Pop Stand II: Pop Stander

[Chris Kula]

Two big developments kick off this (revisited) journal. First, I just got a new Mac laptop last week, a 15” Powerbook with maxed out specs courtesy of a hefty Apple Loan that I’ll be paying off well into my late 20s. Secondly, I just got out of a long-term relationship; her name was Prudence, first name Fiscal. I will miss her well into my late 20s.

I figured the computer was a worthy career investment: it’s the tool I need to do the work that will lead to the opportunities that will pay off the tool. Also, it loads Minesweeper so fast.

Not to mention, I’d forgotten how comfortable I am working on a laptop. I used a Compaq Presario my senior year of college, which was probably my most prolific period of writing. I was constantly editing and rewriting at my kitchen table simply because the laptop was always right there. (Same goes for how I spilled so much hot and sour soup on it – because it was always right there.)

And as anyone with a Day Job knows, it can be The Buckinghams – kind of a drag – to come home from eight hours of sitting at a desk and plop right back down at a desktop. But, ah, to lay in bed with the Powerbook? Bliss.

Just TRY getting Fiscal Prudence into bed...

One of my roommates is a film guy, works in a post-production house where he has access to all their software; he has over time “compiled” a nice collection of apps. So last night he hooked me up with Final Cut Pro 4, After Effects, Photoshop, Illustrator, Pro Tools, etc.

And after just ONE night of familiarizing myself with these professional-grade audio, video, and graphics editing programs, I can vouch that, yes, this machine loads Minesweeper SO fast.
****

Harold team auditions. Exciting times. Glad I don’t have to do it.

I’m really impressed, though, by how the people auditioning have been so casual and relaxed about the whole thing. If you look through the old Pop Stand, you’ll see that I was updating pretty regularly all through summer ’02, and then right after August 7th, I went MIA for a couple months.

That’s ‘cause on August 8th emails went out for the invite-only auditions that ended up forming Police Chief Rumble, and I was way too self-conscious about the auditions to say anything to even most of my friends about it, let alone broadcast my thoughts all over the IRC. I mean, what would Lan’s Moustache think?

In the week that passed from those email invites until the actual auditions, it seemed like NO ONE would talk openly about it. All the info – who’d been invited, who was a lock, who was “John Reynolds”? – was passed through really tight lips, like we were in some kind of dictator state in which knowledge could kill. It was awesome, if a tad absurd. (Oh God - don't tell Billy I said that. Please!)

This time around, though, dudes just seem cool. And there you go – my thoughts on the state of Harold team auditions, boiled down to their eloquent essence: “Dudes. Just. Seem. Cool.”

Atlantic Monthly, my rates and CV are available for your perusal.
****

I’d write more, but I’ve been tooling around in Word for long enough. It’s time to explore this laptop’s pure computing potential.

Oooh ... Paintbrush.

 

[Chris Kula]

Joe “Joey ‘youngcat’ Catz” Catanzarini writes a gem of a post on the UCB scene.

In addition to being clear-headed and well-spoken, he’s absolutely right: Flipside was INVALUABLE to my development as an improvisor/member of this community. Dark Champions performed our very first show there in June ’02, in the sweatbox that was Arthur’s, intro’d to “Rebel Rebel” (though I had to check with Berrebbi to verify this ... somehow, I was getting mixed memories of using “Rebel Yell.” ‘Cause, you know, David Bowie, Billy Idol ... like twins.)

That first show was HUGE for us, way bigger than any New Team or class show. It’s just natural to have so much more pride in your group and motivation to succeed when it is, in fact, your group. And thanks to Flipside – and later the Irish Rep, and Holiday Inn Siberia – we had the opportunity to find out exactly how good that DIY ethic feels.

And I know, it might border on sacrilege, what with so many people sweating these UCB auditions and crossing finger after finger to get a shot on a Harold team, but … dare I say ... being part of a successful team that we started ourselves gave me as much, if not MORE, satisfaction as having made it through the Harold auditions.

I mean, I really dig the team that PCR’s become, and I love them all as teammates, friends, and the most talented of coworkers, but when it comes to the ‘prov, Dark Champs will always be my first love. We had no home venue, no assurance there’d always be more shows to perform: everything we accomplished we did purely out of respect and admiration for each other, for the work we were doing, and for our mutual desire to make each show better than the last. Classic case of the company you own vs. the company you work for.

So yeah, word of wisdom to anyone putting all their performance eggs in a Harold team basket: don’t. I know by now it probably sounds like a broken record – maybe even, a broken Billy Idol record? right, guys? (silence) riiight? high five? – but it’s up to you to make your own opportunities in this scene. Kind of like an Annoyance trick, but for improv careers: take care of yourself first, THEN you’ll be ready to tackle the scene.

Also, I need to address this:

If you guys saw Kula and Eric Scott do their first show at Arthurs dress shop to now, you wouldn't recognize them!

It's true. Back in June '02 I was a black dude.
****

Somebody out there really wanted me to title this journal sequel Pop Stand II: Electric Boogaloo. Pretty good title, right? Yeah, I agreed. Which is why I couldn’t do it: every time I updated it, I’d have been tormented by the fact that someone is more clever than I.

And I watch Yes, Dear for that.

 

[Chris Kula]

I was listening to ELO on the way in to the Day Job today, and just as I was climbing up the narrowed, snow-bound steps of the subway station at Spring St., the iPod cued up “Don’t Bring Me Down.” But the iPod leans towards the sarcastic, so I thought for sure this was a sign that I was, in fact, going to be brought down, by icy misstep or something. I made it through unscathed – I’m a regular Mr. Blue Skies.

I’m working with Alan Corey on his one-man about his appearances on reality tv (working title: Alan Corey is a Creepy Little Famewhore), so last night I told him to check out Wendy Spero’s delightful show, and ended up coming along for it myself. I doubt there’s been a written review of Wendy Spero that doesn’t include some variation on the word “pixie.”

Saw Gutenberg again, though “again” should less denote a plethora of viewings so much as “for the second time.” There was a couple in the front row, stage right that, upon first glance, seemed to be greatly shocked/offended at something ... yet the only thing happening onstage was Pat Baer clearing the set from Wendy’s show. I came to realize that this look – mouth agape, brow furrowed, a permanent gasp – was their “at rest” look. They looked basically normal when they laughed.

And laugh did they ever! (That’s awful.) The Gutenberg show is just excellent; if Anthony doesn’t get work or representation or at least a lunch with a big time OFF-BROADWAY PRODUCER, there’s no justice in this world.

There’s something very, very impressive about seeing a show that’s clearly been the beneficiary of loads of time in the rehearsal room. With most of those Monday night tryouts, even the shows that have been really well-rehearsed, when they get up under the lights in front an audience, still have those rough edges, the PCR show definitely included. At the Spank for Gutenberg, though, it was like, “Wow … complete.
****

I was still in that half-awake/half-asleep state this morning while my clock radio (101.1 WCBS-FM) was giving the weather report. My brain, coming down off a Nyquil bender, incorporated the voices into a little dreamlette where I was at the theatre, about to watch a Van Buren show, but instead of introducing the group, Matt Moses began giving a very detailed and up-to-date weather report. And the audience thought it was just darling – every time he said “blowing snow,” a group of women would coo over it.

When Moses finished up the report, he gave his best “I go bathroom like a big boy” look, and the audience loved it, huge reaction. Great edit point, right? Alas, no – he then started doing canned banter with traffic correspondent Erin Rose Foley and blew all that great momentum. I was very disappointed, Dream Van Buren.
****

Someone said that my rah-rah “Dark Champs 4eva!” post of the other day served as, if not inspiration, at least motivation for their own new practice group. Good, great, glad to hear it.

Here’s something for today: if you accomplish that which is so often the hardest part and find people you legitimately enjoy working with, by all means, let them know you like working with them. Improvisors are a weird bunch: you often never know when someone's fallen into a slump and needs a pick-them-up. But if you're excited for the group and the group's potential, this enthusiasm will only be infectious.

