Fiberglass and Candy Canes

The first time I ever tried “dippin’ sum chaw,” I was out on the town with a good friend of over 15 years. We had a rather mellow night, taking down only a couple beers and burgers at The Cherry Cricket before deciding to head elsewhere. Once in the truck, Tom flicked the tin a few times, unloaded a beetle-sized pinch of tobacco, and packed his lower lip, resembling a bulldog with a severe under-bite. I still remember his white teeth glistening through the loose tobacco and the darkness of the night. “Oh, yeah!” he exclaimed.

Since he went out of state for college, I hadn’t been there for the momentous occasion of when he first dipped into the Kentucky bubble gum. I can only imagine it was at a huge tailgate party, one of the many that started at 8 am, as U of Montana prepared to battle MSU in a rivalry only appreciated by those whose college actually had a football team. I could only live vicariously as he and his posse would paint their chests crimson and silver on a lovely, autumn, 20° Montana morn’, drink a pint or two, and stumble into the bushes for a pre-game nap.

“Man. This is the good $#!t,” he said. “Heyheyhey. Wanna dip? It’s good for ya.” I agreed, supposing it could be considered a whole grain. I took a little pinch, similar to the amount you’d use when lightly salting a mushroom. “No, no, no. Really get in there, so you can taste it.” Sure, I thought. After all, I did skip the bun at dinner. I squeezed a bit more and could feel the cool, damp, shredded leaves between my fingers. Being a contacts wearer, I was confident I could hold my lip open as I shoved the goop into my mouth. I of course gave myself a nice brown streak across my teeth and down my chin trying to

make a Sandlot joke.

“Doshznt dis shtuf cud yur mowf op-in?” I asked, as I cleaned my face in the side mirror.

“Eh, it’ll cut ya a little bit. The fiberglass is what makes it good.”

Tom was always a smart guy and I wasn’t let down when my very minor beer buzz began swelling, and it soon felt like I had drunk 5 or 6 drinks.

“Holy $#!t!” I mumbled. “Man! This is like a whole night of drinks in one little dollop!”

“Hell yeah! Kodiak Mint!”

It tasted sweet and familiar. It reminded me of the yuletide warmth of childhood, as I sat there watching myself in the truck’s mirror swishing around shreds of candy cane.

The initial swell unfortunately increased. Not to seem like a wimp, when he wasn’t looking, I pulled almost half of the chaw wedge from my mouth and nonchalantly tossed it out the window. My head was swooning even more, and I tightly grasped my head trying to imagine it didn’t feel like we were doing donuts as we sped down the street.

I grabbed the whole wad of it and threw it as far as I could, spitting out every little tobacky leave-behind in my mouth. I wanted to puke, but really tried to play it off, even keeping up the spitting facade. When he would do a spit take in an old Coke can, I’d do the same, only trying to tongue the rest of it out. I don’t remember the rest of the ride to the house, but I do remember immediately rushing to the bathroom for toothpaste. Unfortunately, the tube of Colgate shared a similar bouquet of mint that the good people of Kodiak preferred, and that was out. I never thought I’d prefer the burning eucalyptus taste of Listerine to anything.

During the coming months, Tom and his chew friends became quite the connoisseurs of hockey puck-shaped cigarettes. Cherry. Apple. Mint. I was soon exposed to a variety of scents that, at first, really seemed to freshen up the place. One Sunday morning after a late-night BBQ, I awoke to the amazing aroma of freshly baked peach pie. I scoured the house for it, searching the oven and every countertop and window sill in the house. I immediately fell ill when I located a red plastic party cup half full of the flavored swill.  For having broken my nose in a few places, I still had an extremely sensitive sense of smell.

In the summer of 2005, I embarked on a journey which would put me on my current life path. I auditioned, interviewed, and accepted the invitation to work at a repertory theatre and youth theatre summer camp in Silverton, CO. I had spoken with fellow theatre friends who had done the program before, and ultimately received the same answer to how it was: You’ll work your ass off, but it’s amazing.

Working one’s ass off doesn’t quite come close to the experience. It’s one of those scenarios where you don’t want to frighten the person, so you understate it. Not that you hate the individual, but rather, it’s something all people should experience.

“Nah man, you can meet some great women on Craigslist. Definitely recommend it. You should give it a shot.”

