Outrider

[Sammy]

Money issues give me anxiety.

Not total-paralysis-and-mind-lock anxiety but tight-chest-scowly-face anxiety.

I'm getting that way thinking about the letter in my jacket pocket.

The other night I found an envelope for me on the bannister by the stairwell. It was from my management company. My first thought, "How long has this been here? Did I drop it accidently last week when I picked up my other mail?" My second thought, "The letter's probably about being late with last month's rent or the security deposit I haven't finish paying off. Crap."

I picked it up off the rail, folded it in half and stuffed in my jacket.

I'll read it after I put away my hummus and pita, I told myself.

Later I told myself:

I'll read it after Leno's monologue...

Then:

I'll read it before I go to work today...

Which Led To:

I'll just read it on the train...

Which Became:

I'll read it during lunch...

Which Is Now:

I'll read it after I write this journal.

A sensible person would just open the fucking thing when they got it...but I'm such an avoider when it comes to financial reckoning it's crippling. It's probably a simple reminder sternly stating that I owe X amount of dollars or somesuch. But reading it makes it all too real. And I don't want to deal with the real world. Well, maybe just the parts I enjoy like brisk autumn walks to the bookstore or having coffee with a funny girl or beers and bits with people you genuinely like.

If I struck the Lottery, I already figured out what I would do with the money:

A million bucks a piece to my dad, mom and sister. Peace of mind money. I don't talk to them and they are not a part of my life, but if I struck it rich, they deserve to have their lives to be a little easier. (The money could only be accepted if they promised no contact with me in the future. I'm not hateful, I just don't want to have to deal with them.)

A million bucks to Playground and WNEP. It's not because of their current situations that I say this--I've always thought that if I hit it big, I'd give money to the places the money would make a huge difference. I can only imagine the great things these two theaters could accomplish if they didn't have to worry about income. Only one condition would accompany the money: I would never have to buy a ticket for any show at either theater ever again. I think I'd be entitled to ask for that. And then, even with my permanent comp, I'd still pay for my tickets to shows.

Spend some money on creating/running my own theater (duh).

And, of course, clear out my debt.

Other than getting a new computer, a new entertainment center and some nice clothes, that'd be about it. I probably wouldn't move anywhere else, I wouldn't buy a car, I wouldn't even buy a bed. I'd just use the money I won to keep my current lifestyle going.

Well, I'd probably get a cell phone and a cable modem, but that's just out of sheer necessity.

Now all that tightness in my chest disappeared when I thought about having, and giving away, that money; I even smiled a bit thinking about having this kick-ass 60" HDTV Plasma Screen hanging on my wall yet still sleeping on the floor because buying a bed would be just too inconvenient.

Fuck it. Let's open that letter.


* * *


I'm a retard.

I wrote a rent check for my current apartment made payable to the management of my last apartment. I just need to cut a new check for November and all is OK. I called and let them know that December's rent would be a little late and they seemed cool with that.

Phew.

Hopefully, they'll never figure out I still owe them half my security deposit.


* * *


See, all that anxiety could have been avoided if I had just opened the envelope last night. But nooooooooo....gotta be an ostrich...

 

[Sammy]

The Small Chicago Law Firm consists of 15 persons.

Of the 15 persons there are only 4 men.

Of the 4 men, only 1 isn't an attorney.

That's me.

So, by default of my gender and my position as Office Bitch

, I am called on to perform many manly tasks such as Lifting Heavy Things or Moving Heavy Things or Building Heavy Things or, my favorite, Taking Heavy Things Apart then Moving Heavy Things and then Reassembling Heavy Things.

Many a time I wanted to point out that: fat ≠ strong.

I also wanted to point out that: male ≠ mechanically inclined.

But I am sure I would have been told that: ($10/hr x 40 hours/week) > ($0/hr x 0 hours/week)

THEREFORE

($10/hr x 40 hours/week) = Where do you want this Heavy Thing?

 

[Sammy]

So I'm doing some research on Adult Attention Deficit Disorder. Of course I find out about that new drug, Strattera, that Eli Lilly is touting.

I swing by the website and check it out and:

Side Effects — Adults

Most adults in clinical trials who experienced side effects were not bothered enough to stop taking Strattera. The most common side effects were constipation, dry mouth, nausea, decreased appetite, problems sleeping, sexual side effects, problems urinating, and menstrual cramps.

On second thought, maybe I can do without medication...

 

[Sammy]

I am a surly and soaked Santa delivering Christmas tchotchkes.

Every year the Small Chicago Law Firm sends out gifts to their clients and contemporaries: last year it was nice wooden yo-yos, the year before it was Slinkies. This year it's rubik's cubes.

A whole shitload of them.

So, for the last couple of days I've been trudging all over the Loop, in the rain, with a shopping bag and a handcart full of rubik's cubes.

I now hate security people with a passion. If I meet another idiot powertripping because he wears a thirdhand blue blazer with an ugly yellow patch on it, I might just start whipping rubik's cubes at everybody.