And even if you’ve been together for a while and it’s understood that you’re all tight, the occasional email of “Hey, I’m lucky to be working with you guys” still goes a long way. Or at the very least, “Hey, you guys don’t suck THAT bad – drinks Thursday?”

 

[Chris Kula]

Priorities, priorities, priorities ... right now, sleep is not high on the list. By the end of this week, I’ll have had late-night tech rehearsals at the theatre on Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Sunday, along with the midnight PCR show tonight. Last night, while rehearsing Appel’s Dark Side show, Brister asked me kind of incredulously, “But don’t you have to work tomorrow morning?”

I just shrugged. Even if I was actually home at 2 a.m., I still wouldn’t be in bed yet. I don’t sleep much even when I have the chance. It just seems I do my best work post-midnight; that’s just the natural time when my mind really starts reeling, and I’d just as soon stay up ‘til 4 and get some stuff done than force myself into bed at a quote-unquote “reasonable” hour.

Yeah, this biological clock doesn’t coincide so well with the hours of, say, 9 to 5 – but who cares? Being rested for the Day Job is not one of my top...

Priorities, priorities, priorities ... preparing the PCR sketch show has been #1 since August/September, but now, as the show’s basically written, we’re gonna start to see – and in fact are already seeing – a wane in the amount of time consumed by the show. Especially so when the the 8 o’clock show opens in February: it’ll very much be a finished product, and we’ll be able to show up at 7, clock in, perform some fun comedy scenes, and clock out. Everyone to McManus. That’s a perfect Friday.

So with that huge commitment of time and energies coming to an end, doors open for new opportunities. Like being in Appel’s show. Like assistant directing Jake’s sketch class. Like doing (a lot) more with CageMatch.

Way I see it, this is all grad school, and you should never have anything but a full course load. And yet, you can’t forget your...

Priorities, priorities, priorities... I decided to stop doing the Retraced show when I realized that it had ceased being fun for me, and was feeling like more of an obligation. The last couple shows in December, I approached them more like a chore to get through than something to look forward to. When I realized this was how I felt, it was like “Wow, that is just sooo the wrong attitude to have towards an IMPROV COMEDY show.”

It wasn’t anything at all towards the people in the show: those guys are excellent improvisors (except maybe Reynolds), and some of my best friends in this scene (except maybe Reynolds). It was just a personal choice, a reflection of my own change in...

Priorities, priorities, prior- yeah, you get the picture. This weekend, the agenda’s of varied types, but equal import: PCR sketch tonight, ETV rehearsals Saturday and Sunday, taking my pants off in public tomorrow afternoon, winning Scrabble on Sunday.

And though I said sleep’s not high on the list, I have a feeling that tonight - say, right around last call - this priority might be up for “reassessment.”

 

[Chris Kula]

defeat is so unsweet.

Just got back from a symposium with my nigga Cornell West.

It wasn’t until Sunday afternoon that I remembered that this was MLK Day and that I would have the day off. What’s more, I’d been getting stressed over finding time during my lunch hour/after work to shop for some costume stuff for Appel’s show, fearing it was gonna come down to a last minute scramble.

Now, though, with the whole day wide open, I KNOW that it will come down to a last minute scramble - BUT it will be no one’s fault but my own, and I’m fine with that.

Saturday’s No Pants 2K4 was good times, more than 30 people going pants-less on the subway, though it seemed more sedate an affair than last year’s. No groups gone missing (and, mind you, pants-less) in Spanish Harlem, no competition between the pants sellers and kids selling Starburst to raise money for their “basketball team,” no Tony Carnevale in black briefs.

I guess the ace for 2K4 was the producer and camera crew from [network newsmagazine] that tagged along for the ride. They seemed to have a blast, and this was confirmed by the producer while we were doing a post-ride debriefing: “You know, I did a little guerilla theatre in college, and you guys were giving me some flashbacks to when we’d go into the cafeteria and just freak people out – but in a GOOD way.”

I loved it, like the equivalent of an ex-jock dropping “Yeah, I played a little college ball...” Except with experimental theatre “freak outs.”

The producer did ask some good questions, though:

“How many of you are actors or want to be actors? (hands are raised, headshots thrust forward, Dippold begins monologue from Long Day’s Journey) Okay, so a lot of you. So do you consider this, like, training or something to put on your resume?”

Yes – I should have no trouble getting bit parts on The Sopranos with my resume showing “No Pants 2K4; ensemble; Uptown 6 Train.”

“If I was you, I’d have been laughing the whole time – how do you guys keep straight faces?”

I don’t – audiences find it “boyish” and “charming” and “Fallonic.”

“So, on a scale of 1-10, how would you guys rate the success of this today?”

Various people chime in:
“10!”
“10!”
“10!”
Me: “Solid 4!”

We went for dinner at the non-Dallas BBQ on University, and I had a giant – though not “Texas-sized” – Budweiser and chicken and ribs and mashed potatoes and cornbread. Gluttony’s great. I’m not usually a big cab guy, but after rocking a meal like that, I was ready to just as equally rock a cab up to the theatre. But Charlie Todd, motivator that he is, convinced us to walk instead.

(We stopped briefly at the office so Charlie could clear a time in the theatre this week so that [network newsmagazine] could interview him in the space. There was this huge stuffed bear there that Walsh had left up for grabs; Appel ended up carrying it over to the theatre, and as of last night, it was still sitting in the barren front window. We want to dress it up with a wig and beard, a pair of black glasses, and a Girlcrush t-shirt and call it “Pat Bear.”)

I watched the first 15 minutes of Curtis and Gemberling and Neil and Gelman, which was admittedly hilarious, but I started feeling a coma coming on from all the chicken and ribs and mashed potatoes and cornbread and giant – though not “Texas-sized” – Budweiser. So I walked home and started watching last week’s Conan bits on DVR; I ended up falling asleep halfway through one of the eps, remote in hand. My roommate was kind enough to wake me and let me know I was missing the second-guest interview of Molly Sims.

 

[Chris Kula]

So I’m at Harold Night last night, right? It’s between shows, and I’m over by the backstage area talking with Terry Jinn and Joe Wengert, and it’s great: everyone’s just throwing in jokes and being hilarious and basically just talking about how we’re on Harold teams. And then this kid comes up to us. Couldn’t have been more than 31, 32. We all turn and stare.

He says he’s in level 2 and, “Hey, I really enjoyed your show just now, Terry.”

Jinn. Gives Him. Nothing. Total Foreigner, just cold as ice – awesome.

The kid gets the hint, right? Wrong – this one’s got no clue. Turns to Wengert: “Hey, Joe. First off, I can’t wait for the new Your Favorite Thing show tomorrow night – you and Neil do great stuff. In fact, I’m looking to get into writing more and was wondering if you could recommend a sketch class.”

Wengert, who’s on the Harold team Dillinger, takes the last drag of his cigarette, stomps out the butt, blows smoke in the kid’s face. Takes out his Camels, lights another, blows THAT smoke in the kid’s face. The kid just stands there, mutters something about “maybe Armando,” and turns to me.

“Kula, I was–“

I launch into a 10 minute Rob Huebel impression. Gold. The kid laughs along with the others, tries to act like he “gets” it, but he doesn’t – he SO doesn’t. I finish up strong and we’re back to staring at him in silence for what seems seconds - long, precious seconds.

“Well, I’m gonna grab a seat for the 9:30,” he says, finally. “I’ll talk to you guys later.”

The zinger hits me, Jinn, and Wengert all at the same time. “Yeah,” we say, “MUCH later.” High fives.

The kid’s shoulders slump, and I can just tell he’s figuring out in his head how many Harold Nights ‘til auditions of May ’05. I watch him walk away, lesson learned. I think for a second. Then I act.

“Hey, kid,” I yell, and he turns around. “You did good, kid ... real good.”

I toss him something; it travels in slow motion; Pat Baer is playing “Hey Ya” as house music. The kid catches it, looks down. In his hands is a book.

“Truuuth … iiin … C-c-c-comedy?,” he sounds out. “Wait a sec – Truth … in … Comedy! Wow! Thanks, Kula, I–“

He looks up. There’s no one there...

