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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.
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.
I agree with all of it. Well said.
ReplyDeletePerfectly stated. He was the s#*@
ReplyDeleteLol, fuckin' awesome!
ReplyDelete