to make things happen in January or February.
* * *
I have another project (!) that's in the initial stages--it's getting close to the time where I have start asking people if they're still interested, get their schedules, find a new director (our potential director, Ryan Archibald, got picked up by Boom Chicago) and set the table for things to take off in January.
* * *
So with all these things going on or in the pipeline, I'm really enjoying this weird downtime I'm having right now--HRK and KOKO are the only groups that are rehearsing and HRK is the only one with shows in the next couple of months (The Bruise probably won't have brush up rehearsals until January). I have Annoyance class on Monday nights, but that's almost a release valve in a way; I go to class, I take some weird chances, then go home and chill. The Annoyance class with Sutton doesn't even feel like part of my improv commitments, they're just something enjoyable I get to do once a week.
Other than the Annoyance class, for the last couple of weeks, I've pretty much come home from work and played CIV III or Diablo II while watching TV. Then I'll read a book before going to sleep. Sometimes, if I'm feeling frisky, I'll grab a coffee from across the street and come right back home. To be honest, I'm loving every minute of my recent weeknight hermit lifestyle. I know it's not socially or psychologically healthy if I did this for a prolonged period of time, but I think it was something I needed these last couple of weeks; sometimes it's just preferable not deal with people at all.
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Thanksgiving was a quiet one.
Just before noon, I walked down a subdued Southport; once you got past the bustling Jewel and Osco lots, very few people were out and about. For a while, I was the only one snacking at Einstein Bagels. On the EL ride downtown, even the robot voice seemed like it was calling it in. ("Doors open on the right...sigh...at Chicago.") As I headed over the AMC River East 21, it was hard not to notice how quiet it was. Since returning to work in the Loop, downtown has become a montage of hustle and bustle, sound and noise to me...and now I had the street to myself, passing the occasional family of tourists gawking at the structural magnificence of scaffoldings and the mechanical wonder of three-color traffic lights.
After a River East double feature, I took the 151 to a restaurant in Uptown where the Indian cabbies eat during their shifts. During my dinner of mutton and rice, I got sucked into watching the Indian movie that was on the TV. Even though I had seen Master and Commander and Kill Bill earlier and despite the fact I couldn't understand anything said in the movie, that Indian flick was probably the most entertaining thing I had seen all day.
The Movie As Understood by Me:
Pretty Boy and Pretty Girl are on a boat cruise. Pretty Boy and Pretty Girl are dating. Pretty Boy has to leave Pretty Girl alone for the day because he has Stuff to do. Sexy Bad Boy (sexiness indicated by unbuttoned designer shirt, badness indicated by sunglasses) sees Pretty Boy say a chaste goodbye to Pretty Girl. Sexy Bad Boy, who somehow knows Pretty Boy, accidently runs into Pretty Girl and convinces her to check out the city in his Shiny Sexy Boy Convertible.
Montage of Sexy Bad Boy and Pretty Girl tooling around town.
Sexy Bad Boy and Pretty Girl have lunch at an outdoor cafe. Pretty Girl walks across Bustling Plaza to buy shoes. As she walks away, Sexy Bad Boy realizes he's falling for her (indicated by a fey head tilt and removal of Sexy Bad Boy Sunglasses). Cue patented Bollywood song and dance spectacular in which Sexy Bad Boy is now Clean Cut Good Guy and Pretty Girl is now Flirty and Hot Dancing Girl. End patented Bollywood spectacular.
Sexy Bad Boy, less cocky, drives Pretty Girl back to ship. Sexy Bad Boy hugs Pretty Girl goodbye. As she walks away, Sexy Bad Boy looks longingly after her (indicated by a long, stalkeresque stare and a weird, buffoonish grin).
CUT TO: Pretty Boy on the ship having seen The Hug and drawing mental conclusions (indicated by wide eyes and open mouth).
I then finished my mutton and rice (indicated by an empty plate) and decided it would be way too creepy to hang around an Indian cabbie restaurant on Thanksgiving watching a movie I didn't really understand. But even money says Pretty Boy loses Pretty Girl to a Reformed Sexy Bad Boy--but only after five or six musical numbers.