And really ... was there ever?

 

[Chris Kula]

So I’m at Variety Underground last night (because the folks at Atlantic decided that PCR needn’t rehearse and gave away our room), and the last act of the night, this guy named Tony, of the sketch duo Aaron and Tony, is seeming really familiar to me. I’ve never seen them before, but I’m getting the sense that I know this guy from ... somewhere.

I rub my chin: “Hmm ... Tony. Toni? Tone.”

I whisper to a different Tony (Carnevale), “Hey, what’s this guy’s last name?”

“Uhh, I’m not exactly sure – but it starts with a Z.”

The proverbial lightbulb goes off.

Tony Zaret.

Cut to: Ann Arbor, Michigan, 1997.

This guy Tony Zaret was the editor of The Gargoyle, the campus “humor” mag when I was a freshman at Michigan. I went to one mass meeting for it right at the start of the fall semester, and was met with blank stares from all of the staffers. I was told to go out in the hall and take 20 minutes to “write some jokes.” Sans any sort of context. Just, you know, write some jokes, dude.

This was gonna turn out well.

Suffice it to say, they didn’t go for the perfect, polished material I crafted in those 20 minutes (I wish I could remember the “jokes” I wrote – all I recall is some line about clubbing baby seals. Edgy!)

And they didn’t give me the time of day when I came back the next week to submit stuff for their first issue, which I remember as being (sigh) ... pirate themed. (Again, can’t remember exactly what I wrote for that, though I'm pretty sure one piece imagined Nipsey Russell as, yes, a rhyming pirate. Timeless!)

So Tony Zaret and his cronies never let me into the prestigious Gargoyle fold ... for which I became extremely grateful when I started seeing the crap they put out. Just the dorkiest “college comedy nerd” stuff ever. Robots. Ninjas. Star Wars parodies in, if not every issue, at least every other. And monkey jokes – just so many monkey jokes.

I instead went the way of the school newspaper, ended up writing my own column, and took every opportunity to use “The Gargoyle” as a punchline.

Cut back to: Variety Underground, 2004.

So I’m putting two and 2 together and realizing this is the guy who tried to early abort my writing career, and fuck, I can’t believe he’s doing comedy in New York and whoa, wait a second, didn’t I hear that “Aaron and Tony” work in some capacity at Conan and, holy shit, does that mean he’s … more successful than me?

And just as I’m starting to feel the slightest bit irked, he launches into a bit about – and I kid you not – having sex with a monkey.

Monkey jokes. Still. I’m vindicated.

Later, I head uptown and put on a beard and robe and pretend I’m God. Deluded!

 

[Chris Kula]

The highlight of my Friday night was being mistaken, along with Bobby and Will, as members of Dillinger.

We got to McManus around 1:30 a.m., the only ones who didn’t bail after the midnight show. The back room was pretty full, though, and as just as we were about to sit down in the one available corner booth, this kid approached us – and a real kid this time (Ed: see Pop Stander #6).

“Hey, I don’t mean to bother you guys, but I saw you come in and … you guys are on Dillinger, right?”

Ha. We are now.

Me: That’s us, man.
Bobby: Shit yeah we are.
Will: We love doing improv on Dillinger.

“Cool, cool. Yeah, I’m a big fan, I love your work. I’m actually a friend of Joe’s, so…”

Me: Oh, Joe Wengert...
Bobby: From our team–
Will: Our team Dillinger.

“Yeah … did you guys have a show tonight or something?” We acknowledge that, yes, Dillinger had a midnight improv show at the theatre.

“Cool – how was it?”

Me: Okay. Not our best.
Bobby: No commitment.
Will: We’re in a rut right now.

“Oh. Well … I won’t keep you guys. Nice meeting you.”

Will then tells him to learn more about Dillinger online at the incorrect web address dillinger.com, or at his local library. Later we do shots and I spill a beer. What a bunch of assholes.

My highlight of Saturday night was hearing Rob Lathan destroy a heckler with a great comeback at Osgood.

Lathan, at the very top of the show: "Hey everybody, welcome to Osgood Schlatter. We’ve got some great comedy for you tonight. But before we begin, I’ve got something I’d like to reveal…"

Drunk Long Island Mook Heckler: "That you’re a woman?"

(Lathan takes a beat)

Lathan: "No."

Faced!

Unfortunately, even after being so forcibly SHUT DOWN, the DLIMH kept up with his shenanigans through pretty much the first half of the show. Conroy handled him really well, though, and Huebel even brought him onstage for his bit as an Upper West Side-based motivational dancer (Huebel was wearing a costume of a black jumpsuit and knee pads, and kept doing knee slides across the stage; at one point, the mook got too into the dance, and took a knee slide right into his chest).

This didn’t bode well for my bit, as I was getting the feeling think that unchecked hecklers probably wouldn’t go so much for a nice meta-theatre piece, but by that point in the show he’d 1) gotten most of the bullshit out of his system and 2) been told by Eli to shut the fuck up or get out.

So the audience was cool, and the bit (Will Hines as a retarded person, Lathan quoting Van Halen, a Hill Street Blues sound cue) went fine.

My highlight of Sunday was rehearsing with Terry Jinn’s Enormous Television, with full horn section.

Yesterday we were playing with a 10-piece lineup, and it sounded baaad, as in gooood. There is now at least one point in the show that is a guaranteed “audience loses their shit” moment. I can’t wait.

Terry Jinn’s Enormous Television 2.5
” a rock and roll music revue…”
Friday, January 30; 10:30 p.m.
The Bitter End

This show’s gonna whip the llama’s ass, rock over London, AND rock on Chicago. McDonald’s – I’m lovin’ it.

 

[Chris Kula]

If I were to care for my girlfriend as lovingly as I care for my drums then I would have one.

I swear, the plan was to just drop by the theatre and make sure my kit wasn’t in total disarray pre-ETV. Real quick, just in and out.

THREE HOURS LATER...

Shells: cleaned. Cymbals: shined. Hardware: assembled. Evening: shot.

(sigh)

Ah well. Sometimes you just need to spend a quiet night in, polishing cowbells, in a storage room beneath a supermarket.
****

When I did finally head home, I had The Ring waiting for me on DVR. I’d still never seen this, nor had I, for fear of spoilers, read the Matt Pack viewing journal. And since Lord knows I love exclamation points, I cued up the movie around 1 a.m.

Then the freakiest thing happened: RIGHT at the part where Naomi Watts watches the tape and gets the phone call, my phone did NOT start ringing!

It was just too weird. I’d heard that everyone who’s ever watched this movie alone at late-night has received an eerily well-timed phone call that freaks them the fuck out.

But my phone was quiet. Maybe … “too” quiet.

I went to my bedroom to make sure my phone was turned on, and here’s the really weird part – it was! No one was calling me at one in the morning!!!

Suffice to say, I couldn’t get to sleep ‘til the movie was OVER and I was TIRED, and even then it was IN my bed with all the lights turned OFF!
****

Someone was very kind last night in giving the journal a thumbs-up, saying that mine and Dyna’s were his favorites, but that she’s got a slight lead because he’s mentioned more frequently in hers. Totally understandable.

Off the topic, I fully support the new hair color of Chris Gethard. I bet it’ll look real sharp onstage tonight with Van Buren, upon which Rutgers University grad Chris Gethard is a great fit.

Also great: Morrissey, the state of New Jersey, and The Baseball Furies.

Gethard.

 

[Chris Kula]

Really fun Harold last night. Pop culture references, celebrity walk-ons, black ladies – classic PCR.

Actually, for our standards, last night was pretty light reference-wise. We “only” threw out nods to Midnight Cowboy, The Usual Suspects, and Scanners; “Wild Wild West” by Escape Club; NBA All-Stars Dominique Wilkins and Scottie Pippen (who both then appeared in person); and the publishing house of Farrar, Straus and Giroux.