JEE-sus!

Dear Security Guard,

You are useless. I am useless. Let us revel in our non-utility. That being done, please get the fuck out of my way so I can bring yet another rubik's cube to yet another receptionist of yet another corporation I don't care about.

Thank you,
Me

 

[Sammy]

During yesterday's disagreeableness (re: rainsoaked gift delivery), three things made me happy:

#1--An attorney found a huge cockroach on their sweater in their office. I was highly amused watching all the ladies in the office freak out over it.

#2--I saw To Be & To Have at the Musicbox Theater last night. Great little french documentary on a one room school house in the rural parts of France. I highly recommend it.

#3--The pre-emptive decision to call off work today to just chill out and have a day for myself. Nothing like knowing you're not going to work the next day to cheer one up.

 

[Sammy]

I don't know what to call it.

A pause perhaps?

Other than nights I've performed, I haven't seen an improvised show at IO five or so weeks (the only notable exception being the trainwreck of a Jam I watched). In fact, across the board I haven't seen much improv at all since the beginning of November. It's been go to work, come home, play computer games and watch a little TV. On weekends, maybe I'll catch a movie after my Saturday rehearsal with the Home Run Kids or slug down a coffee and read the paper on Sunday before KOKO rehearsal.

I like the work I've been doing in KOKO and HRK rehearsals but have been divided on the actual work I'm doing in shows. The eternal struggle, no? To bring the brilliance of rehearsal to the stage...

Anyways, there are plenty of shows I want to see: Concept Album, Fatty Four Eyes, 4Square, Armando and Carl & The Passions at IO; pH shows, some Skybox stuff and some indie barprov shows outside of IO--but I have a hard time mustering the gumption to go out and see them. It's not to the point where I'm like, "Dear God, not another improv show!" but that's not too far off either. I'm still very passionate about my work, I just think I've hit a point where I just want to focus on my own stuff for a little bit.

The horrible part is that in the back of my mind I'm thinking about The Bruise run in February at Skybox and any KOKO run that happens next year; I'm gonna have to plug the show to people whose shows I didn't go out and see. I feel terrible about that.

"Hey, I didn't see your free show when it was at IO, a place where I always spend oodles of time at, but come on out to the semi-inconvienent Skybox on a Sunday and see my group...uh, no...you have to pay..."

Now that kinda sucks. That feeling of obligation. I am obligated to see your show if I want you to see mine. "Obligation" is the wrong word. We should all support one another's endeavors. But sometimes, you just don't want see a show--not because it's not good or it's at a weird time or you don't like the people in it--you're just not in the mood. At all. And I hope people understand that.

* * *

BA DA BUMP!

Last Sunday was the second annual "KOKO Christmas!" party. Once again we did a secret Santa exchange but upped the gift price limit to $12. What a wild group of improvisors we are Jane Menendez got me a tiny Kawaski keyboard. Almost instantly I figured out how to do a rimshot. I think all of KOKO regretted my new toy after exactly three minutes.

BA DA BUMP!

The definite highlight of the party was Rebecca Hanson's gift: Dance Twister. Basically, you get four mats with several colored circles on 'em. You put one of CDs that came with the game in the CD player and try to dance to the DJ's called moves. Purple! Red! Blue! Jump! Home! The best part of the game (besides the hilariously inane "hip" DJ patter) was the ridiculous difficulty ramp up; on the CD we played, the first third was simple, the next third pretty complex and the final third was "what the fuck!?" crazy.

BA DA BUMP!

I smell a sketch.

BA DA BUMP!

* * *

It seems some of the HRK have resigned themselves to an inevitable break up. If it happens, it happens. This is our fifth Schedule together (10 months), so if The Powers That Be feel like pulling the plug for whatever sundry reasons, it's their perogative. Someone asked me the other night what I thought our status was and I answered that I honestly didn't know. A couple of days later, I can now say that I am more inclined to believe we are either gonna be broken up or majorly restructured--at this point in a team's lifespan you either have momentum or you don't, and I don't think we ever fully recovered from, or compensated for, losing Andel a couple schedules back. Anyways, I hope no one uses a possible break up (or the holidays) to slack off in rehearsals; we're here to do the work, so lets be pros and suck it up.

A positive that emerges from a possible break up is that I would have my Saturday mornings free to take Mick Napier's Annoyance class...

 

[Sammy]

I stopped by IO after KOKO rehearsal with the intent to see the Harold shows. I enjoyed Deep Schwa (but I gave 'em a semi-crappy pull). Everything else was...eh. I really wanted to see 4Square but couldn't muster the reserves to suffer through Powerball, so I reluctantly called it a night. The definite highlight of the evening for me was chatting with the awesome Craig Uhlir.

The world needs more Craig Uhlirs in it:

Well, maybe more Craig Uhlirs but less Craig Uhlir headshots.

