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For improv class, our teacher decided to give us homework: Face a fear or do something completely outside of your comfort zone. This stumped me for a while. I've ridden the El late at night, eaten some pretty weird things, and didn't have access to a pirate ship. Alas, I had realized my discomfort. It was just bound and gagged deep down in the pit of my stomach. My task: Go to Wrigleyville and be a "bro."
Throughout history, there have been many kinds of "bro." The Caveman Bro, who most likely thought it funny to use a sleeping woolly mammoth's tusk to open up a Pabst and draw about it later. The Medieval Bro who would take pictures of those punish'd in the stocks by handing them a Schlitz as their scrawny, chapped hands hung nearly lifeless in the elements. And the Victorian Bro, who would often trick others by making pickle sandwiches, rather than the customary cucumber, and wit about it with only the finest whiskey in hand.
I speak now of the Wrigley Bro: The Bro's Bro. The Dude Bro. The "Just...really?" Bro. There is nothing quite like the D-Baggery of Clark St., littered with the Stranglers of Bro-dom, that make me hate life. Just the blended scents of Old Style and cheap cologne by the gallon wafting through my nostrils has me looking for the closest hipster bar, trading up in the lesser of evils.
So what better way to get out of my comfort zone than to make a night of it? OK, well, more like an hour of it. Give or take. Baby steps. Here were my rules:
1. Spend a minimum of 1 hour on Clark St. and in bro bars.
2. Drink the bro drink of the night - Whatever the first bro I saw at the bar fed into his bro mouth.
3. Give myself a bro name (Kyle).
4. Dance it up like a bro, i.e. Fist Pumping; Air Punching and / or Kicking; Grinding on things.
5. Talk to anybody and everybody, making bro-nnections.
6. Go all out.
To go out in style, I had to bring my bro, Frank. I quickly gave him the name of "Mitch" as soon as we passed the first place with a line out the door. We had to build characters and become people we were not. People we avoided at all costs, and quickly mocked in scenes. We had to become "them." To go out in style, Frank decided to go with Tough Guy Bro, and donned a flannel and backwards hat. I decided on Social Butterfly Bro, wearing this season's Under Armour with a tee over it, and since the weather called for it, a UA beanie. We "wooooo'd," high-fived, and walked like we owned the place. First up, Houndstooth. The mood just felt right.
As we bought our Bud Lights (in the blue aluminum bottle, of course), we panned the crowd and squeezed through the pantry they call a hallway to the back. This is where we met Honorary Dude-Bro, Danny the Tour Guide. As soon as DTG saw me (and he was dressed exactly like Frank, er...Mitch), he must've thought I was a super cool bro, because he came right up to me, gave me a high-five, and said in his marbled bro speak, "Hey dude, you guys should follow me." We had to. These dudes abide. We followed DTG through this labyrinth of an establishment, through narrow hallways and sharp angles until he went right up to a girl and asked her if she liked double-dutch. We were all confused, all except DTG. After successfully creeping her out and having her beeline it back to the safe haven of friends, DTG turned to me and said,
"Dude. It's awesome. We ask girls if they like double-dutch. Then we go like this" (making the circular motions with his arms, as if rotating 2 jump ropes - while still holding onto his beer).
"And then what?"
"And then they jump, dude!"
Danny the Tour Guide then had to go to the bathroom, so Mitch and I quickly explored the rest of the crawlspace and decided to move on. After a few more "wooooo's" and high-fives of acceptance, we made it to the belly of the beast.
Once inside Big City, or colloquially, Big $#!tty, we armed ourselves with Heinekens and hit the foosball table. We played a game while a trio of older women flirted and shouted inaudible, and most likely, inappropriate, cat-calls as eloquently as they possibly could while they stuffed their faces with chicken tenders and wings. To make sure they really liked us, I went and did several dance moves in front and in between them during their fine dining experience. They raved.
I then noticed something of severe importance that was lacking attention. The dance floor was empty. I told Mitch this was our spot. This is where I did all of the previously mentioned dance moves. All of them. And I made sure I took up as much space as possible. Again, The Elders were into it. I felt like a shining star, dancing like the cast of The Breakfast Club at a Flogging Molly concert. Our hour finally came and went. Plus another 15 minutes. For good measure.
Since this was so out of my comfort zone, and because I put on a character, I have to say, I had a blast with this assignment. I'm still going to avoid this area at all costs, don't get me wrong. I know the lesson here is to just give it a shot and to not be afraid to live outside of your comfort zone. Just see what happens and what comes out of it. And I know this is a lesson deeper than improv.
High Five.
*Notable Bros Throughout History*
The Elizabethan Bro - He who shall call himself a man, yet drowns himself in barrel upon barrel of wine, not fit for a groundling, and barks up at women, as if they doth possess the characteristics of a humble tree squirrel.
The Socialist Bro - A brother who wears his unity pins in a manner of boistrosity.
Le French Bro - The dude who angers others but needs other bros to fight for him.
The Prohibition Bro - A man who maintains constant law and order in such oppressive times.
Russian Comrade Bro - Man who can not keep secrets, even under lightest punchings.
1940s Bro - This snake can't hold his liquor or keep his mouth shut. And he's always tryin' to hit on my dame! He's easy to spot because he's the one wearing cement shoes.
Lady Bro - A chick who will outdrink and outpunch any dude.
Early 90s Bro - This amazingly excellent bro barely scrapes by in life, thrashing all of his energy in his garage band, Wyld Stallyns, angering his cop dude dad.
Hey, Frank here with Mitch's POV as requested by Dave...