We get that same note all the time, to limit the reference-y stuff, and particularly our celebrity walk-ons (which aren’t even like remotely close impersonations so much as “Hi, I’m _____ (insert celeb name here)”), but I don’t know – I think it’s just in our team DNA.

Our retarded team DNA. Seriously, PCR somehow ended up with an incorrect number of improv chromosomes – our genuine “voice” as an ensemble is that of an autistic who’s watched a lot of E!

I mean, even our earliest rehearsals – when everyone was supposed to be on their best behavior and doing their best to prove that they belonged on this team – were full of Garrett Morris shout-outs, endowments like “Holy shit – you’re Carrot Top!” and the still-referenced-to-this-date line of “I’m one phone call away from getting a blow job from Max Von Sydow.”

We’ve made concerted efforts to do more “real” work, more “grounded” scenes (particularly during those four months when Ian was sitting front row, shaking his head at the latest Luther Vandross cameo), but truth is, we just have the most improv fun when we’re loose and silly and, yes, retarded.

Coming soon: we get a weekend slot to perform the “Chris Burke Harold.”
****

Just got back from lunch with Charlie Todd, Anthony, and Spencer. I’d say we do Wednesday wings a solid seven weeks out of eight. They all work in the same office in midtown, so the Atomic Wings at 39th is convenient for them. Less convenient is my commute up from SoHo, so my lunch hour generally stretches into the “lunch hour and a half.”

This could have something to do with me being given an official warning from my boss last week (to the tune of “Turn things around in the next couple weeks, or formal steps will be taken”). So could my rampant IM use. So could my unwillingness to ever answer my work phone.

So could the fact that for the past three months I’ve made little effort to fulfill any of the duties for which I’m being paid.

But I like to think it’s because I’m black.
****

Tonight’s the final rehearsal for ETV, so I’m missing out on the Cops & Robbers show. I’m sure I’ll be missed - there are some things you simply cannot tackle with only a 15-person ensemble.

 

[Chris Kula]

Just got back from a “late lunch,” aka the Burger King audition at Liz Lewis. I’m not sure exactly how word of this was spread – through various agent-y, audition-ish channels, I guess? Colored smoke from the chimney of CAP21?

All I know is that on Tuesday night, McLaughlin told us something to effect of, “Oh, and you all need to come in for this audition on Thursday. They’re looking at whole groups. I need a beer.”

So whatever the method, word certainly spread as pretty much all the stars of the UCB Theatre were there. Shawn Conroy. James Gleason. Don Daly. Various members of Call of the Wolf. And the full, unabridged lineup of Police Chief Brumble.

(Tangent… When we were made a team and announced our choice of name, Dave Berman, in what was really just a sad, sad plan to “burn” us, went and bought up our domain name. Except that he’d misheard our name, and ended up as the sole owner of policechiefbrumble.com.)

They were auditioning in people in groups of five, and since we were the only team fresh-faced and geeky enough to bring a full eight people, they split us into two groups. I went in with Ang, Dave Martin, and Hiller. Redhead, Greek, married man, gay guy – the classic vaudeville bit.

The “sides” had compared the feel of these spots – coworkers hangin’ out in the break room, just chillin’, man, just havin’ some BK – to Office Space or The Office. Very smart, then, to select from a pool of improvisors of whom half of which were probably coming directly from their temp assignments.

I also found it smart that the woman running the audition immediately singled out Hiller for the more “comic” parts. He hadn’t even said anything yet – it was just that “natural funny” presence of his that seems to radiate from within. My natural radiance is one of hatred towards people like Jeff Hiller.

But what I lack in on-camera charisma, I make up for with low talking, indiscernible emotions, and this mental preparation technique I call “Wishing I Was Some Place Else.” After watching the tapes, they’re probably gonna scrap their original campaign and rebuild it around Good Times Kula.

I did have one good line, though. Earlier when we were waiting out in the hall and McLaughlin first showed up, wearing a vaguely military-style pea coat and pair of mirrored sunglasses, I dubbed him “The Colonel.”

As in, “The Colonel’s here and needs a beer.”

This one’s a keeper. Please do your part in spreading Will McLaughlin as “The Colonel.” Let’s G’04 it.

 

[Chris Kula]

Yesterday...

I head right home at 5:30 p.m. to edit a couple Cagematch sound cues, and give my sucking-on-fumes iPod a precious half hour to charge. Then it’s a C/E-to-F train right down to Parkside for the highly anticipated Dark Champs reunion show. That is, highly anticipated by, if not the general public, at least upwards of seven Dark Champs.

I’m hungry, there’s no time for dinner AND I’d skipped lunch for that very fruitful Burger King thing. It’d have been one thing if I’d missed lunch to audition for, like, Sony and been inundated with digital camera talk, but to be working on no lunch and then listen to “Whopper with cheese, Whopper extra pickles, Whopper with everything” was fairly painful. The best I can do is stop at a bodega off of Houston and grab a bag of Combos (cheese and cracker) and a bag of Utz chips (original).

I’m the last one from DC to get to the venue. They’re already in back, shooting the shit, and asking Alan “Sorry, what’s your name again?” It’s great that, even after six months of not performing, we fall right back into the DC pre-show routine: drinking. I cap off my three-course meal with Rheingold and some cinamon Altoids.

The crowd is warm and enthusiastic, and the show is just a lot of familiar fun, like hopping on a trusty old bi-cycle. It backs up an earlier assertion where I said I’d probably have been content with an improv career that was solely Dark Champs shows. I love the rhythm of that group, and I just feel so comfortable in a form that has no form. Harold can be stressful; following the funny is easy.

We call the show early, probably on the under side of 20 minutes, and head out to the main bar to dissect it. That’s another aspect of DC that I think we – or at least I – miss in our other groups: that need to immediately and very honestly discuss what worked and why; what didn’t work and why; what number beer Reynolds is on and why.

Burns, Ang, Reynolds, and Eric all take off mid-VU to get up to theatre for the 9:30 shows, and Risa peeled off with Birch, I think, to find some food pre-Cage. I stick around ‘til the bitter end, that being Aaron and the aforejournaled Tony. (Later on, Dyna would speculate on whether Aaron actually has a head of hair that scarily resembles Benny Hill’s, or just made the choice, since he would be performing zany comedy, to wear a “character” wig – I really hope it’s the latter.)

I normally would throw some lightly peppered jabs at A&T’s sock puppet bit, except that ... I just did my OWN sock puppet bit a few weeks ago. AND was considering doing it again. AND have banked my entire career hopes on it. So ... good one, Aaron and Tony. I love your/my stuff.

I decide not to stick around at Parkside for the novelty rock of accordionist Corn Mo, which would have earned me some points with my rock critic roommate and his pals, but fuck ‘em – I’m still hungry. Convenient, then, that I run into Dyna on the F train platform (flipping me off, naturally), and join her on the way uptown for Americanized Chinese food.

(And here’s where the journal crossover action starts: same place, same time, same story – two different entries on an improv message board. Onward, Pop Stander.)

I order the Little Bit of Everything soup, which is hot and sour-based and, really, perhaps TOO much of everything. So between this huge bowl of soup, the hot tea, and then the double-time walk up to the theatre (not to mention my heaping dinner portion of beer earlier), I’m pretty dead by the time Cage rolls around. Luckily Charlie’s planned a bit that requires nothing more from me than hitting play on my iPod. Beautiful.

Huge audience – I suspect a Dillinger crowd. The vote tally an hour later confirms this. Good Lord – 121 votes!

But I’m even more intrigued about the opposite figure, Mother’s 30 votes: I’m curious what that 20% slice of the audience found in Mother’s show that led them to buck what was otherwise a pretty clear audience consensus. They just big Daly fans? Or giving sympathy votes because Mantzoukas and St. Clair had to miss out on the big money of Cagematch for a little skitfest in San Fran?

Or were they just 30 rebellious individuals making a statement against the almost-certain success of Dillinger, against their solid group mind, and against their ability to recognize game? Hmm...

121 friggin’ votes? Against Mother???

(angrily shaking fist) Dillingerrrrr!