* * *

Speaking of KOKO, we're going to Seattle for Seattle Festival of Improv Theater!!! Woo-hoo!!! Aww yeah! Exclamation!

Much fun times will be had by all

I've never been to Seattle, so hopefully despite the February weather I'll be able to do some Seattle-y things like lounge at a coffee shop and reminisce about that awesome grunge band I was in that Cobain totally ripped off so bad, y'know-what-I'm-saying-dude?

The more I think about it, the more I realize I know nothing about Seattle. Well, nothing of real import.

My knowledge of Seattle:

-Has a basketball team named the Supersonics owned by a software millionaire (Paul Allen?). No idea why the team is called that. Oooh! Oooh! Maybe it's because Boeing used to have it's world HQ there! That's gotta be it!

-Has a football team named the Seahawks. No idea why it's called that. What the hell is a seahawk anyways?

-Starbucks started there right? Pretty much the whole consumerized gourmet coffee experience spread out of the Pacific Northwest in general and out of Seattle specifically. Maybe.

-"Frasier" is set in Seattle. Definitely.

-It has a Sky Needle.

-Birthplace of grunge.

-Is in the state of Washington.

-"Real World" had a show there.

Uh, that's about it. Pathetic, Tamimi, pathetic.

 

[Sammy]

What is improv?

It's chatting with Tony Seales at Starbucks.

It's seeing Alex Burke and John Keaton right before the Second City Christmas party.

It's doing a bit in passing with Dori Goldman.

It's seeing Pip Lilly and wondering if you should A) introduce yourself and B) tell him that he has the Best. Name. Ever.

It's waiting for the North Avenue Bus with KOKO gals Andrea, Erin and Erica...and talking to Craig Cackowski as he passes by.

It's doing bits on the cold walk from the bus to a bar you've never heard of to do a form you've never done before.

It's sitting at a battered table in an empty back room with a school of stuffed sea fish on the wall.

It's hangin out and cracking each other up for an hour straight.

It's realizing that there's no audience, the other groups would rather drink than perform and figuring out what your group wants to do.

It's randomly walking onto the stage to warm up, deciding to do silly dances to the oh-so-sexy house music, pimping each other into horrible stand up routines and making each other laugh because no one's there and the "warm up" has become beautiful, silly thing of its own.

It's recognizing there's actually somebody there watching you be outrageously retarded and not caring.

It's walking off the stage and playfully giving each other notes on a show that never happened.

It's saying goodbye to the other troupes and walking back into the cold Chicago night with your friends.

It's waiting for the North Avenue Bus with the KOKO gals (again) and acting like robots for the people waiting at the stoplight.

It's waiting for the North Avenue Bus with the KOKO gals (still) and debating on a getting cab while acting like robots (again).

It's walking down North Avenue because the North Avenue Bus didn't show up then realizing the North Avenue Bus is coming and hurrying to the next stop.

It's boarding the North Avenue Bus as robots.

It's doing bits in the back of the North Avenue Bus (robot and otherwise).

It's getting off the North Avenue Bus, rousing an exhausted Tamale from her stupor at the Broadway Bus stop and waiting for the Broadway Bus together.

It's doing bits on the Broadway Bus.

It's deciding that Andrea is a Lighthouse of Non-Judgment and that she shoots beams of non-judgment from her fingers and that because of her, no one will crash upon the Shoals of Judgment or be lost in the Fog of Confusion.

It's a late night IHOP meal and shop talk with Erin about the past, the present and the future.

It's an IHOP waiter named Rick, Rich or Ritz who won't come back to our table and check on us.

It's that walk down Waveland, laughing to yourself about a show that never happened on-stage...but all the bits that did off-stage.

It's getting home, collapsing into your chair and thinking...

...improv isn't about the improv--it's about the people you meet. The people who share your passion. The people who become such a vital part of your life. The people who are your acquaintances, your teachers, your coaches, your castmates, your idols, your audience, your competition, your inspiration...all the people who have affected me in ways I'll probably never understand.



What is improv?

My friends.

My world.

 

[Sammy]

IO had its annual Christmas party last night. I popped in, ate some free food, made a little conversation and got out just before the gift exchange began. In and out in an hour and a half. While I really wanted to sit and chat with people, I didn't want to do it at the party--I'd rather have a beer with 'em at a bar or yap over a plate of greasy Salt & Pepper grub. I don't know what it is, but the longer I'm here in Chicago the less I want to go to the big social events and the more I just want to chill out with smaller groups of people I know.

Maybe I'm just becoming a grumpy old man.

 

[Sammy]

The race is on.

February 18th is the start of the Seattle Improv Festival. February 8th is my birthday. My Michigan driver's license expires on my birthday. I need a valid ID to pass through airport security. To get an Illinois driver's license, you need Social Security Card and a Birth Certificate.

I lost both of those a long time ago.

So...I have to get a duplicate Social Security Card, a certified copy of my Birth Certificate and then get a new driver's license all in the span of 2 months.