The other counselors were fortunately actors I either went to school with or had met months prior at a theatre conference. This got me off to a good start. If we were going to be working our asses off, I was glad it’d be with good people. We quickly got to work, and our schedule would go something like this:

We would arrive at the camp by 8am. We would get started by corralling the kids while balancing our mugs of coffee and begin teaching them some theatre games. Then we’d give them handfuls of broken goldfish crackers, and take them over to the school for the field and playground. We’d usually be outside for lunch, and several parents would come by to bring their kids food and check in.

Except for the one meth-head mom, they were all fantastic. One day in particular, I remember saying hi to her, then turning away to watch some of the kids play football. As I was watching a pretty nifty kick return, my head was panning to the right, and the game in front of me was suddenly blocked by a freckly and pale-faced woman with thinning blonde hair in mid-conversation with me. “…And then he just fell down and went boom, so that’s why you gotta watch him on the monkey bars.” She spoke with such a lazy speech that all you could really hear were the vowels and the blurred consonants. I focused my stare into her eyes, looked around to make sure she was in fact talking to me, glanced back at the football game, and back at her. She had arrived 10 minutes ago and hadn’t budged. I had missed a huge chapter of the kid’s life entitled, “How My Son Continually F*&ks Himself Up,” or more appropriately, “My Kid Went Boom.” I’ve worked this character into several improv scenes.

After lunch we’d head back to the theatre for more acting games, a rehearsal period for Annie, some improv, and call it a day. Parents would straggle over and get their kids by about 3, at which time we’d get a quick break before doing three or more of the following: read scripts; memorize lines; script analysis; character analysis; collect costumes, props, or set pieces; paint; set build; pass out flyers; and if it was a weeknight, have a good ol’ fashioned rehearsal. This would bring our day to a close around 10pm, at which time we were “free to go, but there is more work to do.”

Crawling into bed around midnight wasn’t uncommon for the duration of the summer, and we would scoff at those who worked a measly 60 or 80 hour work week. Ours would cap around 100. On the nights we had performances, it was fairly regular that either prior to or after the show, we would have a rehearsal for the other show we’d be running in rep. Looking back, this gave me the theatre schedule that I would learn to love, loathe, pine for, and appreciate.

Marianne Fearn was the owner of the theatre and our artistic director. Not only was she a good 40 years our senior, but she was putting in as many hours as we were. I had finally met someone whom you could believe when she said she swore off the fame and money side of performing and did it for the love.

In our first read-through, we were discussing character development when Marianne very casually mentioned the name “Uta” as she was telling a story of a good friend who played Martha in “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf” on Broadway. The name caused my memory to churn. I was at the point in my young acting career where I wanted to learn everything at that moment and read anything on acting all at once, and the name Uta stuck out. I was asked a question about my character in the play, and quickly forgot about the name.

Days later, it came up again, and we all got curious. It turned out that we were now working with a woman who had taught and worked professionally with a woman who was known as a legitimate acting guru, affecting 1000s of careers. We then habitually wrote down everything Marianne said about anything. I even have 3 pages of detailed notes on how to go on a nature hike, because that’s what was asked of us for one rehearsal.

Marianne was a very in-tune person, and that is how she approached acting. Knowing yourself and your senses forced you to be grounded and to layer a character on to you, rather than build something of nothing. When she asked us to explore our character, if the script asked us to take a bite of an apple, she would have us know the color, size, firmness, and smell of said invisible apple, as well as a memory that we may have had while smelling it. Mmmm…our house after college game day.

I was blown away. No more would it be a blithe “and my character picks up an apple, and la-da-da…” Everything was something. So when Marianne announced that our rehearsal for the next day would be to go on a hike in the mountains, either alone or with one other person, I was much obliged to her. Not just to get out of the theatre for a night, but you know, for the process. Our notes – to use your senses and really be a part of nature. And no talking for one hour. Being in a fairly secluded mountain town gave us this perfect opportunity, and I can still smell the cool, crisp stream as it flowed through the fallen brush of pine and dampened earth. This one rehearsal opened my heart, mind, and senses to almost everything.

That summer gave me theatre experience, teaching credentials, a broken heart, life-long bonds, an appreciation of all things theatre, a heightened sense of smell, and the knowledge of who I am. The experience was emotionally, physically, and psychologically the hardest, most dramatic, most theatrical and life-fulfilling few months that I’ve gone through. And I absolutely loved it.

Tales of a First-Grade Something

I remember my first brush with writing fame. I was the most popular kid in the 1^st grade for one spectacular February day, because my story was read aloud by the teacher to the entire class. This was the same school year during which I told my first joke. Well, maybe not joke, but riff. You could say I was riffing.