 

[Chris Kula]

Here’s some ways we could have started this weekend entry:

“The bar’s called Fat Black Pussycat, the back room looks like a bordello, and I’m wearing a paper hat that reads ‘Party Princess.’”

“Kula, there’s a cabbie from the Bronx that has your phone.”

“Emasculated, or un-American, or both, I skip the Super Bowl to play Scrabble with a girl.”

But here’s how we actually begin:

It’s 4 a.m. and I’m walking with Conroy down towards the Bowery.

The Enormous Television show wrapped up hours ago, and we’ve just now been ushered out of the MacDougal Street Ale House, where a lot of people were hanging out post-ETV. I’m talking to Conroy on the street outside the bar as the other remaining stragglers start to disperse. I’m nowhere near tired: I’ve only had a couple beers, and I’m still all keyed up from the rock show. So when Conroy starts walking east, I just decide to follow.

I get him talking about girlfriends. A couple weeks ago I’d walked into Hump Night as he was mid-bit about his girlfriend breaking up with him over New Year’s. It sounded so legit, in that cynical Conroy voice, that I’d assumed it true; turns out the story was true, except it was from an old relationship that had ended six years ago, and his current girlfriend situation was fine. So ... I apologize to all the people that I’d misinformed over email, IM, phone, telegram, or careless whisper.

I get to hear his philosophy on polishing standup (“The people who try out new stuff every night are the ones who bomb every night”) and advice on how to kill that inner voice that makes you (or rather, “me”) self-conscious about repeating the same characters/moves in improv shows (“You just have to forget about that past stuff and say, ‘I want THIS audience to recognize I’m funny’”).

We’re just off of Cooper Square when he mentions being underappreciated at the theatre, and I tell him he’s full of shit: everyone at UCB recognizes that Conroy’s tops. I cite any number of reasons, the least of which being that, in teching the Swarm for nine months, I came to realize his zingers are the blackout lines about eight times out of 10. The nice juxtaposition is that as I’m heaping all this praise on him, he’s taking a leak up against the Village Voice building.

We end up cabbing it up to the east 20s where he heads to a bodega near his place, looking for something he can cook for breakfast. I grab some cash and then another cab, and head to my home on 8th.

Note: I live on 8th Avenue above a Chinese restaurant called Home on 8th, so my place is quite literally ... home on 8th. LITERALLY, dude.
****

I wake up early-ish on Saturday, and by noon I’m already feeling like I need a drink. It’s weird, but I’ve just got this tight ball of stress in my gut. Partly from post-ETV letdown, which I guess can be expected with something that’s so long in planning and so satisfying in the moment – the Day After can seem a little “eh,” if not wholly soul-crushing.

That show was probably the most fun I’ll have until … well, ETV 3. There’s just NOTHING like the feeling of settling into a tight groove. See: Heartbreaker, Crazy in Love, Tempted, I Touch Myself. It’s just visceral, intuitive, and immensely gratifying. Give the drummer some, indeed.

I’ve been in a couple of improv shows – the DC “drums montage” at Siberia, PCR’s “Crab Night” show in Brooklyn – where the ensemble’s really clicked and the fun’s almost approached the level of playing music. Almost. In both cases, it really does come down to “Don’t Think.” And whereas I’m at the point where I can Not Think on the drums all night long (all night), I’ve got a long ways to go before I can do that in improv. ‘Til then, more sassy black ladies it is.

I meet Terry and Millie at the theatre at 2:30 p.m. to unload all the band equipment. We do a pretty decent job, I think, of not disrupting Delaney’s class in the process. Kula’s Drum Kit (which is surprisingly non-chatty in person) Millie’s Keyboard and Terry’s Amp all get safely packed away in the storage room, and the three of us say our goodbyes outside the theatre in a nice slow-motion, star-washed finale that fades to black no less than three times and is universally panned.

My plan to go home and heat up some potato soup and make some Bullsh*t Pie cues is nixed almost immediately in favor a Big Mac/Coke and Gangs of New York on DVR. I end up turning it off after about an hour, or, the current length of my attention span. Ball o’ stress still in place, I go for a walk to Tekserve to look at laptop sleeves. Naturally, it’s closing right as I get there, so I head to Best Buy and am completely underwhelmed.

Leaving the store, the battery on my iPod runs out RIGHT in the middle of a Sam and Dave chorus: “Hold on, I’m co-“

It’s about then that I decide that tonight’s a great night to get drunk.

Cut to...

The bar is called Fat Black Pussycat, the back room looks like a bordello, and I’m wearing a paper hat that reads “Party Princess.” It’s a surprise party for Dave Martin, and I’m loving the disparity of this place: the room we’re in is decked out in red velvet, lots of sunken couches and playing a mix of reggae and New Orleans piano stuff, whereas the front room is straight up Frat Party 101, with stark wooden booths and groups of girls singing along to “Blister in the Sun.”

Shelkey asks if it’s commonplace for me to “jumpstart” the evening with a shot, as I’m doing tonight. Not usually, no – I just feel the need. The need ...[ for NUMBNESS! (high five)

Many pitchers are had, Dave is genuinely and endearingly surprised when he’s led into the back room, and I correctly name that it was Inner Circle, and not Steel Pulse, that recorded “Bad Boys.” Once the Astoria contingent takes their leave, the place starts to thin out. Soon it’s pretty much just me and Dyna Moe, who I’m a little surprised came out, and yet at the same time ... not, as we’ve been at essentially the same places at the same times all week, so why break the pattern now?

I’m not sure the exact time we sense that subtle shift of “Good times, good times --> This party’s over – I should go,” but we do, and we do. I’ve been sitting the whole night, so it’s not until I get up to say goodbye to Dave that I realize I’ve accomplished my goal of a solid drunk. Now, I’m not advocating copious drinking as a stress reliever, but copious drinking relieved all my stress.

I swipe into the W.4th subway station and do an almost immediate about-face when I decide I’d rather walk. And about two blocks up 6th Ave I pull another about-face when I decide that, yeah, a cab ride is what I REALLY wanted all along. Five minutes more and I’d have convinced myself that I need a Segway.

I have to walk a couple avenues before I can find an available cab, and I only get this one because I see it coming down a side street and actually run to it so as to beat the other people hailing on the opposite side of 8th. I don’t remember taking my phone out in the cab, but clearly I must have, as that’s where it was when Hiller tried calling me Sunday morning.

Hence, his email to me alerting that, “Kula, there’s a cabbie in the Bronx who has your phone.” I actually realized it was missing right when I got home on Saturday night, but because the phone’s two and half years old and about two upgrades overdue, I quite literally – LITERALLY, dude! – didn’t lose any sleep over it. I had maybe a half-second of annoyance when I thought of all the scores of numbers I was gonna have to replace, but was relieved when I remembered that, oh yeah, I call maybe 10 people in a whole year.

The cabbie – I didn’t catch his name, so I’ll call him Kenny “Sky” Walker – is actually really nice. I give him (“me”?) a ring on my roommate’s phone, and Kenny “Sky” Walker agrees to bring the phone right to my apartment, no later than 2 p.m.

At around 1:40 my roommate’s phone rings and I see that “Kula” is calling, and is waiting downstairs. I give Kenny “Sky” Walker $20 for his kindness and check to see which international countries he’d dialed. It shows a call to Swaziland, but that was me.

I put my recovered phone to use by ordering a Greek omelet from Venus. The lady taking my order gives me shit for requesting delivery: “Eighth Avenue? At 29th Street? Oh, THAT’S really far.”

I read the new Spin and watch last week’s Chappelle’s Show (after getting an email from Nick Kroll saying that Littleman had sold them a sketch idea of a ‘50s sitcom parody. Indeed, there it was – pretty funny, Littlemen) and basically do nothing of any import ‘til 5 p.m, when emasculated, or un-American, or both, I skip the Super Bowl to play Scrabble with a girl.

We meet at the Starbucks on Christopher St., and as can be imagined for Super Bowl Sunday in the heart of New York’s gay district, the place is DESERTED. I beat my opponent handily, on the strength of the completely non-valid seven-letter word “H-O-O-S-I-E-R-S.” Ahh, there’s more to bluffing than just poker and presidential politics.