Feet don't fail me now!

* * *

OK. According to official government website of Jessie White, the Secretary of State and leader of the Jessie White Tumblers, a high school transcript with your date of birth on it is as valid as a birth certificate. To hedge my bets in case the birth certificate doesn't make it in time, I decided to request my transcript.

I called the Taylor School District up (after wandering the website and looking at pictures of my old teachers) and went through the process of requesting my transcript. I was transferred to a female high school student who took my info:

"Name?"

"Sammy Tamimi. T-A-M-I-M-I."

"What high school did you graduate from?"

"Truman." (silently in head: "Go Cougars!")

"What year did you graduate?

" '92."

"(stifled giggle)"

Oh, come on. That's not funny, is it? That's only 11-ish years ago. It's not like I said '73 or '68 or '59. I'm not some ancient fuddy-duddy! Don't giggle at that! That's not funny! grrrr!

To show how young at heart I was, when I sent a follow-up fax with extra info they needed, I signed it:

"Thanks! "

In retrospect, that smiley face makes me look old and queerballs instead of just old.

I should have signed it:

"Rockin'!"

or

"IM me!"

or

"l33t rul3z!"

or maybe with a kitsch retro

"You're so boss!"

or a flippant

"A.S.S. K.I.T. B.F.F. S.W.A.K."

or the incorrigible

"Party hardy, have a blast,
go to school and skip a class,
sex is fun, school's a bore,
we're the class of 2004!"

God, I think about these things too much.

 

[Sammy]

The trip to the Social Security Administration office down the block from me was quick and painless.

The loud yapping guy next to me, though, would have had it otherwise.

As soon as he asked if he could read the my discarded Reader, I rolled my eyes. I knew he didn't want the paper--he wanted an excuse to talk to me.

He didn't disappoint:

"I was at my nephew's last night, you know, and he got that Playboy yearbook. It has everybody in it...LaToya Jackson, Robin Givens...Marilyn Monroe, Jayne Mansfield...EVERYBODY! Man, I had to leave because it was just too tempting, you know! Phew! Just too tempting... Man!"

Just then his number got called.

"You should check it out!"


Maybe not.

 

[Sammy]

So where does one draw the line exactly?

It's 9 p.m. and I sit in Starbucks sipping a grande soy mocha (w/ whip please) on the Mag Mile across the street from the Nike Town, Cole Haan and Apple Super/Mega/Hippster store.

My former roommate Laura Stark got me into the "support your local store" mindset--all things being equal, try to patronize the small mom and pop indie stores before spending money at chain stores.

Being the financial non-entity I am, this usually means buying a cuppa joe at a little coffe shop if I can...but when it comes down to it, between the economics of my lifestyle, the convenience of 24 hour Jewel or the comfort and consistency across a chain store, I mostly end up supporting America's present and future corporate lords.

If I wanted to take a principled stand, I'd probably...do something, I guess. Life is a series of compromises; some palatable, some not. I guess the trick is figuring out what choices you're willing to live with.

* * *

I've decided.

I toss the TV out at the end of the year. If not sooner.

I guess it's that old romantic notion of being an artist on the fringes of society, the Boho ideal we aspire to.

What am I talking about?

I don't know what a true Bohemian lifestyle or philosophy encompasses, yet I constantly chide that that is what I am. Like an unknown but emphemerally familiar word in a sentence, I define my life by its context; I cannot know my life, I can only infer it.

Artist? Check. Living hand-to-mouth? Check. Unsatisfied with the status quo? Check. Passion for his art? Check. Relentless desire to do something of import? Check. A life, like his clothes, that is frayed around the edges? Double Plus Check.

Am I Boho?

I don't know. I don't think a Bohemian would live in Wrigleyville or work at a law firm or have a Starbucks mocha on the Mag Mile.

I do know this: I am an artist. An artist who pines for excellence in his work, accepts mediocracy in his life and tends to fail most spectacularly at both.

* * *

If I had my druthers, I'd live in a monk's cell. Table. Bed. Chair. No TV. Maybe a clock radio. Tattered books stacked thoughtlessly. A close full of the same outfit. Papers with scribbled notes pinned to the wall. Computer? Probably. Typewriter? Maybe. Small bathroom. No tub. Just a shower stall.

A spartan life, a refuge from the world. But not a place to hide from the world, only to rest recuperate between bouts of navigating everyday life.

How the hell did I get from the Mag Mile and conscientious shopping to the my "artist's retreat?"

Through the glass: Michigan Avenue with tree-shaped clouds of christmas lights floating above the roadbound whites, yellows and reds that flow past.

The noise. The honks. The sirens. The bells. The people.

I think how beautiful Michigan Ave would be without people. Just the lights. A moment of perfect stillness, of reverent hush, in a city of motion and noise.

So now I wonder why do I want things so quiet, so silent, so simple? Maybe it's that old hoo-hah of projecting my inner wants on the outer world; I want stillness mind and clarity of thought, so maybe if my world were like that, things would be better.