As curious and studious 7-year-olds do, we had spent the school year thus far preening to get the status of “Favorite Student.” As we were doing our usual writing warm-up on a bitterly cold New York morning, a student trying so casually to look smart in his moon boots while holding the end of his glasses in his mouth asked, “Miss, have you ever read the book…um…um…I forgot.” Amateur. You fell for the classic blunder, Mark “Who Always Smelled like Bologna” Donald! You can’t drop some obscure title as a 1^st grader to a teacher when your entire library consists of Goodnight Moon and Ralph S. Mouse. Mrs. Barveinous, who was always quick, replied, “Oh…good book.” Ha! She got you good, you little twerp! I thought. Then I chimed in, so eloquently, so cavalier, with such subtlety, you’d think that I’d been watching Johnny Carson or The Wonder Years for my entire TV-viewing life. “Who’s it by?” I riffed, getting the biggest laugh from all 20 first graders and Mrs. B, who nearly spit out her coffee, capping a wonderful triangle of discourse in front of the class. Ha! Top that, Mark. He tried. He really did.

One day, our octagon-shaped terrarium that had housed several caterpillars, began housing cocoons instead. Some kids were perplexed. “Oh my gosh! Mrs. B, Where are all the cap-a-tillers!?” one girl, with a white kitten on her pink sweatshirt, exclaimed as she was picking her nose. “The caT-eR-pillars have tucked themselves into cocoons that they’ve made. Then they’ll turn into beautiful butterflies. Now go wash your hands, Betsy.” Mark and I made Dirty Harry faces at each other, turning our excited, bright eyes into small, fierce squints. “Make a move, vato,” I thought, as I turned my head slightly, presenting him with the floor. “Let’s see what you got,” I said with my hands out to the side, like I was in a dance battle. He quickly jumped at the chance.

“Oh, cool. The coke-oons are see-proof.” Oh. Crap. This kid just said a word and added “proof” to it. I began to sweat. My eyes quickly began searching for something. Anything. I held my b-boy pose, but began teetering.  This kid. This jerk-faced kid just pulled out some vocabulary. What object from around the room, or verb, could I add some other word to and make it fancy? Just when I was about to pass out from the pressure, Mrs. B came in. “Actually, you can see through the cocoon. It’s transparent. See-proof is not actually a real word, Mark. But good for you for trying.” Yeah, Mark. Good for you. Mwa-hahahaha. This was a big moment in my life. It wasn’t just a win or rise in my own stock as the favorite student. It was the exact time when I learned that sometimes you didn’t have to do anything to win. You could let your cocky opponent fall on his own face. This was huge. Mark’s eyes quickly fell to the floor in shame. Had he a sword, I think he would’ve Hara-kiri’d himself on our reading rug. I kept my mouth shut. I didn’t need to chime in; I knew I had already won. I didn’t want something like pity to rain on my victory parade. From then on, I gloat-proofed my victories.

The next day, Mark must’ve been still sick from the Battle of Wits, because he didn’t make it to school. In fact, I didn’t see him again for weeks, until I saw him crouching behind a blue minivan in his driveway. I could spot his too-big-for-him cowboy boots half a block away and pointed him out to my babysitter, Tracey. She told me I should go say hi, but I didn’t quite know how to tell her I didn’t really like the kid. After some half-hearted conversation about He-Man (I was just going through the motions. Like I could ever talk to this guy about The Power of Greyskull), I was finally able to get out of there. I never did find out why he was crouching behind the van, but he did say he was moving back to Oklahoma. As we walked down the street, Tracey asked if I had bologna in my pocket.

For V-Day, we continued the school tradition of passing out perforated Valentine’s cards and candy to everyone. I had gone with the Alvin and The Chipmunks motif and very thoughtfully chose candy hearts with those engraved messages on them. Choosing which heart belonged to whom was tough. Those little doozies can either say everything, or not enough, and to not raise the hopes of some girl who was semi-afraid of capatillars, I had spent quite a bit of time on them. When we finished, Mrs. B asked us to do a creative writing piece, the only requirement being we had to entitle it, “The Runaway Valentine.” Gold star for this guy. Some kids didn’t even know what “runaway” meant. I did. My older sister suggested I had done it plenty of times already. With Mark out of the way for good, I felt confident.