When I get home I find my roommate’s recorded the game, which is handy when we want to watch and rewatch the surreal Justin/Janet/exposed breast moment in the halftime show. Hilarious. Gaffe or no, I simply can’t wrap my brain around how this was storyboarded in production meetings.

It’s a typical Sunday night in the sense that I can’t sleep, and am up ‘til 4:30 a.m. downloading The Darkness and John Cougar Mellencamp.

This is the only closing line I’ll write.

 

[Chris Kula]

Thursday night Nick Kroll emails if I want to do a slot at the Littleman show on Monday night.

Friday morning I respond, “Sounds great – I had a couple new ideas in mind.”

Friday, Saturday, and half of Sunday pass. Said new ideas remain “in mind” instead of “down on paper.” A phone call is made and a voicemail left.

“Hiller, it’s Kula. Are you free on Monday night? I wanted to see if you can do The Lord scene with me at the Littleman show. I was gonna write something new for it, but ... didn’t. Anyway, they always get good crowds and we can plug the primetime show. In fact, this’ll be like when the cast of Contact does a full dance number on The Today Show. Let me know.”

Hiller loves the Contact analogy and in fact asks if we can DO a full dance number from Contact. Oh, Jeff - you might be goin' ta Broadway.

So we do The Lord, a scene from the new PCR show, as part of the Littleman show, the running order of which was: their opening bit (a cappella Boyz II Men with a Janet Jackson breast reference out); a guy doing standup (could have sworn I caught his name as “Todd McFarlane,” which could explain his bit about Spalding Gray Hulk); Birbiglia telling a story; Julie Klausner doing standup; and then the Littleman improv to close. Makes for a charming, not-too-long variety show.

The Lord, which has been polished and run many times over in our midnight sketch run, hits hard, and gets props from the Littleman guys. I’m reminded of Conroy’s words from the other night: “The ones who try out new stuff every night are the ones who bomb every night.” Touche.

I stick around through the end of the show, and Kroll tempts me with the foretold splendors of McManus, but I figure I’ll get enough of that later in this busy week, should probably call it an early night.

Except I don’t. I do head home for a bit, talk to Dippold about a couple of H Night hosting ideas, but I soon get restless and hungry, decide to head out for some Grey’s Papaya, entertaining myself on the walk to 23rd with the idea that, just as we sometimes abbreviate “Harold Night” to “H Night,” hot dogs should similarly be called “h dogs.” For, you know, those times when you’re in a hurry.

It’s almost 11, so I get my h dogs (nice, eh?) to go and head back down to the theatre to see the first edition of this Rough Cut School Night show. I like the premise a lot, that “Mr. Purnell” is a fifth grade teacher using his classroom to host an after-school alternative comedy show. That’s great – you can do a lot with that. Purnell stays onstage at his teacher’s desk throughout all the whole show (The Orphanage, Shelkey and Mia, a Demblowski/McLaughlin/Black sketch, Klausner for the second time in the evening, and Krummmphf).

I get home a little after midnight and fiddle around in iTunes, convincing myself there’s room in the PCR show for The Specials’ “Pressure Drop.” Somewhere ... somewhere.

Tonight I’m in it for the long haul: Meeting Dave and his wife Jynne at the theatre early to start setting up the front window display. Jynne’s brother is a professional window dresser/sign maker/creator of pleasing aesthetics, and he’s hooked us up with some vinyl lettering for the window.

I’m interested to see how the elderly community around the theatre reacts to the text visual of “Bullsh*t Pie.” Remember, these are the folks who sent a letter complaining about the ojectionable show title “Spank,” yet were apparently okay with the dude-about-to-fellate-another dude cardboard cut-out for the gay-themed show that adorned the front window of the Maverick right before UCB moved in.

PCR’s hosting the 8 o’clock show, and doing Del Close’s The Harold in the 9:30, performing before (angrily shaking fist) Dillingerrrr! Then, watching the hot Movie class premiere, or “h M class pre.”

 

[Chris Kula]

I get to the theatre, slightly drenched, at 5:30 p.m. and Jynne Martin’s already there, watching Chuck try in vain to unlock the door to the front window. The deadbolt just won’t budge, so it's decided that we’ll need to climb over and open it from the inside, and by “we” I mean “I.” I grab a ladder from the back, and a couple screwdrivers just in case the lock remains stuck and I have to A-Team my way out.

This is in fact exactly what happens. There’s a moment, after I’ve dropped down into the display only to find I’m locked in, in which I picture the Harold Night audience walking past, waving to me, chuckling, “Ha ha, what a good show of publicity,” and then that same crowd as they exit three hours later, waving to me, chuckling, “Ha ha, what a good show of commitment.”

The bolt has slid in crooked, and to get it open we finally have to disassemble the whole lock. I hand over the half dozen pieces to the intern at the box office window and tell him, “I’m gonna need this fully rebuilt in time for the 8 – go!” I can’t tell if he can tell that I’m joking.

The lettering looks great. Jynne’s brother apparently does a lot of window work for retail stores and uses the leftover materials for his own stuff; the “Bullsh*t Pie” letters come from the leftover vinyl of an Old Navy job. The rest of the display is fully schemed out and forthcoming; Jynne has cemented her status as a godsend. Before she stepped in to help, the whole display lay on Bobby’s shoulders. His plan? “Uhh, I’ll probably like spread some flour around, like we’re baking pies. Right, guys? Right?”

As it turns out, Bobby’s sick and can’t even make it out for our performance of Del Close’s The Harold, let alone our 8 o’clock hosting, let alone ... dumping flour on the floor. It’s a good, supportive show; we’ve had a couple the last two weeks where the ensemble’s really picked it up, claimed group ownership for every scene. We did miss an edit in one of the second beats, though, which resulted in an extended makeout session between Sanders and Martin as female Siamese twins. But I don’t think anyone’s complaining about seein' THAT.

No one’s hanging out afterwards (as we’ve got a full sketch rehearsal and late-night tech tonight), so I just stick around by myself to watch the Movie class. McBrayer’s over by the bar, and I tell him that I was very impressed with his Construction Paper Dyna in her portrait-for-portrait project. He says it was fun and therapeutic, and I imagine him at his kitchen table, a cup of apple juice at his side, biting his lip in concentration as he uses his safety scissors - "Ah did it all by mah-self, Chris Kula!"

I’m supposed to do a Dyna likeness, too and while I’d been planning to just do a polite little sketch, now I feel like the bar’s been raised and I’m gonna have to mix some media, if not acrylics.

The Movie class was indeed pretty hot. In that first group, Zach Woods took a plunge into his character, and DeCoster just took a plunge. Dude is crazy – and that is sooo much fun to watch. I particularly liked his walk-on as a racist bully picking on the one black kid at the high school in “Whitetown, NC”:

“Hey, Lamont, you know what I’m doing for my science project? Growin’ watermelons.”
(starts to walk away, turns back)
“And fried chicken.”
(walks away, turns back again)
“And WHITE women!”

Ahh ... good times, good racially insensitive times.

I get home and IM with Jake, bring him up to speed on PCR stuff until his Time Warner service unexpectedly craps out and he is logged off. It’s cool, though – our show doesn’t really need a running order.

 

[Chris Kula]

Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, on the new PCR show, Piece of Bullsh*t Pie:

“I haven’t laughed this hard since I choked a dog unconscious!”

I’m updating the cheap black and white flyers we used for the midnight run, with new fake celeb quotes and the time change to 8 p.m., and the image of Kareem choking a collie/laughing at it makes ME laugh. It even makes me, dare I say, giggle like a little girl.
****

It’s a full-on Sketch Comedy Wednesday that starts off with me sitting in on the first hour of Jake’s sketch class. Just from my own experiences I know that sketch classes can often be magnets for those kind of jokers who’ve watched a few too many episodes of The State, but this group seems really promising. We read through some scenes people brought in, and there’s some good, funny ideas there. And at least one scene, an American Idol parody in which the contestants are competing to be the “most gay in America,” that starts off with me cringing at the prospects of a scene built on hil-aaarious gay bashing, but gets a “(wipes brow) Whew!” when it ends up being pretty well-executed.