A foolish way to think and I realize that, so I don't.

But there is an allure there, right?

* * *

My mom was a devout Catholic. Pictures of Jesus. Paintings of Mary. Crucifixes. Rosaries. Scapulas. Vials of holy water. Candles. The whole nine yards of Filipino Catholicism.

Strangely enough, she also dabbled in things like astrology, numerology and palm reading.

In our unfinished basement, we kept old furniture. We had an entire bedroom with a four-poster bed and matching dressers set up. When I was in high school I found a stack of papers with numerology scribblings my mom had done.

I don't remember everything, but I do remember one of the notes under my name that said something to the effect of "success later in life" and the age of 52 or somesuch.

Sometimes I wonder that if in the back of my brain I secretly think every success I have is small victory in the war to disprove that and every failure rationalized away as "I'm not supposed to successfull till I'm in my 50's."

Brains are funny like that.

* * *

It's 2 a.m.

I walk down the Mag mile.

It's empty.

It's beautiful.

 

[Sammy]

On Saturday morning, Steve Kaminski brought a letter to the informal Home Run Kids brunch at IHOP. The letter was from our coach Bill Arnett*. It was short and to the point:

The Home Run Kids would not be on the next Schedule.

Well, it wasn't like we didn't see it coming. To be honest, it was almost a relief in a way--it's better to know where you stand than to live in uncertainty.

We have one last show on December 26th at midnight (possibly the night the new Schedule is released). Let there be raucous revelry and tumultuous din, for we are improvisors unfettered :loopy:


* = Bill would have told us in person but he's home for the holidays.


* * *

Sunday night, I sat at the DCT bar with Jake Schneider before the 5B shows. Our meandering conversation finally settled onto the topic of coaches and his coaching experience--Jake had recently become a coach and I was intensely curious about his observations about the whole process. While we were talking, I got warm and fuzzy: here is a guy I've performed, bullshitted and hung out with who, in the last couple of years, has worked his way up from interning to performing to coaching. It felt great to listen to him talk about it all. It was also a bit weird to think that there are now 9 or 10 people from my "generation" of improvisors coaching here at IO.

* * *

I might be doing tech again for Le Commedie du Bicyclette.

In January.

In Ari-frickin-zona!

How awesome is that!? I get paid to do a tech for a show I love with guys who rock in a sunny state in the heart of winter. I really hope this works out; not only could I use the trip out of Chicago, I also could leverage that money into the Seattle trip KOKO has in February.

(crosses fingers)

* * *

So I thought Jason Sudekis was a IO on Sunday. Something was off, tickling the back of my brain, but I couldn't tell what it was. While talking to Sudekis I mentioned Noel Dineen. Sudekis looked at me and said, "I am Dineen."

Ah. Well. Oops.

I guess cliche bad movie moments do happen.

 

[Sammy]

I swung over to IO early--I wanted to bullshit with Mike Click and Jake before Armando last night (mission accomplished). No intern was on duty that night, so in exchange for dinner, I reprised my intern duties of three years previous; stocking the bar, taking tickets and doing grunt work. As the house filled, I made the usual "Move left people!" speech (but in a much more pleasant manner). After my announcement, someone walked up to me and asked, "Are you Sammy Tamimi?"

"Yeah."

"It's me, Tiegan Fraker!"

"Holy shit!"

Tiegan Fraker was in my film classes at NYU four years ago. I haven't seen him since. In fact, the last time I saw him he had short hair and was clean shaven. Now, he had a ponytail and a beard.

During intermission, we did some catching up. It was nice to hear how he was doing in LA and what he had been up to. Weird to think I'd run into him here of all places.

* * *

Sometime during the first act, Todd Schanbacher told me that he had just posted the Schedule on-line. I was surprised--I thought the Schedule wasn't due until the 26th. Then Todd, sounding uncomfortable, told me he didn't think he saw my name on it. He said he didn't have a chance to read it all, but...just in case, y'know.

I thanked him for the heads up.

Todd's a good guy that way.

You should get to know him.

* * *

During the second act, while I grabbed beer from the downstairs coolers for Jake, the new Schedules were put out. I picked one up and scanned it. No Home Run Kids. Of the ten of us, only three made it onto the new Schedule.

I wasn't one of those three.

* * *

After Armando, I cleared the seats of cups and bottles, hung out in the green room a bit and then chatted with an exhausted Scott Brady about the Schedule for a while.

I'm fine with it. A little pissed but definitely fine with it. I'll still swing by to see shows, maybe sit in a class or two and definitely visit for some post-show socializing.

Don Hall was told by Mick Napier, "A theater isn't a building, it's a group of people."

Well, improv isn't a theater, it's a way of life.

So, let's make '04 an interesting year shall we?

 

[Sammy]

Slow day at work, so here's my second entry of the day...