* * *
By the way, in Saturday night's show, I got to play a superhero AND a pirate. God bless late night improv silliness. It wasn't art, but it was queerballs fun.
* * *
All the crap with the City cracking down on PPA licenses sucks. WNEP and The Playground got burnt in the sweep and are dark for the time being. Goddam it.
WNEP has always knocked my socks off. I never saw as many shows there as I wanted but everytime I did catch a show there, it always inspired me creatively. They truly have something special going on there and I hope they get back on track and soon.
The Playground has a hearing on the 12th. The waiting is killing me. The PG is a major performance space for improvisors in Chicago and if it has to shut down, that hurts everyone in town. There are at least 30 ensembles who perform regularly at the PG and countless other productions that rent the PG space for shows. Things were getting tight already when it came to booking performance slots for independent ensembles, now everyone's gonna be looking for a place to play. Hopefully things will work out in the PG's favor. If not, I hope they find a new space and get back up and running with a minimum of trouble.
Just before noon, I walked down a subdued Southport; once you got past the bustling Jewel and Osco lots, very few people were out and about. For a while, I was the only one snacking at Einstein Bagels. On the EL ride downtown, even the robot voice seemed like it was calling it in. ("Doors open on the right...sigh...at Chicago.") As I headed over the AMC River East 21, it was hard not to notice how quiet it was. Since returning to work in the Loop, downtown has become a montage of hustle and bustle, sound and noise to me...and now I had the street to myself, passing the occasional family of tourists gawking at the structural magnificence of scaffoldings and the mechanical wonder of three-color traffic lights.
After a River East double feature, I took the 151 to a restaurant in Uptown where the Indian cabbies eat during their shifts. During my dinner of mutton and rice, I got sucked into watching the Indian movie that was on the TV. Even though I had seen Master and Commander and Kill Bill earlier and despite the fact I couldn't understand anything said in the movie, that Indian flick was probably the most entertaining thing I had seen all day.
The Movie As Understood by Me:
Pretty Boy and Pretty Girl are on a boat cruise. Pretty Boy and Pretty Girl are dating. Pretty Boy has to leave Pretty Girl alone for the day because he has Stuff to do. Sexy Bad Boy (sexiness indicated by unbuttoned designer shirt, badness indicated by sunglasses) sees Pretty Boy say a chaste goodbye to Pretty Girl. Sexy Bad Boy, who somehow knows Pretty Boy, accidently runs into Pretty Girl and convinces her to check out the city in his Shiny Sexy Boy Convertible.
Montage of Sexy Bad Boy and Pretty Girl tooling around town.
Sexy Bad Boy and Pretty Girl have lunch at an outdoor cafe. Pretty Girl walks across Bustling Plaza to buy shoes. As she walks away, Sexy Bad Boy realizes he's falling for her (indicated by a fey head tilt and removal of Sexy Bad Boy Sunglasses). Cue patented Bollywood song and dance spectacular in which Sexy Bad Boy is now Clean Cut Good Guy and Pretty Girl is now Flirty and Hot Dancing Girl. End patented Bollywood spectacular.
Sexy Bad Boy, less cocky, drives Pretty Girl back to ship. Sexy Bad Boy hugs Pretty Girl goodbye. As she walks away, Sexy Bad Boy looks longingly after her (indicated by a long, stalkeresque stare and a weird, buffoonish grin).
CUT TO: Pretty Boy on the ship having seen The Hug and drawing mental conclusions (indicated by wide eyes and open mouth).
I then finished my mutton and rice (indicated by an empty plate) and decided it would be way too creepy to hang around an Indian cabbie restaurant on Thanksgiving watching a movie I didn't really understand. But even money says Pretty Boy loses Pretty Girl to a Reformed Sexy Bad Boy--but only after five or six musical numbers.
* * *
By the way, in Saturday night's show, I got to play a superhero AND a pirate. God bless late night improv silliness. It wasn't art, but it was queerballs fun.
* * *
All the crap with the City cracking down on PPA licenses sucks. WNEP and The Playground got burnt in the sweep and are dark for the time being. Goddam it.
WNEP has always knocked my socks off. I never saw as many shows there as I wanted but everytime I did catch a show there, it always inspired me creatively. They truly have something special going on there and I hope they get back on track and soon.