At 8 I head over to Boston Market to meet PCR for dinner. Walking in, I decide I’m not that hungry and will probably just get a drink. Five minutes later I find myself working on a quarter chicken, mashed potatoes, mac and cheese, cornbread, and the leftovers of Dippold’s shredded BBQ chicken and green beans. And also that drink.

The plan is to go over every scene in the show, look for any last jokes to work in or stuff to cut out. Instead, we start thinking up scenes that should have made it into the show, and for some reason they’re all star turns for Will. Will as an embedded reporter in Vietnam. Will in a one-man Rock Hudson piece. Will as the silent movie monster “Cockula.”

Next week Tuesday we’re doing some scenes in a show at this place called The Belt, organized by the guys behind the Sketch Fights. They asked us a long, long time ago if we’d do it, and most of us were kind of unenthused at the prospect – “We’ll be busy with OUR show,” “It’s a Tuesday and we might miss a Harold,” “Sketch Fights blew” – but Sanders was way gung-ho about it. Talked about the potential for reaching a new audience, getting them in to UCB, free promotion for us, and he eventually won us over.

‘Cause in all fairness, it’s just one show – what’s the worst that could happen?

I’ll tell you: it’s called ROMAN COURT. In addition to booking the acts, the organizers of this show wrote a couple sketches of their own to showcase, and cast them with performers already on the bill. So Bobby, Ang, and – it’s only fitting – Sanders will be performing in the aforementioned scene in which they play Roman generals named, respectively, Platypus, Mucus, and Psoriasis. And make references to other characters like “General Miss-the-Bus.” And deliver jokes like “Psoriasis, you really get under my skin.”

Oh. My. God. Here at dinner is the first that any of the rest of us have heard about this, and we pass the script around and just take turns being absolutely floored by it. There’s a character named General West Nile Virus!

Sanders just stares at the table, looking up only to tell us about how at the rehearsal for this scene, the writer gives him the actor-y note of, “Remember, you’re a Roman general. A commander of men. There’s a clear balance of power in this scene and right now YOU have it. Also, really ennunciate when you yell ‘Battle of Clitoris!’”

Tuesday. 8 p.m. The Belt. Don't worry if you can't make it out - tapes WILL be made.

 

[Chris Kula]

I didn’t actually spend my whole weekend in 24-hour diners – I just feels that way. An illusion of sorts, or at least, an allusion to a couple of good late nights.

Friday evening the PCR sketch show finally opens. The audience is about four, five times the size of an average audience from our midnight run, and about four, five times more awake and responsive; it’s a luxury having a time slot applicable for people other than NYU kids and vampires, if there’s a difference.

The show goes swimmingly, everybody is focused and funny, and Zach Tabacco does a stellar job with all the lights and sound, which, really, we hadn’t finalized-finalized ‘til early Friday evening. The show’s final balance is really solid: everybody gets a chance to do “their” thing. And, no surprise, Bobby kills – he’s just ridiculously endearing onstage.

Jake’s got one main note for us afterwards: “Just do THAT every week.”

Sanders had the forethought and optimism to bring a bottle of extremely expensive champagne (brand name: Krystall), so we pop that in celebration back in the green room, thank Owen for giving us the time to put this all together, and begin drawing up a plan to the divide the fame, riches, and women that are surely by-products of a successful 40-minute stage show.

Waddell comes back at 8:50, when we’re no more than two minutes offstage – “Hey, can you guys go clear all your props and stuff, we’ve gotta get ready for the Swarm soon.” Yes, because the teardown of PCR’s one prop bucket takes upwards of 45 minutes, and it’s at least a solid hour to build the Swarm’s trademark Euro-styled “four folding chairs” set design.

We head to McManus in waves, Ang, Dave and I the last ones to leave the theatre. I promptly ditch them at 24th Street when it’s discovered they have the walking speed of go-to quadriplegic reference Christopher Reeve. Both of my roommates came out for the show, and I find one of them, along with his Thirty Year-Old Girlfriend I’ve Never Met, right at the front of the bar.

The TYOGINM tells me she’s gonna get all of her friends to come out to the show. Her friends, I’ve heard from Andy, are all fashion and PR chicks who never travel above 14th and fancy themselves as characters straight out of Sex and the City (and all think they’re a “Carrie”). They’re gonna LOVE the heightening of the Loan Application scene.

The entire back table is taken up by people who came to our show and, from one end of the table to the other, it runs a spectrum from Good Friend Duos (Charlie & Anthony, Foley & Calhoun, Reynolds & Scott) to the “Who?” crowd of Dippold’s friends from Rutgers. As it is, I have to go pay respects to a couple of my own reliable friends from college (aka “paying audience members”) at one of the back booths; they almost immediately alienate themselves to Natasha by getting a pitcher from the bar. C’mon, guys, this isn’t go-to Ann Arbor frat bar reference Scorekeepers.

I work through the city’s most delicious Reuben, and bid adieu to the U of M contingent because the main table is mobilizing for the trip over to Grand Saloon and, more so, because one of the dudes from school asks me in all earnestness, “So, how’s work?”

Day Job talk. Ha. No.

Grand Saloon is good times. Charlie points out that the place gets crowded once a year, for this party. Terry and Eason and I get ourselves prematurely excited over song consideration for ETV 3, but as it’s Steely Dan’s “My Old School” that’s being considered, the excitement is justified, and horn-driven. (The hype lasts all the way through the night: on Saturday afternoon I take a long walk downtown and the soundtrack is Countdown to Ecstasy on repeat. And, now that I’m writing about it ... yep, I have no choice but to cue it up.)

([angrily shaking iPod] Becker and Fagennn!)

After the harsh “Go home” lights come up at the party, we end up taking it to the Cozy Soup & Burger, where I do in fact opt for the soup, though not the burger. I find myself actually nodding off at the table, not for lack of sparkling conversation or an equally sparkling chicken noodle, just that after a full day of thinking about the show, prepping and performing the show, and drinking to the success of the show, I’m exhausted.

But it’s a good exhausted, and I sleep ‘til a good 3 p.m.

Then, just imagine a montage of my Steely Dan Walking Tour of New York, my second Reuben in as many days (this one from a random deli on 7th, and shitty), and a rehearsal at Ultrasound for tonight’s Shelkey/Mia musical, and my Saturday is fairly cashed. I head up to the new Above Klepto (nice new space, and considerably less public masturbation) to see the group The Rouge Elephants, and their show amuses me almost as much as my misrepresentation of their name just now, which is to say, a great deal. Funny stuff, Rogue Elephant/me.

That crowd heads over to Bull Moose post-show, but the place is packed, even the normally hushed upstairs room, so Susannah, Gavin and I decide to lead a migration somewhere else, though I’m not sold on Gavin’s suggestion of Walter’s Bar. See, I live above Walter’s, and I see the regulars heading in there every day at 9 – a.m., as I’m leaving for work. I just really doubt that a bunch of young improvisors would be welcome at a working-class Irish pub in Chelsea, so I make a push for Siberia instead.

Much better. The place is sparsely populated, the back couches are available, and my roommate Christian, who’s buddy-buddy with (read: does drugs with) the owner Tracey, is feeding me free drinks. We stay ‘til close.

There’s a fun junior high subplot underscoring the evening. One of the ladies from our group – and I will not name names, so as to save the involved parties any cafeteria-style embarassment – has a crush on a certain SWM improvisor (catch the hint? he’s white!), and it falls on my head to call and invite him to come hang out, on her behalf.

Like I said, PURE junior high. If there’d been a speakerphone accessory to my cell, we surely would have all crowded around it while the popcorn was popping and Gavin’s underwear freezing. I leave a message, and tell the lady I’ve done all I can – now all we can do ... is wait.