Not that anyone cares, but some ideas:

LEVEL 0

In recent years, the influx of experienced improvisors entering IO has increased significantly; not only are these improvisors familiar with the basics of improv, they may have significant stage time under their belt.

IO, however, also has students who have never improvised, let alone perform on a stage. While these students have no more or no less potential than their more experienced peers, they do have more to learn and master.

IO should offer a "Level 0" for students who have never performed before. Not only would the class teach the basic tenets of improvisation ("yes and..." , who/what/where, etc.), it would also teach rudimentary stagecraft such as facing out, voice projection, stage picture, etc.

In no way is Level 0 meant to be a replacement for Level 1. It is designed to be an abbreviated 4-week class that would introduce total neophytes to tools they will need in the upcoming year in a safe space with others of their skill level.

Level 0 should not be mandatory. However, it should be strongly suggested to those new to stage performance.


HAROLD TEAM Q & A

(great idea courtesy of Steve Kaminski)

During a Level 4 class, a Harold Team will come in and perform a "training wheels" Harold. After the performance, the students can ask the performers questions about the choices they made, the characters they played and where their thought processes were during the piece. The students would gain insight into both the artistic and mechanical aspects of performing a Harold.


LEVEL 6

Rename 5B Level 6. Seriously.


ON DECK

New teams of 5B students should be given one Schedule to rehearse and re-familiarize themselves with the Harold. This eight weeks of rehearsal would pay immediate dividends in terms of quality shows. Also, it gives a chance for a team to find and develop its "voice" as an ensemble.


That's about it.

Oh, yeah...kill Powerball.

 

[Sammy]

The disentangling continues.

You don't realize how much a place has become part of your life until the status quo changes. During the last couple of days, I've said a goodbye of sorts to some people around IO. It's a bit awkward. It's not like I'm leaving town or quitting improv, it's just that I won't be around IO except to see a show or two every so often and I know I won't see certain people as much, if at all. So, I looked for them, told 'em what was up and after a few friendly words, left it at that.

On one hand it's like the long expected break up with your girlfriend, on the other, it's like a kick in the ass to set long-neglected things into motion. I got some big plans for '04. Let's hope it all works out.

* * *

Boringest. Christmas. Ever.

I didn't leave the apartment for almost 48 hours. With no money to fund my usual Christmas movie orgy at the cineplex, I ended up sitting at home playing video games, watching TV and counting the days until my next paycheck. Truth be told, when anyone asks me how my Christmas was, they get one of three answers:

Stranger/Acquantaince:
"It was nice. Man, how about that weather! It's was like October!"

Friend:
"It was alright. I stayed here. Didn't do anything."

Good Friend:
"Boringest. Christmas. Ever."

* * *

ODE TO COINSTAR

Oh, Coinstar, of the Jewel at three five three one Broadway
You are my holiday light!
Joy! Oh, Joy!
You ate my mason jar of silver coins
and gave me $33 back!
Joy! Oh, Joy!
I am so poor that I do not mind your egregious 8.9% service charge!
Thank you, Coinstar, of the Jewel at three five three one Broadway, thank you.

 

[Sammy]

I had my 6-month job review today. I expected the worst. Instead, I got a great review! And I found out I was getting a tiny, but welcome raise! And I found out I was getting a tidy year-end bonus!

Holy shitballs, Batman!

 

[Sammy]

After 5-months sans telephone, I now own a Dan Telfer approved cell phone.

2004:

Better watch out. I'm coming to kick your ass and then I'll text message taunt you afterwards.

 

[Sammy]

The copier is down and my work being outsourced, giving me ample time to slack off...

* * *

So, because I was a good boy this year, Santa brought me my Social Security Card and my High School Transcript on Christmas Eve.

Man, I thought I was nerd in High School, but I think my nerd credentials need to be seriously scrutinized and re-evaluated. Or at least my memory does.

I thought I graduated 7th in a class of 300.

Nope. 9th in a class of 222.

I thought I had a GPA of 3.8.

Nope. 3.622.

I thought the worst grade I ever got was a B-.

Wrong again. I got a C in Honors Algebra/Trig my junior year (that was the semester I decided I hated math and would never take a math class again, high school or college. Except for one stats class at Wayne State University, I have held true to this declaration.)

Despite certain memories being wrong, it was still fun to look back at some of the classes I took.

Freshman Year:

Accelerated English 9--B first semester, B+ second semester. A class held in the "open area"--when Truman High School was first built, it was thought having multiple classes in an open air area would facilitate learning by allowing students to hear other classes being taught. 4 or 5 English classes were held in this octagonal part of the school, separated by walls of rolling cabinets. It was great when you heard another teacher snap and yell at one of his students. It sucked when the class next to yours was noisy enough to distract you but not rowdy enough to warrant a rebuke from their teacher...or yours. This is the class where I began to learn the high school dynamic of popularity and cliques. Sure, you had some of that at Brake Junior High (7th and 8th grade), but it was amazing to watch the interplay of three separate social circles, one from each junior high, coming together and forming a new social hierarchy.