The Playground has a hearing on the 12th. The waiting is killing me. The PG is a major performance space for improvisors in Chicago and if it has to shut down, that hurts everyone in town. There are at least 30 ensembles who perform regularly at the PG and countless other productions that rent the PG space for shows. Things were getting tight already when it came to booking performance slots for independent ensembles, now everyone's gonna be looking for a place to play. Hopefully things will work out in the PG's favor. If not, I hope they find a new space and get back up and running with a minimum of trouble.
Back in June, I stopped wearing baseball caps.
Threw 'em all out in fact.
I realized that wearing a baseball cap all the time was an excuse not to do my hair every day. I realized that I had worn baseball caps almost non-stop since high school. I realized 15 years of just stuffing my hair under a cap was just sheer laziness. I went cold turkey the next day.
A couple weeks later, I stopped wearing a backpack. I realized that just like my baseball caps, I wore it out of habit more than practicality; I'd lug this overstuffed backpack with newspapers, novels, notebooks and pens all over town. I did not own my possessions, they owned me. So, my battered backpack was summarily emptied and abandoned.
For a while I felt good. Hey, I'm not some 30-year old dude wearing a baseball cap and a toting a backing! I comb my hair! Every day! I carry only what I need! Aren't I practical! Holy smokes, ain't I mature!?
In retrospect, it was stupid to think that shedding of those outer things were supposed to reflect a new me. Change comes from the inside out, not from the outside in. But I guess the motivated declarations of "I won't wear hats!" and "Hey, I don't need a backpack!" coupled the swift and effective follow up made me feel better about myself--goals set, goals achieved, aren't I awesome?
It was a bit foolish to think I was all grown up. An adult. Responsible and respectable.
Once again, I gotta pull myself out of a financial hole dug by my own idiocy. I owe Illinois taxes, I owe Visa, I owe Unemployment and somehow I've slipped out of sync with the rent cycle--the 1st of the month paycheck is "getting by" money and the 15th of the month paycheck is for rent.
It's easy to fill your life with distractions, with little things, with little obsessions that keep your mind worry free, that keep your mind from considering the unpleasant and uncomfortable realities of day-to-day life.
I'm so angry at myself that I want to go home and throw out my computer and TV, the things that offer me my daily escape from sitting down and getting shit done. But my computer and TV are just things.
Things.
They don't need to change.
I do.
Threw 'em all out in fact.
I realized that wearing a baseball cap all the time was an excuse not to do my hair every day. I realized that I had worn baseball caps almost non-stop since high school. I realized 15 years of just stuffing my hair under a cap was just sheer laziness. I went cold turkey the next day.
A couple weeks later, I stopped wearing a backpack. I realized that just like my baseball caps, I wore it out of habit more than practicality; I'd lug this overstuffed backpack with newspapers, novels, notebooks and pens all over town. I did not own my possessions, they owned me. So, my battered backpack was summarily emptied and abandoned.
For a while I felt good. Hey, I'm not some 30-year old dude wearing a baseball cap and a toting a backing! I comb my hair! Every day! I carry only what I need! Aren't I practical! Holy smokes, ain't I mature!?
In retrospect, it was stupid to think that shedding of those outer things were supposed to reflect a new me. Change comes from the inside out, not from the outside in. But I guess the motivated declarations of "I won't wear hats!" and "Hey, I don't need a backpack!" coupled the swift and effective follow up made me feel better about myself--goals set, goals achieved, aren't I awesome?
It was a bit foolish to think I was all grown up. An adult. Responsible and respectable.
Once again, I gotta pull myself out of a financial hole dug by my own idiocy. I owe Illinois taxes, I owe Visa, I owe Unemployment and somehow I've slipped out of sync with the rent cycle--the 1st of the month paycheck is "getting by" money and the 15th of the month paycheck is for rent.
It's easy to fill your life with distractions, with little things, with little obsessions that keep your mind worry free, that keep your mind from considering the unpleasant and uncomfortable realities of day-to-day life.
I'm so angry at myself that I want to go home and throw out my computer and TV, the things that offer me my daily escape from sitting down and getting shit done. But my computer and TV are just things.
Things.
They don't need to change.
I do.