ReplyDeleteBroing It Up in Wrigleyville (pt1)
My good friend, improv partner and iO classmate Dave Karasik and I paired up for our 4B assignment to do something out of our comfort zone. We decided to spend at least one hour wading through the drunken, backwards hat/party shirt wearing, testosterone flooded brofest that overwhelms the Wrigleyville bar scene on an almost nightly basis. The idea was Dave’s, but because of the all over body shudder I experienced, which was induced by an appreciable drop in core temperature, I knew immediately that this was the perfect situation for us to thrust ourselves into. For me this microcosm of machismo is an alien planet of grunting Neanderthals who are capable only of drinking, rutting and fighting. Well, that’s mostly what it is for me. I want to say “moistly”, too, but that only only makes sense to me and is really just deflection and avoidance. The other aspect of this world, which frustrated me throughout my twenties, is that these terrible bars are full of women who I have never, for whatever reason, had the guts to approach and converse with. With the wisdom of years, I realize that the vast majority of these women are not people I have anything in common with and that my only real interest in them is, and has only ever been, physical. Because of that, it’s still perplexing to me that I could never overcome my fear of approaching them, so I knew my real challenge of the night was going to be to overcome this unresolved obstacle. So this night, Brofest 2012, with my a new persona, my wingman and a few domestic brews I was not only going to approach these women, but I was going to speak to them! Speak with my own mouth, in coherent sentences and I would… not… fear… them.
Thankfully, Dave, in his usual thoughtful and enthusiastic Dave manner, came up with some rules of the night. Rule #1. We have to commit to at least one hour. Rule#2. We had to dress like douchie Wrigleyville bros. Rule #3. We would develop our bro characters and give ourselves names. We were going to immerse ourselves in the world we were entering by being the best damn bros we could be. And so, on Saturday night we entered the realm of brodom each armed with four things: First, our names; Dave was Kyle, I was Mitch. Second, our costumes; Dave wore a long sleeved black UnderArmour shirt under a black tshirt and a white UnderArmour beanie. I wore a flannel shirt with snaps which was unbuttoned at the cuffs, and my trusty broncos hat which was crammed on my head backwards, furrowing my brow. Third, our characters; Kyle was the outgoing, happy go lucky, party bro. Mitch, the tough, stoic bros bro with a heart of gold. Lastly, the most important weapon in our arsenal; Our bro. My only concern going in was that my hat might not be “bro-ie” enough and might make an authentic Wrigleyville bro question the purity of my douchie bloodline. Since I was faking it and do not actually have Miller Lite coursing through my veins, I decided to tell anyone who asked that my dad played for the Denver Broncos in the late 70’s and that he’d given me this hat before he died. Covered.
Broing It Up in Wrigleyville (pt 2)
ReplyDeleteDave and I played our parts accurately and with ease. I was never questioned about my hat and we bro-ed it up so well that we made an instant bro, without effort, in a big friendly guy named Danny (who was dressed exactly like me incidentally) within minutes of entering our first bro bar. I was surprised. I found it so easy, although still distasteful, to exist in this world outside of my comfort zone. We were so successful, so quickly, I decided it was time to focus on facing my fear and started scanning the room for the first girl I would talk to. I found her, walked over and then… I froze. That same old feeling washed over me and I couldn’t move my feet, I didn’t know what to say and my stomach had tied itself up in knots. The anxiety hit me so hard and so fast I simply wasn’t prepared for it. Mitch was gone in the blink of an eye and I had to leave so I could try to recover and regroup. I turned to Kyle, er Dave, and made some lame excuse about how this bar wasn’t really living up to the stereotype we were really looking for. I was reeling and upset with myself. How could I crumble like that when the situation we’d created was so contrived and truly without risk? I knew my fear was genuine, but I didn’t realize how deep it went. Even in the safest possible scenario I could invent, I couldn’t brush aside the gravity my sub conscious mind had assigned, during my formative years, to the idea of approaching a woman cold, who I don’t know and am physically attracted to. I felt embarrassed, ashamed and depressed because I could suddenly see the true magnitude of my arrested development and I certainly didn’t expect this to happen tonight of all nights. Little did I know what this innocent test would bring to the surface. I felt terrible... Defeated… Deflated… Hopeless… Hapless… For about ten minutes. Then as Dave and I walked along Belmont to Big City (Shitty) Tap, talking and taking in the scene, I remembered who I am and that this is just one of those things that I’m not good at, that I never have been and, most importantly, truly how inconsequential it is in the grand scheme of my life. The only thing that really mattered, was that I’d tried and hadn’t been afraid to fail. The next thing I knew, we were inside the bar and I was I struggling a little to resurrect my character, that is, until I watched my real life bro dancing by himself, fully committed to douchie brodom. I took in his demeanor and his get-up, smiled and Mitch returned full force. From there, Dave, er Kyle, and I were the broiest bros of the night at Big Shitty. A highly competitive match of fooseball was played, which Kyle dominated and won convincingly holding Mitch to only one goal and left him repeating the phrase, “I hate this game!” Between goals Kyle would turn around and dance at the table of three cougars who had waved at Mitch through the window earlier and were now plowing through several plates of bar appetizers like they were their prey. We finished our (roughly) two hour journey out on the dance floor, broing it up, drinking our Heinekens and dancing, mainly, with a girl who I am convinced is a professional softball player. After receiving my third hockey check from her, which spilled my “Heinie” all over my shoulder and chest, I lost Mitch. I looked over at Kyle and was relieved, though not surprised, to see that he, too, was now just Dave. The night was over. The brofest had run its course and we had, as ever, known it at the same time without needing to say a word. We left the remnants of Kyle and Mitch on the dance floor to flavor the rest of night for the remaining patrons and departed to return to our comfort zones knowing that our experience was a success because it will inform the work we do on stage and encourage us to experience things we avoid to help us grow as people and performers.
Lmfao. Dude, sounds like you had fun, thanks for the laugh :)
ReplyDelete