I wrote a story, complete with drawings of a miniature heart with arms and legs running away from a mailbox, because he didn’t like the fact that he was a gesture, rather than having someone who loved him, and wanted a Valentine of his own. Then there was mass confusion between the two characters I so creatively entitled, “Him and Her.” The rising action climaxed with a fine denouement of Him and Her deciding to make Valentines together on the porch. Had I even heard of Nabokov at that point, I’m sure he would’ve felt insecure. I turned in my masterpiece and began rocking back in my chair, looking around at all the little squirts still writing. I was busy stacking up my candy hearts by color and tone, while they were awkwardly wiping the eraser crumbs off their desks and savagely looking up "runaway" in the dictionary.

 

Then something happened. I plopped the front legs of my chair down and thought that I was so literal with the title that my DOW would plummet. I hated it. I wanted my paper back. I wanted to write about someone who hated their Valentine because she was smothering him, and decided to run away out of claustrophobia. Just then, Mrs. B pulled it from the top of her stack with a, “Hmm,” and said, “I would like to share my favorite story with you all right now. Everybody, put your pencils down and come to the reading rug.” Just for good measure, I did a quick check for any blood stains and I sat criss-cross-apple-sauce as she read my epic tale.

A F*&kin' Ode to My Level F*&kin' 1 Improv Coach

I was more than excited to start my first level of improv in Chicago, but immediately had some reservations about our instructor, whom I’d seen perform several times prior. I appreciated his sharp wit, intelligence, and immense vocabulary, and quickly added his class into my shopping cart. But I didn’t anticipate the whirlwind to come.

Day 1 had me wondering if I was going to completely hate this guy and loathe the next 8 weeks. He was brash. He talked loudly in a low-ceilinged room which gave me a headache after 30 minutes, and he was, and I mean this in the most heterosexual way possible, fierce. He was quick to acknowledge his status in the classroom and would not tolerate “any f*&kin’ bull$#!t,” improv or otherwise. To hear this guy rant, however, was a spectacular thing of beauty.

Week 2 slowly began to turn me around, skeptically watching as the bandwagon rolled by. A couple people had hopped on and appeared to follow suit, though I did notice that 4 people didn’t come back after the first week. I haven’t seen them to this day. Have you ever seen the movie “Dragnet” with Dan Aykroyd and Tom Hanks? I don’t know why I just thought of the sacrificial goat cult scene.

Week 3 gave us a substitute which I did not care for at all, automatically making our instructor’s stock rise. I never like people asking for my opinion, and then telling me I am wrong. Well, not anyone who isn’t wearing overalls and telling me that I’m losing at poker, when I clearly know a full house beats a 9. Sometimes you have to be harshly judged by others to realize what you already have.

By week 4, I galloped after and hopped onto the side of the bandwagon. I commandeered the reins and whipped the horses from the driver’s seat, excitedly hanging on to my Indiana Jones hat as I bounced through the desert. It was his intense passion that initially shied me away from him. It was this same passion that forced me to appreciate him and all 326 F-words he’d masterfully use in a 3-hour class. Then my protective side came out. Like when you were little, and your friend would make fun of someone you loved. “Hey!” you’d bark. “That is my SISTER! Only I’M allowed to call her that!” And from then on, your friends knew they had it coming if they weren’t careful.

A large group of us from class went to see our teacher’s improv group perform. It was a later show, so more alcohol was gently misting the air. Our sensei (I’m running out of ways to not use him name), was the host that night. He asked the crowd for an “honest, real life, personal question that you would like answered,” for his group’s suggestion. Drunken frat bro shouted, “Where in the world is Carmen San Diego?!?!” and really thought he was funny. His whole section of bros laughed hysterically, and probably wondered why they themselves weren’t on stage. Before even the first high-five or fist bump landed, Master Chief barked, “I said PERSONAL question. Obviously, you didn’t f*&kin’ listen to a f*&kin’ word I just said. So, any f*&kin’ other person, not a stupid drunk mother f*&ker, raise your hand and tell me a personal question you’d like answered.”
 It was precision. It was a Hanzo sword master gracefully carving a samurai warrior in slow-motion during the final showdown.  A pan flute played the theme song to “The Good, The Bad, and The Ugly” as a tumbleweed of knotted Pabst cans bristled through the theatre. Everything went back to regular speed, and the crowd erupted.

Then I understood. Mr. Cotter (nope) wasn’t in some sort of instructor mode for class. He didn’t have modes. That was him. He was the most honest mother f*&ker I’d ever met. And I loved it. From then on, as we would wait in the lobby for our class to start, I would lounge back on the goofy purple bean-bag chair and silently brag. “See that guy? That’s my teacher,” I’d say to others in my head. “He’ll make you feel like f*&kin’ $#!t if you’re an @$$#073.”

