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.
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 8th 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.
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.
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.
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