But as it were, the young man does make it out, the admiring young lady does seem to hit it off with him, and I did just turn 73 years old as I wrote this sentence. Cue up the Glenn Miller, there’s a suitor in the parlour.

The late-night diner of choice for Saturday: Venus Café. The order: Monte Cristo on French toast. The sun as I’m heading home: already up. The 2 p.m. start time for the musical rehearsal: way too early. And it must show, as Terry doesn’t so much “ask” as “states,” “You were out pretty late.” I try to nod, but my forehead is resting against the snare drum.

 

[Chris Kula]

I’ve developed a deep and powerful aversion to doing anything “work-related” while here at the Day Job. It’s like the part in Fight Club where the titular events are taking off and Ed Norton is doing the voiceover about how his life’s changing and how the fights are taking over. Except in my case, it’s the decidedly non-badass IRC and IM that are taking over, and when the boss comes by to ask me for progress, instead of smiling a mouthful of blood, an Instant Message pops up on my screen with text to the effect of “Kula, read this smut!”

So I was given that formal warning like two weeks ago, and for the first week, I actually did sign off IM (missing out on what were surely some great IRC zingers to which Appel would normally send me link after link) and got some “work” done, even though there’s a part of me – I believe science calls it the “progressively crushed soul” – that really just wanted to be shown the door, daytime freedom.

Unfortunately, there was that other part of me – science calls it “Rent is due” – that thought it best to pick up a few more paychecks first. And really, as Day Jobs go, this place is probably fairly comfortable, so there was a brief moment where I thought, “You know, I ... I guess could make a go of this.”

Then, my boss went on maternity leave. Twelve weeks she’ll be gone, leaving no one to police me but ... my progressively crushed soul.

(beat)

christopherkula: Appel, you replied what to benorbeen??? Oh man, zing!
****

PCR’s got that show at the Belt tonight, which somehow finagled its way into being tonight’s Critic’s Pick in TONY. I don’t want to cast any (more) dispersions on this whole production before it actually goes down, but the details surrounding it just keep getting better and better (read: worse and worse).

One of the guys who’s producing the show underwent hernia surgery today. But oh, that won’t keep him from hosting! His own words: “So they’ll bring me onstage in a wheelchair, and I think we’re gonna get a LOT of mileage out of that.”

So, it’s less about showing resilience in the face of physical adversity as it is mining the huge comic potential of ... post-ops?

Ohh, this is good. I agree, we WILL get a lot of mileage out of this, and it’s called tomorrow’s Pop Stander.

 

[Chris Kula]

My teammates, they ruined everything by being ... good.

What was supposed to be a prime opportunity for some great unintentional comedy (last night at the Belt), turned out to be only mediocre at best, mainly because Charlie, Bobby, and Ang really sold the so-so material they were given, such as the sketch Dog Friends. Sample dialogue:

Charlie (to dude who wrote the sketch, referring to Bobby): Oh, that’s your friend, huh? How old is he?
Dude Who Wrote the Sketch: He’s 28. His name’s Rusty.
Charlie: Hey ya, Rusty. Wow, what breed is he?
DWWtS: He’s half lawyer, half accountant. Watch, he can shake hands. Shake hands, Rusty.
Bobby (to Charlie): Hey, man, what’s happening. (shakes his hand like a regular person but the sketch is written like he’s a dog – get it? – and yeah it just goes from there...)

Should have bombed, but those guys played it really well and actually made it fun. Damn it. Same thing for the epic Roman Court scene, which also featured a star turn by Conroy, who was at the show doing stand-up and was enlisted to play the part of General ... Syphillis. Dave Martin and I sat and watched from just offstage in the lower level (the Belt is a totally weird setup, with the majority of the seats at balcony level, in the round, so you’re essentially playing UP to the audience), giddy like a couple kids on Christmas morning, like we were about to receive the laughing-AT-not-WITH comic gift of a lifetime.

And it WAS funny – but only ‘cause those guys embraced how bad it was and hammed it up accordingly. And I don’t think the Dude Who Wrote the Sketch quite realized how lucky he was, as it takes some pretty good performers to sell lines like “I don’t trust Syphillis – he just wants to overtake Clitoris.”

Our own set was fine, if but very goofy, if but for an audience of 15. Conroy’s standup actually went over the best of anything, and when I pointed this out to him, he said, “Well, I’ve perfected playing to an audience of 10.” Don’t sell yourself short, dude – it was totally 15.

We all got free drink tickets afterwards, so my plan of heading up to catch the 9:30 Harold was waylaid in favor of a Czech draft called Gaffel and the end of the Pistons-Nets game on tv at the bar. Talked hoops with Conroy while PCR started to dissipate. I watched my Pistons lose, and left to catch the Movie class, leaving Charlie and Will in the middle of a debate as to whether they should stay at the Belt or head to McManus. We’ve actually talked about bringing a bar onstage during our Harolds so that Will feels his most comfortable.

I grabbed a slice from the place that used to be my regular pizza stop when I lived on 36th, and realized, as I took the last bite of it 10 blocks later as I came up on Gristedes, that “Good God – I Eat. So. Slow.” Though that could have something to do with the fact that I also Walk. So. Fast. A 10-block trip for me, chewing time wise, is perhaps a four, five block span for others. Others who don’t have theatre places to go and improvised Movies to see.

I turn the corner onto 26th and put my game face on...

There's Zach Tabacco and Tiffany on their way out from Harold Night. I totally blow them off – like THEY’D have anything to say to me.

Shelkey and Mia are on their way out, too, after hosting; I ask them how it went, and as soon as they open their mouths, I mime like I’m falling asleep - hilarious and true. I can’t tell if they “get” it or not, so I smash one of Nate’s guitars over Mia’s head.

Mark Lee is outside humming a tune, trying to remember the song’s name. I say, “You know what, Mark? I think it’s called “I Don’t Care,” by The Apathetics, off their debut Bigger Fish to Fry, though I prefer the cover version by Me First and the Gimme Gimmes. Pop punk's so great.” Then I break the zipper on his Neighborhoodie.

I head into the bathroom and see one of the interns stooping to pick up a scrap of paper towel that missed the wastebasket. I whisper "Bullsh*t Pie!" and go bombs away on him, kick out his knee from behind, and drag him into the toilet and force his head underwater while quizzing him on sliding doors.

Once he’s finally unconscious, I stand over him.

“Wrong,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You CAN go back to the original scene.”

I'm coaching his group tonight.

 

[Chris Kula]

Sometimes I feel like I have no business doing comedy, like nothing I say or write is funny enough no matter how hard I try, and it’s times like these when my self-doubts are at their most excruciating, that I share my feelings with the IRC.

Sometimes I feel like I’ll never find love in my life, that no girl will ever truly understand my sense of humor/longing and it’s times like these when I’m at my most forlorn, that I share my feelings with the IRC.

Sometimes I feel like I’m alone amongst my peers in that I’m not fulfilled at my Day Job, that it provides me little more than a regular paycheck, and it’s times like these when I’m at my most frustrated that I jerk off in the men’s room. And after finishing, share my feelings with the IRC.

Sometimes I feel like I shouldn’t share masturbation stories with the IRC. And it’s times like THESE! ... that I share my feelings ... with the IRC.

Sometimes I feel like my Harold team is accomplishing nothing, that the group will never be good at improv OR sketch, and it’s times like these when we are performing both improv AND sketch that I share my feelings with the IRC’s Plug section.

Sometimes I feel like I’m a tied to the whipping post. And it’s times like these that I share my feelings with the Allmans Resource Center (user name “kula_eats_peach2003” – PM me).

Sometimes I feel like James Eason doesn’t pay enough attention to me at parties, that he’d rather talk to his older friends with whom he has more of a close personal relationship, and it’s times like these when I’m at my most indignant that I walk right up to him … and then past him, out the door, to the subway, to my apartment, to my bedroom, to my laptop, and – pause for weeping – share my feelings with the IRC.

Sometimes I feel like I need to bring my journal entries full circle, no matter how forced the resolution may be, and it’s times like these when I most reek of desperation that I know, yes, I DO have business being in comedy.