We think he was either hung-over or sick during week 5.                                
I don’t want to talk about week 5.

During week 6, I think he smiled once. I could be mistaken. Maybe he was just showing his teeth as  Alpha dogs do. In my heart, that was a smile.

He began laughing in week 7. I think it was most likely at the good improv in the class. He also stopped throwing his glasses in rage.

Week 8 came with compliments and praise for our class. He performed no human sacrifices.
People would ask, “Oh, who do you have for Level 1?” I would reply slyly, coyly turning my head to the side, yet in much anticipation of their reaction. Most often, I’d get a chuckle, a far-off gaze, then a quick, half headshake as if they were saying, “Welp, I don’t know what to tell ya.” More often than not, an, “Ahhh ha ha. That guy’s cool,” would follow, as if recollecting a fond memory. Only once did I see a slight quiver and a shudder, similar to the kind you’d get when you accidently chewed a piece of tin foil.

Out of Breath and Dusty

During a recent Cardinals game, a moth lost control and crash landed in Matt Holliday’s ear, getting stuck, and forcing him to leave in the 8^th inning. They got the moth out after using a flashlight and a “medical instrument,” which I imagined as a pair of 9” tweezers. My eyes water just thinking about the cold steel slowly entering the ear canal, forcing the athletic trainer to call upon his best “Operation” skills. “I’m going for the white, cheap, plastic moth bone!” he must’ve thought.

I had flashbacks. Bad ones.  The “you can’t call it ‘Nam unless you were there” kinda ones. Those Miller Moth seasons that we all dreaded and that lazy cats everywhere came alive for flashed before me. One of the worst moth seasons takes me back to when I was at Harvard. Ok, so I lived just a half a block off Harvard. Alright, Harvard Street and Pennsylvania Avenue. Doesn’t matter. My buddy Kevin and I had just moved into our brand new, 1878 farm house, complete with a root cellar to store, apparently, boxes upon boxes of homemade soap. Probably an amateur fight club, also.
 It was the summer of ’02. It was hot. Sweltering. We were surrounded by Charlie, er, moths. Everywhere we turned, they just seemed to spring up at us, and drunkenly swoon around us, trying so desperately to inject fear into the minds of the innocent, as clumsily as possible.  Avoiding conflict, we opened up the house and shoo’d them away, not wanting to spread carnage across our newly buffed and stained hardwood floors. Then we ventured bravely into the garage.

Hundreds of moths developing their own dusty, suburban outlet mall and PF Chang’s. In our garage. We retreated, severely out-manned and out-gunned by the enemy. We knew we had to launch an offensive attack in order to win back our future storage space. Two of us were going in. It was my intention that we both were coming back.

Maybe it was fear. Maybe it was that I wouldn’t allow this to happen in my literal backyard. Maybe I had enough and didn’t want to go through a “Deer Hunter” scenario, with a handful of these dirty, fluttering moths crouched around an overturned crate for a table, wearing jungle green cargo pants, smoking, and dealing a game of Russian Roulette. Maybe I just snapped. I had my weapon, and I snatched Kevin’s AR-15 fly swatter out of his hands. I told him to open the door, and in my memory, gave a fantastic final speech about pride and a made-up girlfriend that he would now have to watch over if I didn’t come back, as I gave him a crinkled-up black and white photo. I screamed a magnificent war cry, rushed in, and was engorged by the belly of the beast.

It was horrible. Keeping the door open to the dark garage so long drew the enemy closer to me as I entered. It was like running into a dirty carpet, hanging from the clothesline, ready for beating. I choked. I gagged. I persevered. I went in, guns blazing. At first, to conserve my ammo (energy), I only went for clean hits. They swarmed. My surprise attack initiated a frenzied stampede. My eyes were soon overwhelmed with dust, darkness, and having to adjust to the only light, coming through a half-covered, cracked, smudgy window. Sniping was no longer an option. They took away my vision. I only had my ears. If I could only stop screaming like a little girl trying to slap a spider web off of her back, I would be able to tell from where they were attacking. I started swinging. I was now going back to my “Operation” training, where if I couldn’t get the piece out, I’d just start yelling and jamming the electric forceps into the open wound until I won.