Accelerated Practical Citizenship--One semester. A. A course on government and the law but more so ethics. Another class in an open area, this one shaped like a big "C" with 10 or classes. In fact, this C held the separate octagon open area in its jaws. Because of educational "tracking" (college bound or remedial), I saw a lot of the same people in here that would be my classmates and friends over the coming years. The first class I was in that had another teacher yell at us, the tiny Ms. Koenig from the class next door stood on a student desk and yelled at us over the rolling cabinets. She told us to "Shut the blank up."

Yes, she actually said 'blank'.

Fun fact: Ms. Koenig married a firefighter with a hook for a hand and became Mrs. Duperon. She divorced him a year or so later and became Ms. Koenig again. Her life, and general craziness, amused the students muchly.

Biology--A first semester. B second semester. During the AIDS education part we watched the Ryan White story. We watched it again second semester. I guess Judith Light really is the lazy educators best friend.

Drafting--A first semester, B+ second semester. This is the year I decided I would be an architect. The fact that the teacher Mr. Ryan would scribble POW! and ZAP! over your drafting errors did not dissuade me.

Tennis--I tried out for the team. Didn't make the cut. I had never played before and didn't even have my own racquet. I had to borrow the coach's extra racquet, or worse yet, use one of the crappy aluminum ones they had.


Sophomore Year:

Accelerated English 10--A first semester. A- second semester. The year I started coming into my own writing-wise. This is the first time a teacher would show "Dead Poets Society" in class. Unfortunately, it would not be the last.

Accelerated American History--A first semester. A- second semester. Through some weird scheduling quirk, a friend and I are the only sophomores in a class of juniors. I gain valuable insight into the class of 1991's power/popularity/social heirarchy.

German I--A first semester. A- second semester. I had a knack for language. This is the year I decided I would be a translator. The fact that Frau Denchfield made us watch "The Karate Kid" in Deutsch did not dissuade me.

Tennis--I had picked up racquetball the previous winter and those skills translated (barely) to tennis--I made the cut. I even managed to start in four doubles matches.

Class Clown: Voted Class Clown in mock elections. A hard fought victory.


Junior Year:

Advanced Placement English 11: B+ first semester. B second semester. This is the year I started stretching my writing muscles. This is also the year I accidently tackle Principal Zimmerman when he visits our class.

Newspaper: My AP English 11 teacher, Mrs. Boyd, was also in charge of the student paper, The Truman Troubadour. I pen a little humor column called the "Cougar's Cave." This is the year I decide to become a journalist. The fact that I was constantly missed deadlines did not dissuade me.

Physics: A- first semester. B+ second semester. Best. Class. Ever. Hands-on physics with a teacher who looked like Grizzly Adams. I built a super strong toothpick bridge, an ultra efficient mousetrap car, a hot air balloon and solar powered hot dog cooker among other things. Mr. Garner, where ever you are, you made this nerd very happy. (This is the first class I cheated on a test in. For tests, we would go to the library. Before one particularly thorny test, I went to library before hand and put notecards with formulas on them face out on the paperback rack. When we sat down for the test, I made sure to sit at the table right next to rack and looked at the formulas as needed. I would be ashamed, but I'm too proud over that scam.) This class was a great come-uppance for many people--the brains who aced all the formula tests and mathematic stuff always struggled when it came to practical application (toothpick bridge, mouse trap car,etc); the non-brains who worked with their hands almost always came up with simple, and in a way, very elegant solutions/creations. There's nothing like watching the head nerd's hot air balloon fail to take off and then seeing the head slacker's balloon float into the sky and drift off into the neigboring subdivision...

Computer Applications: A both semesters. The hottest Senior girl in school was my lab partner. She was also technologically inept. The funny nerd, the hottie and a 286--next on UPN.

Tennis: I play doubles and start every match. Earn "Coach's Hustle Award" at end of season. Holy shit, I get a Varsity Letter!

Class Clown: Second victory in a row. It's hard work, but if you want it, you gotta earn it.

Senior Year:

My schedule:

1st Hour--Individual Study with Mrs. Boyd
2nd Hour--Newspaper with Mrs. Boyd
3rd Hour--Chem II
4th Hour--A REAL CLASS
5th Hour--AP English 12
6th Hour--Early Departure

What this actually meant:

1st Hour--Show up a half hour late, read the newspaper
2nd Hour--Social Hour
3rd Hour--Take "A" lunch and "C" lunch, get every Friday off since Mr. Thomas was burning off all his vacation days before he retired.
4th Hour--The school day begins.
5th Hour--The school day ends.

This is the year I decided to be a weasel. To be a senior working the system is a thing of beauty.

Tennis: Voted Co-captain. I play doubles and start every match. A good year with league losses only to the state ranked, and much hated, Allen Park. Good days, indeed.