Ten minutes passed. I could hear the faint, distant voice of Kevin calling for me. My ears were ringing. I was temporarily deafened by the attack. He slowly opened the door. I reemerged, out of breath, dusty, and coughing a weak, Tiny Tim hack. “They got me,” I think I remember saying, as I collapsed in his arms. As I squinted, I saw fear in Kevin’s eyes. Not fear for himself, or of me, but for every other moth that would be so unfortunate as to cross the threshold of the garage. He hadn’t known what kind of a roommate he had decided to live with until now. I had wiped out an entire moth village. I think he felt safe. I know he did.

After we checked for blood and exit wounds, it was established that I came out uninjured. But I still had Kevin carry me over his shoulder, running back to the house, with the sound of helicopters rising over the jungle canopy. All of this happened in slow-motion. I think I tried to light the grill as he carried me past it, for some nice mood smoke.

We went inside and grabbed a nice chilled bottle from the vegetable crisper. It doesn’t matter what brand it was. It could’ve been Lemon/Lime Gatorade; it didn’t matter to us. It was Champagne. Cristal. Victory. Winning never tasted so sweet, or electrolyte-y.

Part II - The Second Month in The Second City

Chapter 1 - The Secret

I've noticed that Chicago has a unique attitude towards the homeless. Maybe it's because the winters are ridiculous, and as people pass each other on the street, they share a glance similar to that of a group of people hesitantly walking into a haunted house. They know it's coming, and no matter how they prepare for it, it still scares the Ba-jesus out of them. To prepare for my first full tastes of the gentle Lake Michigan zephyr, Pat guaranteed that I have enough coats to both literally and figuratively cover my ass. I get giddy thinking about the first time I'll go down Clark St. to test out these coats and chuckle a muffled Kenny-from-South-Park chuckle at those trying to look fabulous and edgy in their windbreakers and knit gloves.

As I walk through The Loop, I see fewer people ignoring the homeless or walking past with their hands in the air, as if asked how to do advanced algebra, and instead tossing in change and even dollar bills. Maybe in Denver, with the programs for the homeless put forward by Hick, the attitude is that there is a place helping, "so maybe just go there." Maybe the economy just sucks so bad that people have a softened attitude, since we're all a few bad months away.

I remember one time when Kevin and I decided to have a Double Quarter Pounder eating competition. After we picked up a 10lb bag of the good stuff, we went back and made our stomachs hurt in about 3 minutes. We still had 7lbs of food, so we just gave it to the most excited looking guy I've ever seen on a street corner...ok, legally excited guy on a street corner. I would occasionally throw in change to various charity organizations collecting money, but maybe it was when I was little, I heard that all homeless people are drug addicts and alcoholics, and that's what they spend their money on. This made me not want to be an enabler. A few years ago, the last time I gave a what-looked-like-just-a-kid a quarter to "call his parole officer so he wouldn't get arrested," I saw him stagger out of an alley a few minutes later, collapsing in the gutter. I called 9-1-1, and later learned that he OD'd. I gave him that last quarter so he could get the good stuff, and that's hung around for a few years...not really as guilt, but more as a lesson learned. A parable or Aesop Fable:

The cunning fox thought he could outwit everyone. One day, a monkey was helping other monkeys move their belongings from one tree to another. The greedy fox in search of a quick fix and a syringe approached the monkeys, adjusting his fur with his paws, as if straightening a tie. "Why, hello there, young monkeys." The monkeys were first taken aback, as they were told to never talk to the foxes. "Hello, Mr. Fox." "Why, don't be startled. I've only come over to inquire if, by chance, you have a quarter, so that I may make my fox parents the happiest parents in the world, and stay out of the zoo. The ol' zookeeper has been coming around lately, and if I don't make an important call now, why, I'll be snatched up." One monkey obliged, and the trickster fox took the quarter in both paws, holding them together as if he were praying in a rather sinister manner, and pounced away into the forest. Later the fox was found in a trap, barely breathing. He didn't see where he was going, because he was looking at the quarter that he coveted. Moral: Don't buy drugs that only cost a quarter.

There are a couple homeless guys I've seen in the same spots, everyday, for the last 6 weeks. I'll see them 3-4 times a day, depending on what I'm doing. One had the unfortunately standard, cardboard veteran sign, the other just a plastic cup; both with that lost, thousand-yard stare. Maybe because it's that I'm in a city I've wanted to be in for a while, and I couldn't have gotten here on my own. Maybe it's that I do believe in a little bit of karma. Or maybe, just maybe, The Secret is legitimate and I'll get everything I put on my metaphorical wishing cork board. While I was walking to work last week, as I approached the vet, I thought, "Ok, if I have anything in my pocket, I'll give him something." I rarely carry any cash, not since my days as a server. I actually had a dollar, so I dropped it in his cup. His thousand-yard stare quickly vanished, and a very alert, articulate voice surfaced, thanking me and to have a nice day. I gave a "you, too" back at him, and I don't know how loud it actually was. I was listening to my iPod. If you're like me, you hate when people talk to you while listening to music, not necessarily because it's rude, but because they don't KNOW HOW LOUD THEY'RE TALKING TO YOU. I try to adjust for this, and I think I come off as a mumbler.

Yesterday for lunch, I went to a place down the block called Perry's, forcing me to pass the other regular with a clanky cup. He asked for some change, and I mumbled a, "Sorry I don't have any..." and sort of faded out, in fear of yelling at him by accident. When I got my sandwich, I noticed that it was the biggest freakin' thing between two slices of bread. I know what you're thinking. "But what about the New York Deli, or Zaidy's, Dave? Huh? How about those??" I hear you. But hear me now, and listen to me later. This was the mother of all deli treats. It was the Megatron to your little coffee maker Decepticon. The Nirvana to your Fray. The Dick Van Dyke to your "that one guy from MadTV." After eating a solid brick of it, I realized I had an entire half to go. "Come on...do it. Do. It. Doitdoitdoitdoit." "No!" I rebelled, and as I ran out, I grabbed a piece of saran, a bag, and shouted back at my invisible self, the one who would eat it, then grab ice cream afterward, "Never!"

As I caught my breath, I casually fixed my sunglasses and strolled down the street. As I was approaching the dude, let's call him Otis, just because, well, it suits him, I had it all planned out in my head. "Here ya go, my man, here ya go." And someone big on the street would see me, rush over, and ask if I wanted to make a movie with Robin Williams, because "Robin only works with actors who are gracious and helpful." Otis was in his routine and asked if I had any change. I replied no, but would he want a sandwich. "Ah, yes. God bless you, man." I handed over the 4lb white bag of deliciousness. After feeling the weight of it he said, "Ah, yeah, man. God bless. Really. God bless." I'm just glad he meant it the second time.

I don't know why, but part of me feels really awkward whenever someone tells me "God bless," and I feel awkward saying it, even after a sneeze. Maybe it's my religiously and spiritually diverse family and upbringing...maybe it's too powerful a phrase to tell God to bless somebody else. I don't know. But I not only heard, I listened to Otis today. As I passed him going back to the train station after work, he was sitting on his milk crate that I think the 7-11 he stands in front of lets him have. He was lounging back, and gone was his usual distant stare. Taking its place was a comatose glaze that could only have been brought on by 1/3 of a cow on rye. I slowed and looked in his direction as I passed, selfishly hoping he would remember me, of the 1,000s of faces he had seen that day. He didn't move. He wasn't dead. He just didn't move. I took this as me being a few steps closer to my cork board.

My First Month in Chicago

Chapter 1 - Work
First, the boring stuff. As you all know, the condition of education nationwide is horrible. There isn't any money, jobs, or happiness in dealing with it. But, that's ok. Well, not for the future of our kids or teachers, but for me. For the past 3 weeks, I've been working for a huge financial / investment / day trade firm right in the loop of Chicago (that's the downtown area of the city - watch the new Transformers movie to see where I work and the surrounding area get blown up by Decepticons). I'm an office administrative assistant, and it's pretty easy and stress-free. It provides me with an ideal schedule for improv, working Mon-Fri, 8-5. The pay is decent, and I hope to be made permanent soon so I can go to salary with benefits. The people here are all very nice, and I've even had several conversations with one of the VPs about improv. The only bad part is the ridiculous commute.

Chapter 2 - The Commute
Being in the suburbs with Yvette's parents is nice, since we're in a pretty big house living rent-free while we get settled. They're both very nice and generous to us, which is a plus. As for the commute: I drive 15 minutes to the train station. Not the "L" train, but the real train. The train you take to go somewhere far. I ride this train for an hour and 15 minutes to get to the loop. Then, from Union Station to my building, it's about a 15 minute walk. 2 hours. Each way. Everyday.