Class Clown: Take the crown home for the third year in a row. The humor columns in the paper, my near-expulsion for running for Homecoming Queen and my random mischief making all pay off. But it isn't all fun and games--this is the last time I will weigh 175 pounds.

And so here I am, looking back 16 years and smiling like a big goofball. There are so many stories I want to tell, but I don't think you'd be interested. A few of the highlights--

*Jumping out in full camo and shooting at a teacher with a paintball gun.

*Getting a hate letter from the Maintenance Union.

*Parking on the sidewalk next to the entrance my junior and senior year.

*Finding out the president of S.A.D.D. is in the hospital because he was drunk driving.

*Exchange students gone bad.

*Serving detention with the Asst. Principal's daughter.

*Earning the brief moniker "Six Pack Sammy."

*My buddy Jason's fake driver's licenses scam.

You know what? Even I misrember the details, the emotion is genuine; those were some fun times. So much less to worry about, so much more to laugh about.

Class of '92, here's to you

 

[Sammy]

Balance slowly returns.

You're standing on a chair. Even though you expected it, when one of the legs buckle, you still flail your arms and almost crash to the ground. But you were prepared. You quickly regain an uneasy balance on the three remaining legs. You're still standing. But you need to adjust. Not physically. Mentally. Things have changed. Have you?

* * *

Emotional. Physical. Financial. Artistic. These are investments you have made over 3 1/2 years. You remember great Harolds, stupid politics, nighthawk socializing, inspiring classes, thankless interning, numerous show proposals, last second techs...

...and it's all still happening.

You're just not there. You're not a part of it. The theater moves on without you.

You realize things haven't changed. You have.

When you walk by the theater, you suppress the urge to poke your head in and see who's there. No need for that. So you walk on. When you come home from work, you get antsy from 7:30 - 10:00. Show time. It's overwhelming at first, but it slowly subsides. When you do stop by the theater--maybe to find someone or to see a friend's late night show--it feels awkward. You don't feel as comfortable as you used to.

It's not your theater anymore.

It's theirs.

It's their theater.

* * *

Your ego is scuffed. Not bruised. Scuffed.

Politics? Talent?

Was it too much of one and too little of another?

You could ask someone. Charna. Maybe Jeff.

...but maybe, it was just time to go.

You find an answer that works for you. It's better that way. You tell yourself what you need to hear and move on.

* * *

Secretly, sometimes you wonder if some performers at the theater even know you're gone. You wonder if they'll ask you how you're team is or when your next show is. And then you play that awkward moment out in your head, trying to figure out what's the best answer, the best way to smooth over their unknowing gaffe.

Then, you wonder if anyone cares that you're gone.

Sometimes you can’t help the melodrama in your head.

* * *

Your other existing projects move to the fore. Projects that began in your head and bootstrapped themselves into existence. Projects you’ve invested yourself in. Projects you care about.

Projects not subject to arbitrary decisions.

Then ideas fill the empty the space that once housed all the anxiety, all the anger, all the resentment and all the energy you reserved for your former theater. Ideas on how things could work better.

Then questions follow the ideas. Questions about why things work the way they do. Things you never asked before because you were too enmeshed in the machinery of that you would have questioned.

You don’t have any answers yet.

But you have many ideas (so many ideas!) screaming for life.

Maybe you’ll find your answers along the way.

* * *

You know it's a numbers game.

Cyclically:

New students in. Old performers out.

Cynically:

New money in. Underperformers out.

But you know the truth--the system is supposed to work a certain way, and for the most part it does, but the exceptions to and the corruptions of the system are so painfully obvious. But no one wants to rock the boat. Go along to get along. Quietly bitch about the status quo and keep playing instead of speaking out and then offering ways to fix what is damaged. Use IO while it uses you.

And you get angry. So very angry. It's always been there. That anger. Lurking. You're not angry at the students. They don't know any better. You are angry at the old school teachers. You are angry at the longtime vets. They should be our leaders and inspiration. On stage, they are gods incarnate. But off stage, they perpetuate what is wrong with cynical asides and resigned indifference. They, more than anyone else, know what is damaged and how to fix it. And the fact they would rather keep their heads down, teach their classes and do their shows than band together and as one say "Things need to change!" angers you. It angers you that they don't realize how much power they have as a group. It angers you that they are the best teachers in the world making shit for money and performing for free. They deserve better. So much better.

But it's not about money.

It's about them coming together and using their knowledge and their passion to benefit the theater. No. To benefit the performers. To benefit the students. Take care of those first. Everything else will fall into line.

It's about the elders taking care of the villagers. And you wish the elders would do something (anything!) as a group.

Then again, if the elders would rather go along to get along, they deserve what they get.

* * *

It's easy to say, "It's just a training center."

But it was so much more than that. It is so much more than that.

You are no longer a part of the theater, but you've left so much there.

But you move forward.

And in moving forward, you take the best of what it had to offer with you.

And in turn, you hope you left something good behind.