Chapter 3 - Killing Time on the Train
The Kindle is the greatest invention of all time. For any of you with an iPad, I don't want to hear it. It's the Kindle. So far, I've read "The Adventures of Tom Sawyer," "The Adventures of Huck Finn," and I'm currently reading additional adventures of Tom, Huck, and Jim. Right now, I'm reading one about how they got into a hot air balloon with a crazy scientist, who I'm convinced is the character Doc Brown from the "Back to the Future" trilogy is based. I'm also reading Upton Sinclair's "The Moneychangers." I don't share this information with my investment co-workers. I don't think they read Sinclair.

Chapter 4 - Yvette's Sitch
As you all know, radio is extremely competitive, and Yvette and her agent are searching, but so far, nothing much. She's also working with a couple temp agencies (who seem to specialize in working with actors and improvisers), and is on a week long temp assignment right now. The temp agency put her information in the hat for a few temp-to-perm assignments, all for admin jobs. We're hoping something comes through soon so we can move into a neighborhood downtown soon. When we go into the city for improv classes and such, we stay with friends for a night to make the most out of the commute (see Chapter 2).

Chapter 5 - Improv and Such
The reason why we're here. Right now, Yvette and I are half-way through Level 1 at iO (improvOlympic - http://chicago.ioimprov.com/about/alumni). We've quickly learned that iO has their own methods and style of doing things. I feel like I can relate well to this style, since Eric Farone, the owner of the Bovine, has based a lot of his coaching for SansScript and our 2-man group, Dave and Eric, on similar styles and approaches, preparing us well. We're seen a few amazing shows there, and feel like we made the right choice in moving here and joining iO. These classes are about a year long, then we'll have a grad show run for 6-7 weeks. Then we're able to audition for house teams. We've also taken a couple drop-in classes through Second City (http://www.secondcity/com/history/alumni/), and have auditions for their conservatory this Friday. The conservatory is their professional level of improv classes, as opposed to their general classes that anyone can sign up for. The conservatory is more advanced, and is directed for people who want to act, improvise, and write as a career. Their style is similar, but different, as they improvise for sketch comedy. This is why so many SNL alumni come from Second City. I'm still adapting to their methodologies. We took an audition prep call from Jay Sukow, who's been with Second City since '92. He had Steve Carell and Stephen Colbert as his first couple of teachers. Right now, we haven't performed in any shows, but there are a lot of small theatre and bats that have improv night. Because of the commute (Ch. 2), it'll be difficult for us to do any performing until we move to the city. Some of you may know my buddy Frank, who was in Bovine classes, The 32nd Coming, and Knit Wits with me in Denver. He's been out here for about 3 years, and he, Yvette, and I are starting a 3 person group, Nigel, and hope to perform soon. There are a couple other Denver connections out here, which is nice, and a couple others that will be joining us in the next year or so. Frank's been nice enough to offer up his couches when we stay, but we've been rotating friends, as to not bother his roommate.

Chapter 6 - Freakin' Weather
Yes, I knew about it going in...for winter. I also knew it got humid. With the rest of the country, we're in a heat wave. I've read it's the worst it's been in about 15 years, which is good since I know it can't really get any worse, but, c'mon. With the heat index, we're had a few days go about 110*. Fortunately, every business in Chicago has AC, even 7-11. Just starting out here, I heard someone say, "Oh gosh, it's going to be real hot tomorrow. It'll be 85!" Ha! I thought. 85. I'll see your 85. I've seen plenty of 100* Colorado days. But that 85 is about 10-15* less than what it really feels like with the humidity and heat index. I can not longer say, "At least it's a dry heat." And I still get angry when people ask, "Is it hot enough for ya?"

Chapter 7 - Ten Things I've Learned about Chicago
10. Though a fast-paced city, people are actually pretty nice and helpful. There's a nice, Mid-West courtesy out here.
9. With my interests in accents and voices, I'm learning to notice the differences between a North Side and South Side accent, as well as a Milwaukee and Michican accent.
8. The rival between the Sox and Cubs is alive and well, but also pretty friendly since they both suck.
7. Chicago loves their giardiniera, even forcing Subway to carry it.
6. Chicago loves their pulled pork sandwiches, even forcing Subway to carry it.
5. Chicagoans will wear beach attire everyday, even if they aren't going to the beach or should be wearing beach attire.
4. There's no modesty here.
3. There is a strong sense of pride and family in the Mid-West - probably from being forced to be together due to the weather.
2. The neighborhoods are so distinct and defined, that even looking at one side of the street and then the other, you can easily tell a difference.
1. The improv community is alive and well. I think there's an unwritten law that if you live here, you must improvise. Like LA...if you live there, you must be an actor, model, or anorexic.